Atroyel, p.20
Atroyel, page 20
“Okay.” I drag that one syllable out as if it’s a fermata in one of my choir solos. How the fuck does one respond to this? What does it mean? I need time to process this new development, so I do what comes naturally when I have something monumental to consider—I seek more information. “And how are we feeling about that, and by we, I mean you two?”
“Beauty, I need some time to think before I can answer that. I learned a lot of new information on Bardo that I need to process.” Troy leans over the desk, cups both of my cheeks in his hands, and gives me a sound kiss. “Give me a couple of hours, and then we’ll talk.” The pleading behind his earnest gaze lets me know he’ll stay if I ask, but that will only delay the inevitable. Troy needs to be alone, away from others’ emotional input to figure out his own before he can deal with this. And me.
“No, you go. I’m good. Do what you need to do. I could use some time to think, too.” I give Tristan a pointed look that Troy doesn’t miss. No hanky-panky.
“We both know you work through problems best by verbalizing, and since Tristan needs to figure out your triggers, now is as good a time as any to start.” Troy gives me another smack on the lips and steps to the open French doors leading to the balcony. “Oh, and beauty, be sure to tell him about your goose-gander thing. He needs to know what he’s up against.” Troy steps out onto the balcony with a wink, unfurls his wings, and takes off in one graceful movement that I take a moment to admire enviously.
“What a show-off, but I guess some people like it,” Tristan says teasingly.
I sing a line from the movie Funny Girl about the groom being prettier than the bride. “Too bad he doesn’t know how beautiful he is.” I turn to look at this man who is my destined mate.
“Then, that’s another thing the two of you have in common.” Tristan straightens before I have time to answer. “Let’s go have a drink.”
My tattoo throbs the closer I get to him, and some involuntary energy reaches into me and yanks me to my feet, making them move with a will of their own. I try to stop, but it’s like fighting with quicksand, not that I’m sure why I’m fighting it. It’s a walk, for god’s sake. It isn’t as if he’s going all caveman and tossing me over his shoulder to drag me off to bed. *sigh* I give in and follow Tristan out of the room and to the beach-side entry to the villa. Once outside, we pick up a sandy path winding its way through a forest of palm trees and tropical flora.
“Are you using sex magic on me?” How else do I explain this strange pulling feeling I’m having?
He pauses where the path intersects with a log boardwalk connecting a web of villas built on water that fans out as far as I can see. I take a breath of the air, enjoying the salty tang. Tristan starts down the massive boardwalk lit by lights buried in the sea below us.
“No, babe, I’m not using any magic on you, but I can if you like. The bond connects us emotionally if that’s what you’re referring to, so I’m getting flashes when you think something particularly vivid, and it’s as if some external force is pushing me toward you.” He grins. “And Troy is the caveman in the family.”
I burst out laughing; I can’t help it. Troy is the last man on Earth resembling a caveman, and Tristan’s wide grin tells me he was being facetious. “If you can’t read my mind, how did you know I was thinking about a caveman? And why does it feel like you’re lassoing me with a thick rope?” Without thinking, I stick my tongue out at him and punch his arm with my free hand. Then sanity prevails. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I punctuate each word with a mental slap against the side of my head. Mortified heat almost burns the shell of my ear as embarrassment floods through me. This is precisely the kind of behavior that gets me into trouble. It’s too aggressive, I’m told. Not feminine enough. This is not at all the way I want Tristan to see at me. And suddenly that matters to me if he’s my destined mate. My throbbing shoulder pulses a couple of times, letting me know it’s not a matter of if, it’s a confirmed fact. Leaving me, a forty-year-old career woman, acting like a nervous teenager on her first date. Not that I know much about dating, having only ever gone on two in my life.
I hastily scrub at the place on Tristan’s arm where I hit him. “Sorry. Sometimes I act without thinking. Did I hurt you?”
Tristan stops and spins me to face him. A slight frown creases his angelic face as he looks down at me, studying me. Several beats pass before he gives his head a shake. “If I do nothing else tonight, I’m going to get to the bottom of what’s going on in that head of yours, mon chou.”
Before I have time to think, wings spring free from his back, and he swoops me into his arms. I almost strangle him as the feeling of ascent strikes. I glance down, wondering what my chances of survival are if I fall from this height. Fear and exhilaration race through me in equal measure, locking every muscle with tension.
Relax, beauty. He’s got you. Enjoy the ride. Troy’s reassuring voice murmurs in my head, and I do one of those girly things you only see in movies. I relax my body against Tristan’s and nestle in for the ride.
43
ALEAH
I barely register the opulence of our surroundings as Tristan lands on a soaring thatched-roof atrium offering a stunning view of the ocean. A large bar with a solitary bartender occupies the entire center of the massive space behind us. For utmost privacy, comfy-looking loveseats are strategically placed in nooks and crannies separated by light-colored wood beams and curved railings. Tristan grabs my hand and pulls me toward a loveseat facing the ocean.
I yank my hand out of Tristan’s, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Concern paints his lovely face. “What’s up?”
“Wait, we don’t have masks,” I say. “Do they have COVID here?” What’s happening to me may be a crazy delusion, but I haven’t lost my mind completely. One thing I’m fucking anal about is following the pandemic protocols. If Troy had caught coronavirus, it would have killed him. Of that, his entire medical team agreed. I’d probably lost a friend or three because of the wall of protection I’d erected around us, but it had been worth the extra time I had with him.
Tristan’s smile lacks its usual radiance, and I’m not sure whether the tension I’m sensing is his, or mine, or both. “We don’t need them here. Besides, you’re Nephilim, babe. Even if you’re not immune until we release your power, I can use mine to heal you.” He sits on the couch and pats the cushion beside him.
I plunk my ass down and nod.
“We’re guests of the Santiago family. They head up the vampire coven who built this protected retreat for supernaturals. We’re under their protection at the moment. We can talk more about that later.” Tristan holds up two fingers, and I follow his gaze to the bartender. The stocky man dressed in a black leather vest gives a curt nod. Tristan settles back and half turns toward me.
I fiddle with the split skirt of my dress, trying to put space between the two of us without appearing to do so. Because right now, I can’t focus on anything but the heat coming from Tristan’s body.
“Talk to me. When Cass asked who put you in charge, why did you take it so personally? Or was it his insinuation that you’re a know-it-all?”
I try to decide just how much to tell him, but the compulsion to be honest with him drowns my natural reticence about revealing too much about myself. The gentle lapping of the waves relaxes me enough that I can tell Tristan all my secrets . . . well, most of my secrets.
There’s nowhere for me to look but at him, at that beautifully carved face that would have won People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive contest every frigging year, hands down. Troy’s equally handsome, so it’s not as if I’m not used to seeing beauty in my man, but the iron grip on his emotions mutes that extra bit of animation Tristan has. Even then, in the early years, I’d had to beat women off with a metaphorical machete to get near Troy anytime we were in public.
People had been shocked, and some disturbed, when it became clear we were an item. Some even placed wagers on how long it would take for him to dump me because, after all, it must be the “Black” thing and he’d soon get tired of dipping his quill in that well. The first time someone had suggested this to me, I had no idea what she was talking about. “What Black thing?” I’d been so naive.
Little Miss Popular had smirked and said, “You must know the myth they say about you people, when you go Black, you never go back, just isn’t true. He’ll get sick of you in no time.”
I’d shown them, the fuckers. I held a tiny golden kernel of pride deep within myself because of this. The so-called ugly duckling got the golden goose. I got my man, even though it had taken a very long time to get rid of the feeling that it was all going to come to a crashing halt someday soon. And now he’s mine forever, as is his equally enthralling brother. But to have two men who take my breath away is almost too much to believe.
Tristan sits relaxed, his body turned toward me, arm thrown across the back of our loveseat. He’s not touching me, but it would probably have been better if he were because I can’t ignore the heat of his body this close to mine. All I can think about is touching him. He keeps his blue eyes trained on me as if I’m the only person in his universe.
When Cass asked who put you in charge, why did you take it so personally? His question keeps bouncing around in my head. There’s no going back if I drop down the rabbit hole that yawns open with his question. If I expose my inner truths, I’ll truly be stripped naked for him in a way only Troy’s seen me. And that had taken years of work to build the trust we both needed to reveal our hidden vulnerabilities.
I run my tongue over my dry lips and try to work up a bit of moisture. As if by magic, the leather-clad bartender appears with two water coconuts, each with straws stuck through holes drilled into the flesh. I gratefully accept the coconut the server offers me and take a large sip of the alcohol-infused drink before taking inordinate care to place the nutshell on the table. Throughout it all, Tristan simply waits . . . and watches.
“It’s not the kind of thing I can talk about,” I finally say. “You of all people should understand that.” I clap my hand over my mouth as soon as those words escape. “What I mean is—”
“Don’t try to correct yourself, mon chou. I want to hear what you think, unfiltered. How so?” Something very serious replaces the humor in Tristan’s eyes and encourages me to go on.
“Because there’s something very different about you, too. Everyone sees how beautiful you are and ignores your depth. I’m not expressing myself very well, but I bet most people don’t see the way you bring to light what people often hide and how you resolve conflicts and misunderstandings. But you do.” I touch my fist to my heart. “I feel that, in here, both the gift and your hurt. Oh, I get it’s not the same as being Black, and that you exist squarely in a place of White privilege, but I’m betting that most people refuse to look past your beauty. Hell, even Cass infers you’re some kind of dimwit.” The part of my brain trained to warn me when I’m treading into territory that most will find offensive starts waving a warning flag. “Not that I think you’re a dimwit,” I rush to say, mentally slapping myself for letting my mouth run without filters. I take my glasses off and hold them up to the light, buying me a few seconds to think. Another gulp of the refreshing drink buys several more.
“Anyone who takes offense at honest insight is an idiot in my book. I know you’re not calling me names, mon chou. I can feel it in here.” He places his hand over his heart before replacing it behind me. “And in the interest of collaboration, you’re the first person who’s seen into that part of me. I’m fascinated by your observations, but this is about you, not me. We can talk about me later.” Tristan reaches over and tucks a curl behind my ear.
I shiver, and goosebumps break out all over my arms. I can’t help it. “Promise? Because that’s another thing that drives me around the bend. Don’t ask me for something you’re not willing to return, and I don’t mean next year like your brother, I mean now, tonight.”
He takes his arm off the loveseat and puts his hand over his heart again. “I swear on all that’s holy. When you’re done telling me your secrets, I’ll tell you mine.”
That’s all it takes for the walls to come tumbling down. We sit for hours as dusk turns to full night, while I spill my guts, starting with my lack of early memories. The only memories I have before my thirteenth birthday are fleeting and horrid. I tell him about the first of many sexual assaults.
I tell him about the day I started fighting back, confronting my goddamn sexually, physically, and emotionally abusive foster father with a large carving knife in hand.
Tristan’s lips twitch as I described being all of ninety pounds soaking wet going up against a monster of a man, of facing down the bully. Letting him know I’d kill him if he ever came to my bed again.
“Did that stop him?” Tristan only interrupts for clarification, but it spurs me on.
“Oddly enough, it stopped the sexual abuse and beatings but escalated the emotional abuse. He started a campaign to let me know on a daily basis that I was worthless, unlovable, and just plain crazy. And he did a good job of convincing me that I, a child, enticed him to my bed, that I asked for it, that being a vessel for men’s sexual needs was all I was good for.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my tone. Tristan squeezes my shoulder but otherwise keeps a respectful distance.
I tell him about meeting Troy and how having him and his friends as a safe haven probably saved my fucking life even if it hadn’t been love at first sight for him. Tristan tips his head back and closes his eyes as I describe how absolutely fucking frustrating Troy had been, how hard to get to know. How Troy had refused to let me see his feelings until I was sure of my own. But he’d been the only man who hadn’t fucked first and talked later . . . and talk only came if I was lucky.
Tristan chuckles as I described my futile attempts to “seduce” Troy at the young and very fucked-up age of nineteen. How it had taken almost eight months of Troy “playing” with my cunt before he’d relented and we’d done the deed. He understands when I tell him one of the greatest gifts Troy gave me was trusting me with his inner secrets.
I tell him about being grateful to be a born and bred Canadian but that it’s still not easy to be a Black woman in Canada. About being repeatedly given performance awards but making considerably less, by tens of thousands of dollars in a couple of cases, than my peers. About being told someone like me doesn’t need the money and I shouldn’t want to take it away from my White colleagues who presumably need it more than I do. I don’t hide my anger when I tell him how I watched colleagues be praised for the same things I was disciplined for. As the words spill from my mouth, I purge excess baggage I’ve carried hidden within for years.
We pause for a moment while the bartender refreshes our drinks. Then I tell him about being labeled a troublemaker when I appealed or fought outright against each injustice, and how many people tried to convince me I had some defect that made me see a different reality than everyone else. And those were the kind folks. I’d be a rich woman today if I had a dollar for every time someone in power told me I need to learn my place.
I talk until we venture near the room holding the secrets about my sexuality, including the large trunk holding my many hang-ups and triggers. Then, I stop. “Your turn,” I announce.
44
TRISTAN
As Ali paints her dispassionate and earnest description of her life experience, I’m so engrossed I almost forget to make mental notes of the emotional trigger points for her. Despite her clinical recitation, I sense the well of emotion simmering deep within her. I open up my senses to ensure I don’t miss any of this complex woman’s nuances. My mate. Although she’s showing me the same brave front she holds up for the world to see, our bond lets me see just how emotionally vulnerable she is.
She tells me about how she’d never quite forgiven herself for not fighting harder when grown men had raped her as a teen. Even when one had held a knife to her throat, threatening to kill her if she didn’t comply. I see more evidence of just how strong her will is as her nonchalance hides pure self-disgust as she describes another knifepoint rape. Her story triggers respect, rage, and awe in equal measure. How Troy must have suffered when she described being dragged down an isolated train track. One after another, she builds a horror movie of abuse and victimization.
“I live by a strict sexual moral code. I’ve done everything to ensure I’ll never again be called the Black ho.”
I’m sure the moral code affects more than sex, but I wisely keep my counsel. She’s hard on herself, that’s clear, showing none of the compassion I’ve caught glimpses of for herself. But as her outpouring progresses, she relaxes, almost as if getting these feelings off of her chest has a purging effect. She doesn’t so much wind down as merely stop. She’s given as much as she’s willing to give without me reciprocating. Kicking off her sandals, she turns to face me, bringing her legs onto the couch and tucking them under her chin.
I have so much I want to tell Aleah, my beloved. For a second, I let my heart open to the joy this brings me, but her penetrating gaze reminds me it’s not a sealed deal yet. Within her, hope wars with doubt as she steels herself for the disappointment she’s expecting. She needs me to be forthcoming but expects I won’t be. I need to gain her trust, so I’m about to do something I’ve only done with a woman once before. And that had ended in disaster.
I need to reveal my inner core, to be honest about who I truly am. Ali’s nobody’s fool, and her intuition will alert her to any deception on my part. How do I segue into stories about how the teachers at boarding school abused me, how I’d been too ashamed to tell our parents that the headmistress used me as her sex toy?
I’d learned at a young age that nobody takes boys seriously when it comes to sexual abuse from women. It might have been a different thing if it had been men abusing me, but Mistress Helola’s sex parties had been exclusive territory for the mistresses to “sample” students. Most of the boys were tossed after a night or two, but I’d been a favorite for years. Lucky me. And my magic had been of no use at all against hers—she was a succubus. The headmistress had actually used my magic to boost her own. She’d been particularly fond of mental manipulation.
