Chapter Five: Ally

I sauntered down the stairs the next morning—and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Tristain stood in the dining room, back half-turned, methodically adjusting the cuffs of a black dress shirt like he belonged in some tailored fantasy instead of my personal nightmare. My stomach did an annoying, traitorous little flip.

A sliver of a long tattoo peeked out from beneath his rolled sleeves, immediately making me curious as to what it was.

He looked exactly like how I imagined Alex Volkov in—

No.

Absolutely not.

Get your shit together, Ally.

I scowled at myself for even letting the comparison surface. He wasn’t fictional. He wasn’t charming. He was infuriating. Period.

As if sensing my stare, he glanced over his shoulder. Dark hair fell lazily across those icy eyes, and—God help me—the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth.

Oh. My. God.

Snap out of it, Allison Trainer, I ordered myself, fighting the urge to physically shake the thoughts loose.

“Good morning to you, too, Frosty,” he said, his voice smooth—too smooth—and it pissed me off instantly.

My glare sharpened. “Quit calling me that.”

One brow lifted in mock innocence. “Why? It fits. Like the morning chill.” His gaze flicked over me deliberately. “Except you’re like that twenty-four seven.”

My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Only with you.”

He snorted, turning back to his sleeves like my irritation was nothing more than background noise. “Whatever you say,” he murmured, then added just loud enough to hear, “Frosty.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the counter, arms crossing defensively. “What are you getting all dressed up for?” I paused. “Not that I care.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. His smile flashed briefly—white, effortless, unfair.

Damn it.

“I’ve got a business meeting in Parlton,” he said, straightening fully now. “Not that you care.” The smug edge in his voice was deliberate, sharpened to provoke.

And it worked.

Heat flared under my skin as my blood simmered. I pushed off the counter, lifting my chin. “Trust me. Your business meetings are not high on my list of concerns.”

His eyes lingered on me a second longer than necessary.

“Good,” he replied lightly. “Wouldn’t want you distracted.”

The smirk that followed told me one thing very clearly—

He enjoyed this.

I scoffed, turning toward the coffee maker like it had personally betrayed me by existing in the same room as him. “As if I’d ever be distracted by you.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced. I could feel his eyes on me—unsettling, calculating—like he was cataloging reactions instead of words.

I poured myself a cup and took a sip far too quickly, burning my tongue. I welcomed the sting. It gave me something else to focus on.

“Careful,” he said mildly. “Wouldn’t want you injuring yourself before noon.”

I shot him a glare. “I’ll survive.”

“You always do,” he replied, tone oddly neutral.

That made me pause.

I turned, studying him properly this time. The black shirt was tucked in perfectly, sleeves crisp, posture relaxed but purposeful. He looked… put together. Like someone who had places to be and power to wield. And I hated that my brain kept insisting on noticing these things.

“So,” I said, grasping for irritation like a lifeline, “what exactly does a Darson ‘business meeting’ entail? Bullying people into contracts with that smug smile?”

He chuckled as he grabbed his keys from the counter. “If it were that easy, I’d be home by lunch.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re curious,” he shot back.

“I’m bored,” I corrected.

He stepped closer—just enough to crowd my space without actually touching me. I refused to move. I refused to look away.

“Then you should enjoy the peace while I’m gone,” he said. “House’ll be quiet. No chargers mysteriously relocating. No nicknames.”

I arched a brow. “That’s supposed to be a selling point?”

His gaze dropped briefly to my hands curled around the mug, then lifted again. “You tell me.”

For half a second, the air shifted. The house felt too still. Too aware of us.

I broke it first. “When are you leaving?”

“Ten minutes,” he said, checking his watch. “Try not to burn the place down.”

“Disappointing,” I muttered. “I had plans.”

He laughed—actually laughed—and shook his head as he headed toward the door. “Kitchen’s yours. Don’t touch the locked closet.”

I brightened. “Now I definitely will.”

He paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked back at me. “I’ll know.”

My smile sharpened. “Threat?”

“Promise.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the house like punctuation at the end of a sentence I wasn’t ready to finish.

I stood there longer than I meant to, coffee cooling in my hands, pulse still annoyingly quick. The silence pressed in—different from last night’s. Less combative. More… empty.

I shook my head hard, like I could physically dislodge the thought.

“Get a grip, Ally,” I muttered to myself.

I wandered through the kitchen, opening cabinets just to remind myself this wasn’t my house. Everything was pristine. Organized. Controlled. Even the mess felt intentional.

Of course it did.

I carried my mug to the window and watched his car pull out of the driveway, smooth and confident. He didn’t look back.

Good.

I exhaled slowly, tension draining from my shoulders in reluctant increments. The house was quiet now. Mine to survive in. Mine to endure.

Two weeks, I reminded myself. Just two weeks.

And yet, as the engine disappeared down the street, an inconvenient thought crept in—uninvited, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

Peace was nice.

But somehow… it already felt temporary.

I let out a slow sigh and drifted back into the kitchen, opening the fridge more out of habit than hunger. I wasn’t really hungry—but standing there, alone in the too-quiet house, made my skin itch.

It was stupid. Paranoid.

And yet, the uneasy feeling clung to me, prickling along my spine like I was being watched.

I scanned the shelves, lips pressing into a thin line. Nothing jumped out at me—nothing that fit my annoyingly picky standards. Eventually, I grabbed a banana from the corner drawer and shut the door a little harder than necessary.

With nothing better to do, I wandered through the house, actually seeing it for the first time.

The space was massive, clean to the point of sterility. Minimalist. Intentional. There weren’t many decorations, but the ones that were there demanded attention. A large framed print dominated one wall—an abstract painting of a tiger sinking its teeth into a gazelle’s neck. The violence of it made my stomach twist.

I winced and kept moving.

That’s when I noticed the pattern. Predators.

Paintings. Sculptures. Sharp lines and darker tones. Lions mid-pounce. Wolves with their eyes locked forward. Even the smallest decorative pieces carried a sense of pursuit.

I swallowed. Figures.

“Guess you’re an animal guy,” I muttered to no one. 

I finished the last bite of my banana, tossed the peel, and headed for the stairs—only to stop halfway up, Tristain’s voice echoing in my head.

Don’t touch the locked closet.

My foot slowly lowered back to the floor.

“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “‘Locked closet,’ my ass.”

I turned and walked straight toward it—the slim closet wedged neatly between the kitchen and dining room. I paused, glancing around like the house might suddenly rat me out.

“No one’s here, dumbass,” I whispered to myself.

I reached for the handle.

It turned.

My pulse spiked, a thrill shooting through me as the door creaked open. I leaned closer, anticipation buzzing in my veins—

Only to freeze.

Books.

Shelves and shelves of them, stretching from top to bottom. Old ones. Ancient-looking, with worn spines and faded gold lettering. Dusty, but organized with meticulous care.

My shoulders slumped. 

“Seriously?” I muttered.

Why warn me off if this was all there was?

Then I saw it.

A small, folded piece of white paper resting innocently among the books.

My heart kicked. I snatched it up and unfolded it—

And rage hit me full-force.

"Told you not to look, Princess."

My fingers curled around the paper, crumpling it as heat flooded my chest. Of course.

Of course he’d planned this. Of course he’d left himself behind just to smirk at me from a distance—to remind me that even when he wasn’t here, he was still one step ahead.

I glared at the empty closet like he might materialize out of sheer audacity.

“I hate you,” I muttered.

But the worst part?

The note proved exactly what I hadn’t wanted to admit—

He knew me.

I shoved the note back onto the shelf like it had burned me and slammed the closet door shut. The click echoed louder than it should have in the quiet house, making my heart jump into my throat.

“Asshole,” I muttered again, rubbing my palms against my jeans like that would shake the feeling crawling under my skin.

I backed away from the closet, suddenly very aware of how alone I was. The house felt different now—less empty, more…watchful. Like I’d stepped somewhere I wasn’t supposed to, even if all I’d found was paper and ink and his smug little victory.

My phone buzzed.

I froze.

Slowly, I pulled it from my pocket, my pulse hammering as the screen lit up.

Tristain: Enjoying the house?

My jaw dropped.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I whispered.

Another vibration.

Tristain: Closet curiosity suits you. Predictable, but cute.

Heat flooded my face—anger, embarrassment, something else I refused to name. My thumbs flew over the screen.

Me: You set that up on purpose.

Me: You’re a creep.

The reply came almost instantly.

Tristain: And yet, you still opened it.

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached. I paced the length of the dining room, fingers tightening around my phone.

Me: You don’t get to mess with me when you’re not even here.

Me: Stop acting like you own me.

A pause.

Longer this time.

Then—

Tristain: Relax, Princess. When I own you, you’ll know.

My stomach twisted.

Me: Don’t call me that.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Tristain: Touch nothing else. I’ll be home before dinner.

I didn’t even respond.

I stared at my phone, chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve. Slowly, I locked the screen and slid it back into my pocket, forcing myself to breathe.

“Get a grip,” I told myself aloud. “He’s just trying to get under your skin.”

And damn it—he was succeeding.

I glanced back at the closet one last time before turning away, my steps heavier as I headed upstairs. The room he’d designed for me felt different now, too. Less like a gift. More like a calculated move.

As I shut the door behind me, one thought looped relentlessly in my head:

Whatever game Tristain Darson was playing—

I’d already stepped onto the board.

I paced the length of the room, the plush rug muffling my steps while my thoughts ran wild. I dropped onto the edge of the bed, then stood again almost immediately, like the mattress itself was in on his little mind game. The pastel walls suddenly felt too soft, too intentional—every color choice another reminder that he knew me.

Or at least thought he did.

I yanked my phone back out and opened my messages, hovering over Jade’s name. My thumb hesitated.

If I told her, she’d either tell me I was overreacting… or validate every paranoid thought spiraling through my head. Neither option felt particularly grounding.

Instead, I locked the screen again and tossed the phone onto the bed like it had personally betrayed me.

“Predictable, but cute,” I muttered, mocking his words under my breath. “I’ll show you predictable.”

I crossed the room and pushed open the balcony doors, letting the warm afternoon air rush in. The iron railing was cool beneath my palms as I leaned forward, staring down at the manicured lawn below. From up here, the house looked peaceful. Normal. Like it didn’t belong to someone who apparently took joy in setting traps made of paper notes and smug text messages.

Somewhere beneath the irritation, something sharp and unwanted flickered.

Anticipation.

I hated that part the most.

I straightened, squaring my shoulders. Whatever Tristain thought he was doing—whatever control he believed he had—it wasn’t going to work on me. I wasn’t some pawn he could move around for entertainment. I’d survived eighteen years of expectations, obligations, and people trying to mold me into something convenient.

He wasn’t special.

I shut the balcony doors with more force than necessary and glanced at the clock. Still hours until dinner. Hours until he came back and acted like none of this rattled me.

Good.

Let him think he’d won this round.

By the time Tristain Darson walked back into his precious house, I’d be ready.

And next time he tried to play a game with me—

I wouldn’t just step onto the board.

I’d flip the whole damn thing over.

———————————————————————————————————————

I was curled into the corner of the pink plush sofa, knees tucked to my chest, the fluffiest white blanket I’d ever touched draped lazily over my shoulder and down my body. It swallowed my barely-there shorts and oversized T-shirt whole, cocooning me in warmth while the rest of the world faded into nothing but pages and ink.

Tragedies of True Hearts.

I bit my lip, failing to suppress a giggle as I read—the slow-burn enemies finally cracking, confessions spilling out after chapters of tension and denial. One reckless, emotional night where everything finally unraveled.

God, I loved reading.

A sudden throat clearing shattered the moment.

I jumped so hard my heart slammed into my ribs, eyes going wide as I whipped around—

Straight into Tristain. He still wore his black dress clothes, but the top three buttons were undone, exposing a thin silver chain that lay casually against his skin. Another thing that was begrudgingly attractive. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revaling ropes of veins that snaked all around his forearms. Fuck…

He was bent slightly over the back of the sofa, reading over my shoulder like he had every right to be there.

Way too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—clean, sharp, unfairly distracting.

Heat flooded my face instantly as I lurched backward.

“Holy fuck!” I shouted, clutching my chest. “Have you ever heard of personal space?”

Tristain straightened slowly, completely unbothered, lips twitching. “I have,” he said easily. “It just doesn’t apply to me.”

My glare snapped into place. “Well, it applies to me. Watch where your face goes.”

His smirk deepened, eyes flicking briefly to the book in my hands before meeting mine again. 

“I do, Frosty,” he said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been perfectly positioned for your little jumpscare.”

I narrowed my eyes, tightening my grip on the book.

Infuriating.

Absolutely, undeniably infuriating.

I scoffed and hugged the book tighter to my chest like it needed protecting—from him, from his stupid smirk, from the way his presence made the room feel smaller.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered.

“And yet,” Tristain replied, strolling around the sofa like a predator circling its meal, “you’re still sitting here instead of kicking me out.”

I shot him a look. “This is my room.”

He hummed thoughtfully, stopping near the edge of the rug.

“Temporary room,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

That did it. I jabbed a finger toward the door. “Knock next time. Or better yet—don’t come in at all.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest, completely at ease. “You giggled. I figured you were either dying or doing something interesting.”

My cheeks heated. “I was reading.”

His gaze dropped pointedly to the book cover, then back to my face. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“Don’t,” I warned.

“Don’t what?” he asked innocently.

“Comment on it. Judge it. Breathe near it.”

A low chuckle slipped out of him. “Enemies to lovers?” he guessed. “Classic.”

I stared at him. “You read?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” he said dryly. “And before you ask—no, not that genre.”

“Shocking,” I deadpanned. “You don’t strike me as the emotional vulnerability type.”

His eyes darkened just a fraction—so quick I almost missed it—before the smirk slid back into place. “You’d be surprised what I strike as.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt and flopped back against the sofa cushions. “Why are you even up here?”

He pushed off the wall. “Dinner’s in an hour. Thought I’d warn you before you got too comfortable.”

Too late.

I glanced down at the blanket, the sofa, the book still open to the page I’d been savoring. Then back up at him.

“You interrupted.”

“On purpose,” he admitted.

I groaned. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re entertained,” he shot back.

“I am not.”

His gaze flicked to the place where my fingers still marked my page. “You didn’t close the book.”

I opened my mouth to argue—then snapped it shut, scowling.

He grinned, victorious. “Enjoy your tragic love stories, Princess,” he said, backing toward the door. “Just remember—real ones are messier.”

Before I could respond, he stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I flopped back against the cushions with a frustrated huff, reopening my book—only to realize I’d completely lost my place.

“Infuriating,” I muttered.

And this time, there was no denying it.