Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) (22 page)

Wasn't that the problem?

If he got her killed….

That damn hospital waiting room flashed through his mind.

No.

No, that wasn't going to happen. No matter what, she'd make it out of this alive. He took off in a dead sprint toward the Rover, fear pounding through his skull like a wrecking ball.

"You secure?" Kincaid asked as soon as Tristan put the phone to his ear two hours later.

"Yeah, what's up?" He raced through the dark streets of Rainier Valley on his way back to Lillian's. Fresh bruises lined his knuckles, and he'd learned dick from his informants. They knew nothing, or were too scared to talk. Threats, violence, and more money than Jason and Davis would be pleased he'd spread around had gotten him nowhere.

"MS-13 is pissed about some new group in the area," Kincaid said without wasting time. "The Asians have all but cut off the gang's Ecstasy supply, instead giving it to this new player."

"Anton Vetrov?" Tristan asked.

"That's what I'm thinking. Check this though," Kincaid continued, "whoever it is, MS-13 leaders have been instructed not to touch the Asians or this mystery group. My boys were hesitant to say why, but I got the impression they've been directly ordered to suck it up and deal or else. Now, you tell me who issues an order like that to those motherfuckers and lives to tell the tale."

The Mexican cartels supplied MS-13 with most of what they peddled on street corners, but the Asians supplied the gang with Ecstasy. That didn't bother the cartels much since they controlled the routes the Asians used to bring the drug in and taxed the hell out of them for it. The cartels didn't own the Asian crews outright, but close enough. If they were supplying Anton Vetrov's operation, Francisco wouldn't want MS-13 screwing up that relationship by blowing the Asians away over what would amount to chump change in the grand scheme of things.

The light ahead turned yellow.

Tristan pushed the gas a little harder, unwilling to stop. The Rover shot across the line half a second before the light turned red, the needle on the speedometer racing toward eighty. "Which cartel holds MS-13 locally?" he asked.

"Whoever is paying," Kincaid answered. "They've got ties with every cartel worth mentioning, including your boys. If Francisco handed down that order, they'd obey it, or else risk being frozen out by Francisco and the Asians. They can't afford that risk, not in Seattle."

"Fuck." Tristan glared out the windshield, weaving easily through what little traffic crept through the dark. "So chances are the Asians are supplying the X and LSD to Vetrov."

"Looks like," Kincaid said.

Well, wasn't that just motherfucking perfect?

"Any idea if they're going to the Asians directly?"

"Hell no. Unless Francisco himself stepped in, Anton Vetrov doesn't have those kinds of connections," Kincaid laughed. "The Asians deal directly with big cheese only. Only way they can operate safely around here since the Patriot Act. Your boys are dealing with a middle man."

"Think you can find their supplier and cut him off?" Tristan asked Kincaid.

"Hell yeah," Kincaid said. "I'm all over it."

Tristan took a deep breath, praying it would give them a little more time.

Christ, it had to.

Chapter Fifteen

Lillian nestled into her pillows as early morning light filtered through the curtains in her bedroom, sending little rays of warmth across her face. She groaned, rolling over. And then she blinked at the familiar deep purple décor around her, unsure how she'd gotten to her bedroom. The last thing she remembered was… lying on Tristan's lap while his heart beat a steady rhythm beneath her ear.

"Ah… crap," she croaked, her voice thick with sleep. She'd passed out on top of him, hadn't she?

Casting back in her memories for anything after curling up on his lap, she came up with zilch. Yep, she'd fallen asleep on his lap after he did delightfully wicked things to her.

"Oh God," she groaned, rubbing her eyes as memories of his touch assailed her. Fire wasn't a hot enough classification for the way he had unraveled her last night. Every thought had vanished from her head when she'd felt him harden beneath her. She hadn't meant it to go so far, but then he'd touched her, whispered those wicked desires to her, and she hadn't wanted him to stop.

She didn't regret it.

The way he'd ravished the sensitive skin of her throat while she came made her feel like molten lava inside and out. Something about the thought of him leaving his mark on her… well, she liked it. A
lot
. Probably more than any self-respecting woman should.

She crawled from the bed in search of a mirror, wanting to see for herself what such a mark looked like up close and personal. Would it bother her to see it now that she wasn't wrapped in a cloud of lust? Should it bother her?

She wasn't sure.

Stepping carefully to keep her balance, she made her way into the en-suite bathroom and flipped the lights on. The woman staring out of the mirror at her was almost unrecognizable. Her dark hair was a wild tangle around her face. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks flushed.

She leaned closer.

Two small red marks marred her pale skin, so faint they were almost invisible. Lillian reached out to trace them with her finger, a soft smile on her lips. Heat twisted through her at the evidence Tristan had left behind. Knowing he'd put them there was hot for reasons she couldn't even begin to explain to herself.

Lord, what was that man doing to her?

"Get a grip," she muttered, shaking her head at her reflection. Forcing her mind away from the temptation of staring at those marks in the mirror, she tossed her hair up into a messy bun, and brushed her teeth.

She had no idea if Tristan was awake, or how the morning would unfold after what they'd done. They'd crossed some kind of line or bridge or wall last night, and she didn't know where that left them. His world and hers were two different things, and they argued more often than not. How would this thing between them ever work?

"Ugh," she groaned, rubbing her face hard with a towel.

The connection between them was physical, nothing more.

And if she told herself that often enough, she might actually start to believe it.

She flipped the lights off in the bathroom and changed her clothes, determined to exhaust her mind into silence while she stretched her leg. She hadn't done a good job of it lately, and she'd pay for that with more than a muscle spasm sooner or later.

After a quick detour to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, she hurried toward the studio… only to stop in front of Tristan's door when she noticed light trickling from a crack beneath the heavy wood.

Don't do it
, she warned herself, but she didn't listen, of course. Reaching out, she knocked softly. When he didn't answer, she pushed the door open a little further and peeked inside, telling herself she just wanted to see if he was awake or not.

"Oh, sweet mother of God," she whispered, her heart stalling in her chest before racing away at the sight before her.

Tristan lay sprawled across the bed on his back, with one arm thrown over his face as if to protect it from the light filtering in through the window. Bursts of color were tattooed above his heart in stark lines. Tracing them with her gaze, she realized they made up a bird with one wing tucked against its body. The other wing spread across his chest, the tips grazing his ribcage. A date had been inked beneath. The day his parents died, unless she missed her guess.

The grief displayed in the tattoo took her breath away. So did the fact that she'd never have guessed he had it had she not seen it for herself.

Something in her chest loosened, the last vestiges of her anger at him unfurling and then vanishing.

With his loss permanently etched into his skin, right there in front of her, holding on to anger just didn't seem fair. How could she blame him for jumping to conclusions and castigating her when people just like the Vetrov family had murdered his parents?

She couldn't, and she didn't want to either. He never should have said the things he had said to her, but being pissed when he was obviously hurting wouldn't change anything. He'd apologized to her more than once. She had to let it go.

Unable to stare at his memorial when he went to such pains to keep his grief hidden, Lillian averted her gaze, only to have it land on his stomach. His nude, muscular stomach. She gulped, tattoo all but forgotten as her gaze followed the little trail of hair beneath his hand down, down, down as if pulled. The sheet covered one hip, but had fallen away from the other. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he slept naked. Not. At. All.

Hip bone and a tantalizing peek at the
V
waited for her the further down her gaze traveled. The tented sheet was obvious. Lillian's legs felt weak as she devoured his body with her gaze, remembering the way he felt pressed against her.

He stirred, moaning.

Lillian jumped and then froze, certain he'd caught her staring.

But he didn't open his eyes.

She fled, pulling the door closed and limping down the hall. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. Her entire body felt flushed as she scurried into her studio, inhaling air like a woman starving.

Oh God. She would never sleep again with him right across the hall. Not now that she knew he hadn't been joking. Her dreams of him naked hadn't done him justice. He was beautiful. All contoured muscle and smooth olive skin. She pressed her legs together, trying to ease the ache between them to no avail. It wasn't going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

With a frustrated groan and a silent curse at herself for peeking in that door in the first place, she tossed her water bottle down and turned on the music before inching her way down onto the floor to begin her stretches.

Tristan stopped in the doorway to Lillian's spare bedroom, drawn by the soft strains of music whispering through the small space. The music wasn't what made him linger though. Lillian demanded his gaze, keeping him riveted to the spot, mouth half open as if to call her name.

She stood in front of the closet doors, focused intently on her reflection as she lifted her bad leg in some sort of dance step. The sole of her foot came to rest on the inside of her knee, her arms lifted into a classic ballet position he couldn't even attempt to name. He wasn't sure what she was trying to accomplish, but the faint sheen of sweat on her face and the determined set to her jaw led him to believe she'd been at it for a while.

He couldn't look away.

The dark gray leotard she wore hugged her beautiful body in ways that made him clench his teeth. His erection jerked at the memory of his hands on said body. And her legs? Definitely
not
covered in tights. The angry red scar on her thigh stood in stark contrast to the pale perfection of those long legs.

And Christ, those legs….

His erection jerked again.

Yeah, this day promised to suck. Hard.

Lillian lost her balance and tottered to the side before steadying herself.

Setting her jaw, she muttered something under her breath before attempting the same step. Only this time, she rested her full weight on her bad leg, and lifted the other to do the little foot to knee thing. She lost her balance as soon as it was up, but this time she couldn't catch herself. The way her leg twisted beneath her ensured that.

"Oh, shit!" she cried out, her arms wind-milling wildly.

Tristan crossed the room to her in three steps, grabbing her before she hit the floor. He half expected her to slip through his fingers, and waited to hear her bone snap. A picture of her crumpled on the floor in pain shot through his mind, jarring him. His heart hammered painfully.

Her wide-eyed gaze flew to his.

She gasped as he drew her nearer, securing his hold on her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, running a hand down to her leg.

Nothing felt any worse than usual, thank God.

"I'm fine," she gulped.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" he demanded, the feel of her in his arms hitting him like a fist as soon as the initial wave of panic receded. Pure electric pulses surged through him, relief mingling with irritation.

"I'm-"

"Are you trying to break your leg?" He set her back on her feet to glare at her, pissed off at her and at himself. The shit he'd dragged her into was far worse than anything she could do to herself in the middle of her makeshift studio.

Her mouth fell open and then she narrowed her eyes on him. "The rod won't break, Tristan."

"So you're going to try to kill yourself so you can forget that?"

"Of course not." She crossed her arms over her chest in a familiar, defensive move. "I have to stretch every day. I told you this already."

"
That
was not stretching," he said, jerking his head toward the center of the room. Did she think he was an idiot? "That was you nearly falling on your ass because you're trying to prove something to yourself. Is being a famous ballerina really so fucking important that you're willing to risk your own safety just to have it back? Christ, Lillian, you're smarter than that!"

Lillian stiffened, her eyes flashing. "What I do is none of your business."

"The hell it isn't!"

Her expression firmed at the iron in his voice. "What is your problem this morning?"

Besides the fact that she'd scared the hell out of him? "Not a fucking thing," he said, lying through his teeth. He took a deep breath, trying to temper his tone. "If you want to do that shit, ask me to help you."

"Why? So you can feel better about that fact that I won't beg you to sleep with me?" she demanded and then shook her head, disgust stamped across her face.

"That's not-"

"You think it'd be enough for you that you make me so crazy I can't think straight, but you aren't satisfied unless you're in complete control, are you? What I want doesn't even matter to you, does it? Just so long as I'm an obedient little toy, how I feel doesn't even register with you!" she snapped.

Tristan gaped at her, not sure what to say.

Did she really think he saw her as nothing more than a toy?

"Sometimes, you're a complete ass." She stumbled around him to the iPod dock and pressed a button to stop the music. With that, she hobbled out of the room, pausing only long enough to slam the door behind her.

Well, fuck.

Tristan ripped the door open and followed after her, catching her before she made it halfway down the hall. He swung her around to face him, pissed off that she'd just walked away from him. And pissed off she thought he saw her as a toy, something to play with. She was a whole hell of a lot more than that. Sometimes, he was pretty fucking certain what she wanted mattered to him more than anything else. And wasn't that the problem? She mattered, a whole lot more than he was prepared to deal with.

"I'm doing my best to keep you safe," he said. "The least you can do is make that a little easier by not breaking your own damn neck."

"No one asked you to keep me safe. And if I do break
my own damn neck
," she mimicked his tone, glaring up at him, "it's none of your business!"

Tristan growled.

"Let go of me." She jerked on her arm and he let her go, instead putting his hands on the wall on either side of her head to keep her from storming off.