I used to think danger came with noise. Screaming. Gunshots. Sirens.
But with Tristan, danger was quiet. It settled into the space between words, curled itself around silence, and pressed in when I least expected it—like the weight of his stare across a crowded room, or the way his fingers brushed my lower back in passing, like a warning and a promise all at once.
Days passed after that hallway conversation, but the tension between us never really disappeared—it just changed shape. Became something heavier. Something alive.
He didn't touch me. Not in the ways I expected. Not in the ways I feared. But he watched me—closely. As if studying me gave him peace. Or power. I wasn't sure which unsettled me more.
I found myself watching him too.
There were moments when I forgot why I hated him. When I caught him reading in the library, glasses on the bridge of his nose, completely unaware that anyone was watching. Or when he spoke to Luca with a calm authority that made everyone else straighten up just to hear him speak. There was a gravity to Tristan that pulled everything around him tighter. Including me.
I hated that I noticed.
I hated that it mattered.
One morning, I slipped out to the garden behind the villa. It was early—fog still clinging to the hedges, dew sparkling on the petals like frost. I needed air. A moment to breathe without the weight of him pressing in on my thoughts.
But he was already there.
Tristan stood beneath the arch of tangled roses, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, phone in hand, jaw tight. His back was to me, but his voice was low and tense.
"No," he said. "If Moretti makes another move, I want to know before it happens."
A pause.
"I don't care what he told the Spaniards. He's bluffing."
Another pause.
Then his voice dropped to something darker. "I'm not losing her."
I froze.
He turned then—slowly, like he'd felt me before he saw me. Our eyes met. Something passed between us, raw and unspoken.
He ended the call without a word and tucked the phone into his pocket.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said quietly, walking toward me.
"I could say the same to you."
His mouth twitched—half a smirk, half something else. "Touché."
I crossed my arms. "Who were you talking about?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stepped closer until we stood toe-to-toe in the mist. "There are people who think hurting you would hurt me."
My breath caught. "Would it?"
He didn't blink. "Yes."
The word hung between us, heavy and final.
"I didn't ask to be part of your war," I whispered.
"I know," he said, voice low. "But you are."
And for the first time, he didn't sound like he regretted it.
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