Chapter Six: Tristain

I worked the kitchen with mechanical ease, a dish towel slung loosely over my shoulder as I flipped the chicken in the pan, the oil snapping beneath the spatula. With my other hand, I stirred the pot of spaghetti, steam curling upward in slow, lazy spirals. The room smelled like garlic and heat—too warm, too domestic.

Soft footsteps sounded behind me.

“Look who finally crawled out of her fantasy world,” I said, not bothering to turn, a faint smirk edging into my voice.

“Shut the hell up,” Ally snapped.

I glanced over my shoulder. Her red hair was a mess of careless waves, her cheeks flushed like she’d been wound just a little too tight, and her emerald eyes sparked with irritation. She crossed the room and dropped into a chair, thumbs already flying over her phone screen.

“Screenager,” I muttered, shaking my head as I turned back to the stove.

I felt her glare like a physical thing pressing between my shoulder blades.

“The fuck did you just say?” she demanded.

I bit the inside of my cheek, suppressing a smile. Getting under her skin was far too easy. “I called you a screenager. You do know what that is, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good,” I said mildly. “Because you’re a textbook example.”

“I am not!”

I rolled my eyes and shut off the burner, sliding the chicken onto a plate. “You’ve been glued to that phone since you showed up. And let’s not pretend you didn’t lose your mind when your charger went missing.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t define me.”

“It absolutely does.”

I drained the spaghetti into a colander, the rush of water filling the brief silence. When I turned around and crossed my arms, my shirt pulled taut across my broad shoulders—something I barely registered anymore.

Until I noticed her.

Bare legs tucked beneath the chair. An oversized T-shirt hanging loose and careless, like she hadn’t bothered armoring herself today.

I looked away immediately.

Focus.

I cleared my throat and dragged my palm across my face, fighting back a disgusting erection, before stirring the marinara sauce in the crock-pot. It didn’t need stirring. But I needed something to take my mind off of the fucking distraction that sat right in my dining room.

“What are you making?” Ally asked as she stood and wandered closer, her voice echoing faintly in the open space.

Too close.

The faint scent of cherry and lavender followed her, subtle but distracting. How many fucking shampoo scents did one girl need? I towered over her easily, her head barely brushing my shoulder, yet the proximity made the room feel tighter—charged.

“Spaghetti and chicken,” I replied, my voice lower than intended.

I cleared my throat.

She peered into the pot. “Looks ready.”

I blinked, realizing my grip on the ladle had tightened. “Yeah.”

I stepped around her to grab plates, my arm brushing hers in passing—brief, accidental, and entirely unwelcome. I served her a portion without meeting her eyes.

“Add whatever sauce and chicken you want,” I said evenly.

She snatched the plate with a glare. “Just because you cooked doesn’t mean I like you.”

A quiet laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you did.”

I plated my own food and sat across from her.

“So,” I said casually, twirling pasta onto my fork, “get bored while I was gone?”

She stabbed a piece of chicken like it had personally offended her. “It was better without you here.”

I chuckled under my breath. “I find that very hard to believe, Frosty.”

Her gaze snapped up, sharp and cold. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

I smiled into my food.

Silence settled between us, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint scrape of forks against ceramic. Ally ate with sharp, deliberate movements, like every bite was an act of defiance. I watched her for half a second longer than necessary before looking back down at my plate.

“You always this pleasant at dinner?” I asked casually.

She didn’t look up. “Only when I’m forced to eat with people I can’t stand.”

“Lucky me,” I said dryly. “I’ll treasure the experience.”

Her lips twitched—just barely—before she caught herself and pressed them into a firm line. I noticed anyway.

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “So,” she said, tone suspiciously neutral, “what exactly do you do all day when you’re not stealing chargers and being insufferable?”

I raised a brow. “That’s a full-time job, actually.”

She snorted despite herself, then scowled when she realized she’d done it. “I’m serious.”

I leaned back in my chair slightly, considering her. “Meetings. Design work. Trying to keep the Darson name from imploding.”

“Sounds exhausting,” she muttered.

“It is,” I admitted. “You get used to it.”

She picked at her food, quieter now. The fire was still there—always was—but something else flickered beneath it. Curiosity. Reluctant interest. She hated that almost as much as she hated me.

“And you?” I asked. “Other than reading dramatic novels and pretending you don’t enjoy being antagonized.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t enjoy it.”

I smirked. “You came down here, didn’t you?”

She froze, then glared at me like she might actually throw her fork. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied smoothly.

For a moment, we just looked at each other—too long, too quiet. The air shifted, charged in a way neither of us acknowledged.

She broke eye contact first, standing abruptly. “I’m done.”

She grabbed her plate and stalked toward the sink.

I watched her go, then said lightly, “You know, for someone who claims to despise me, you sure don’t avoid me very well.”

She paused, shoulders stiffening.

Without turning around, she said, “Don’t get it twisted. I’m not here because I want to be.”

I stood slowly, pushing my chair back. “Funny,” I said. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She turned then, eyes flashing. “You don’t know anything about me.”

I met her gaze, expression unreadable. “You’re right.”

A beat.

“But I’m learning.”

Her breath hitched—just barely—and she turned away again, heading for the stairs without another word.

I watched until she disappeared from view.

Then, quietly, to the empty room, I muttered, “This is going to be a problem.”

My thoughts barely had time to settle before a low ding vibrated from my pocket, sharp and unwelcome. I pulled my phone free, already irritated—only to freeze when I saw the name glowing on the screen.

Of all people.

At eight on a Friday night.

Tobias.

Tobias: Hey, bro. How’s it going? Heard you’re in quite the predicament.

A scowl carved itself into my expression. Of course he knew. James had an almost predatory instinct for chaos—always circling the moment there was blood in the water.

Me: What the hell are you texting me for this time?

The response came almost instantly.

Tobias: Aw, is that any way to talk to your big brother?

My jaw tightened. Heat flared in my chest. I despised when he called himself that.

Me: By two fucking minutes. That’s it.

A pause—brief, deliberate. Then:

Tobias: Still counts. Every second matters. Anyway, I heard you’re housing a guest. I’d love to meet her. How come you’ve never invited me over to meet the little morsel? I’m wounded.

My grip tightened around the phone until the edge bit into my palm. There it was—the real reason. He never did anything without an angle.

Me: Because you have no business meeting her. She’s the worst person I’ve ever encountered. How the hell did you even find out about her?

A lie. Or at least not the whole truth.

His reply came slower this time, as if he were savoring the moment.

Tobias: Mother dearest blessed me with that information. But you always say that about the ones who get under your skin. Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy a girl who fights back, T. You and I both know you live for the chase.

My thumb hovered over the screen, pulse ticking hard in my throat.

Even if we were literal twins, I hated how well he knew me.

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

The study was the quietest room in the house—intentionally so.

I sat behind the desk the next day with my sleeves rolled to my forearms, laptop open, a legal pad filled with tight, precise handwriting beside it. Numbers stared back at me from the screen. Projections. Percentages. The future, reduced to columns and margins. Normally, this was where my head cleared. Where control came easy.

Tonight, it didn’t.

I leaned back in the chair and exhaled slowly, rubbing my thumb against the edge of the paper. Voices drifted faintly through the walls—muffled movement from the other side of the house. Cabinets. Footsteps. The unmistakable presence of someone who didn’t belong here but had somehow embedded herself into the rhythm of the place anyway.

It’s only temporary, I reminded myself.

I adjusted my watch and glanced at the framed photo sitting on the far corner of the desk. Old. Corporate gala. My father, younger than I remembered him ever being, his hand resting on my shoulder like a claim. Legacy. Expectation. Obligation.

The door across the room creaked.

I didn’t look up right away.

“Thought you said you were busy,” Ally’s voice cut in, sharper than the hinge that had announced her.

“I am,” I replied calmly, eyes still on the screen in front of me.

She hovered in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, arms crossed, posture defensive like she expected the room itself to bite back. She scanned the shelves—rows of books, awards, contracts in neat binders. Her gaze lingered on the desk, the laptop, the sheer order of it all.

“Figures,” she muttered. “You hide in here.”

I finally lifted my eyes to her. “Someone has to keep this place running.”

She scoffed and leaned against the doorframe. “You mean controlling.”

A corner of my mouth twitched. “You mean competent.”

Silence stretched between us, thick but not uncomfortable—just loaded. She shifted her weight, clearly unsure why she’d come in here in the first place.

“Well,” she said finally, straightening. “Dinner smells… fine.”

High praise. I shut the laptop with a quiet click and stood, moving around the desk. “Careful. That almost sounded like gratitude.”

“Don’t push it,” she shot back, though there was less bite in it than usual.

As she turned to leave, I spoke again—lower this time. “Ally.”

She paused, hand on the knob.

“For what it’s worth,” I said evenly, “you don’t have to wander this house like you’re trespassing.”

She didn’t turn around. “Feels like I am.”

The door closed behind her before I could respond.

I stood there for a long moment afterward, staring at the space she’d occupied—at the disruption she’d brought with her—and wondered, not for the first time, how something temporary could already feel so dangerously permanent.

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my temples before saving my progress and shutting the laptop with a quiet click. Rising from the chair, I stretched my arms overhead, a low grunt slipping out as the stiffness worked its way free. I adjusted my watch out of habit and stepped around the desk, heading into the hall.

The scent hit me almost immediately—warm, rich, unmistakable. Whatever I’d left in the oven had finished, and the smell followed me down the corridor, growing heavier with every step toward the kitchen.

Ally was already there.

She stood in front of the open oven, tugging the roast free with careful determination, her smaller hands straining slightly around the pan even through the thick oven mitts. I paused just inside the doorway, leaning back against the counter, arms folding loosely as I watched her with quiet, unguarded interest.

“Well,” I drawled, a hint of amusement threading through my voice, “didn’t peg you as the domestic type.”

She shot me a glare over her shoulder. “I know how to take something out of a damn oven.”

A low chuckle escaped me before I could stop it. “Good to know. I would've hated to lose the kitchen on day one.”

Her eyes narrowed, but there was something else there too—focus, competence, maybe even a flicker of pride she didn’t want me to see. And for reasons I didn’t care to unpack, that alone made the moment linger longer than it should have.

She set the pan down with a soft clatter, peeling the mitts off and dropping them onto the counter like a challenge. Heat flushed her cheeks—not embarrassment, I realized, but effort. She’d done that herself, and she knew it.

I straightened slightly. “Careful,” I said, nodding toward the counter. “That thing’s hotter than it looks.”

She scoffed, grabbing a knife from the block. “I think I can handle it.”

“Funny,” I replied. “You say that a lot.”

Her hand paused mid-motion. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to mine, eyes sharp and unamused.

“Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

“Occasionally,” I admitted. “But then you react like that, and it feels worth it.”

She shook her head, turning back to the roast, slicing into it with more force than necessary. The knife glided cleanly through, steam rising as the rich aroma filled the space between us. For a second, the kitchen felt smaller—too quiet, too close.

“You’re hovering,” she muttered.

“Observing,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”

She shot me a sideways look. “Then observe from farther away.”

I pushed off the counter anyway, crossing the kitchen to grab plates from the cabinet. “Relax. If I wanted to interfere, I would’ve already.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

She huffed but didn’t argue, and for a moment we worked in parallel silence—her plating the roast, me setting the table. It wasn’t peaceful, exactly, but it was…functional. Unexpectedly so.

When she slid a plate toward me, our fingers brushed—barely. She pulled back immediately, jaw tightening, as if annoyed at herself more than me.

“There,” she said flatly. “Dinner’s ready.”

I glanced down at the plate, then back up at her. “Looks like you didn’t burn the house down after all.”

She rolled her eyes, the motion sharp enough to qualify as a warning. “I know my way around a kitchen, asshole.”

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, swallowing the remark that would’ve guaranteed me a ride to the nearest emergency room. Instead, I reached for a plate and carved myself a generous portion of roast, letting the knife do the talking for me.

When we sat, the quiet settled in thick and oppressive, the kind that buzzed in my skull. My brain itched for noise—anything to break it. I cleared my throat and glanced up at her as I took a bite.

“So,” I said casually, “how was your day?”

Her gaze snapped to me, unimpressed. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

I let out a sharp laugh and nearly paid for it, coughing once before forcing the bite down.

“Darling,” I said once I could breathe again, “I only asked a question.”

“Yeah,” she shot back, “while half your dinner was threatening to escape your mouth.” She took a careful bite of her own food—small, restrained. It made no sense how someone that defiant could eat like a bird.

I set my fork down deliberately, lacing my fingers together and resting my chin on top of them, elbows planted on the table. I studied her for a beat before speaking again.

“Why do you hate me so much, Frosty?”

Her reaction was instant. Her jaw locked, tension pulling tight across her face. “That,” she said coldly, “right there.”

I cocked my head, feigning innocence. “My voice?”

“When it’s aimed at me, yes. And your idiotic nicknames.”

A slow grin tugged at my mouth—lazy, provoking. “You don’t like Frosty?” I hummed, tapping a finger against my knuckles. “Alright then. What about—Princess?”

Her fork clinked sharply against the plate. She looked at me like she wanted to peel me apart molecule by molecule. “None of them,” she snapped, her stare sharp enough to leave wounds.

And damn if I didn’t feel every inch of it.

I hummed under my breath, the sound slow and contemplative, as an idea snapped into place like a match struck in the dark. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was already on my feet.

Her chair scraped softly as I stepped into her space.

I braced one hand on the armrest, the other gripping the back of the chair, boxing her in completely. There was nowhere for her to retreat—only forward, and that option vanished the second her eyes flew open.

Her breath caught.

For a split second, she looked frozen—like a deer pinned by headlights—before defiance flickered back to life behind her widened gaze. I leaned closer, close enough that the air between us felt thin, charged, brittle.

“So,” I said quietly, my voice dropping into something rougher, more deliberate, “what do you like to be called, Ally?”

I tilted my head, studying her the way one might examine a puzzle they already knew the solution to.

“Because,” I continued, softer now, almost conversational, “I can think of a few names that would fit you perfectly.”

Her chest rose and fell faster than before, breath shallow, uneven. The silence stretched tight between us, humming with something unnamed—something dangerous. Not touch. Not yet.

Just presence.

Just pressure.

Fuck—I could practically taste her arousal from across the room.

I’d torn through a good chunk of the book she’d been reading the other night. Tragedies of True Hearts. Filthy. Twisted. The kind of story people pretended to hate while secretly devouring every page. A girl caught between a stalker and his brother—meant to choose, only to be claimed by both instead.

I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t gotten to me. It had. Hard. There was something wrong about it, something deliciously unhinged. And Ally loved it. I knew she did—her pulse racing, her breath shallow, her body giving her away long before her lips ever would.

What I’d just done to her? It was ripped straight from those pages.

And she’d lived it.

But that was only the beginning. There was so much more in that book—scenes I was already aching to rewrite with her body, her reactions, her quiet little gasps. I wanted to mold her want, test her limits, see how far she’d let herself fall when she knew I was there to catch her… or push her further.

I didn’t just want her to give in.

I wanted her to choose it.

And the things I was willing to do to make that happen?

They might ruin us both—and I’d burn happily for it.