Chapter 8: The Shadow at My Door

POV: Dr. Clara Bennett

I backed up against the cold brick wall of my apartment building, my breath rising in thick white plumes against the freezing air.

“Were you following me?” I demanded, my heart slamming wildly against my ribs.

“I was watching,” Tristan corrected softly. He took a single step forward, his tall frame blocking the biting wind off Lake Michigan and enveloping me in his shadow. “There is a difference.”

“It’s a difference that makes you sound like a stalker,” I shot back, though my voice carried a betraying tremor.

A faint, wicked smirk touched the line of his jaw before it vanished into the dark, intense look that seemed permanent on his face. He lifted a hand, his warm leather glove gently brushing away a drop of icy sleet that had frozen on my lower lip. The contrast between his heat and my cold skin sent a sudden, electric shudder down my spine.

“I saw him force that pen into your hand, Clara,” Tristan murmured, his low baritone cutting straight through the howl of the storm. “I saw the way you pulled away from him.”

“Harrison is stressed,” I said, trying to summon the steady, analytical composure I used in the ER, but failing under his gaze. “He’s losing control of his family’s company, and he’s desperate.”

“He never had control of it,” Tristan said, his tone turning as sharp as broken glass. “He stole it while I was lying in a pool of my own blood in an alleyway. And now he’s trying to steal your life to buy himself time with the press.”

I looked down at the slush sinking into my leather boots. I couldn’t deny it. Harrison’s dark, impatient eyes in the car had terrified me. He hadn’t seen me as his partner; he had seen me as an asset slipping through his fingers.

“It doesn’t change anything, Tristan,” I whispered, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. “I committed to him. I am not a piece of property for you two to fight over.”

“I know what you are, Clara,” Tristan said quietly. He took off his glove, reaching out with his bare hand to touch the side of my face. His palm was warm, calloused, and shockingly gentle. “You are the woman who risked everything to save a total stranger. You are fierce, brilliant, and free. And I am not going to watch Harrison cage you.”

“And what are you offering me instead?” I challenged, my breath catching as his thumb traced the line of my cheekbone. “A front-row seat to your war?”

“I am offering you a choice,” Tristan murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from mine. “Walk away from him. Let me take the hit from the media. Let me tear Harrison’s world down so he can never threaten you again.”

My mind spun out of control. Up close, he was overwhelming. The heat of his body, the scent of expensive cedar and rain, and the absolute certainty in his stormy gray eyes made me want to lean into him, to stop fighting the world alone.

Before I could answer, a set of bright headlights swept down the street, lighting the shadowed entryway in a blinding white glare.

A sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb, its horn blaring twice in short, aggressive bursts.

The driver’s side door clicked open, and Harrison’s head of security stepped out into the sleet, his hand resting conspicuously inside his dark wool coat.

“Dr. Bennett!” the guard called out across the pavement, his voice rough. “Mr. Sterling sent us back to make sure you made it inside safely. Step away from the gentleman, please.”

I went rigid.

Tristan didn’t even flinch. He didn’t turn around, nor did he break eye contact with me. He slowly slid his hand down from my cheek, his fingers lacing tightly through mine, squeezing gently.

“It’s time to choose, Clara,” Tristan whispered, his eyes searching my face with a dark, desperate pull. “Do you go back to his cage… or do you let me take you home?”