“Hey, don’t blame yourself for trying to be happy for once.”
“Happy?” A mocking laugh chokes and dies on my lips. “Happy feels like stealing, like taking something that was never meant for hands like mine, calloused from holding onto people who take and cut and ruin.
“Happiness is a borrowed dress, always belonging to someone else. My parents taught me that joy was selfish, a luxury I hadn’t earned through enough suffering. So when it comes—that fleeting, golden thing—I hold it like a soap bubble, knowing that even my breath might be too rough, too desperate, too much. Happiness for me is like trying to hold water in cupped hands while walking across broken glass. Every step forward costs me something, and by the time I reach safe ground, my palms are empty, stained only with the memory of what might have but never has been.”
“Birdie, I’m so sorry. I thought I was doing something nice. I didn’t know it’d ruin everything.”
“You were trying, just like I was. Maybe trying is what happiness is. Maybe the moments when we forget to brace for impact, when we let our guard down just enough to feel the sun on our faces without fear, those seconds of forgetting we’re not supposed to have this, are the only brand we’re allowed.”
“No.” He shakes his hand sharply. “We deserve more than that. You deserve more than that.”
Do I? I walk to the bathroom to get the rest of my stuff. Tristan is right about one thing, though. I shouldn’t blame myself for trying to be happy for once. I should blame myself for believing I didn’t deserve to try every single day.
When I return to the room, Tristan is holding my phone. “Where should I tell Blake to meet?”
A deep breath fills my chest. “Home.”
His head shoots up. “You’re not setting foot in your house until I capture the stalker, and Abel isn’t stupid. He’s got ties to the police and must know by now he’s the prime suspect in your assistant’s murder. He will never return to the island willingly. He’ll see this is a trap, which will escalate the situation, not defuse it.”
“Then you choose. It’s a five-hour drive from here to Miami. Any town in between will suffice.”
“Miami?!”
I busy myself with finishing packing. I’m not ready to have the same argument again.
Tristan grabs my wrist away from the suitcase and slams it shut. “You’re sure as hell not offering yourself as bait. We’re not going to Miami.”
“Get your hands off—”
“No.” His grip tightens, not painful but unyielding. “You want to run straight into the arms of the psychopath that stars in your wet dreams? The piece of shit who has been pretending to be a good cop to get close to you, to get you to trust and fall for him so when you find out the truth you’ll be too far gone to be saved?” His face is inches from mine now, eyes blazing. “Not happening.”
“Jacob is not Butterfly Man, Tristan. You’re blinded by jealousy and it’s going to cost me everything.” I yank my hand out of his. “And for the record, who I decide to trust or fall foror FUCK is none of your business. You don’t get to make that choice for me or any other choices. You can’t stop me from going to Miami.”
He steps forward, backing me against the bathroom door until I’m trapped between his body and the wood. His hands brace against the wall on either side of me. His chest rises and falls heavily, so close I can feel the heat radiating from him. The air between us crackles when his eyes burn into mine and he growls, “Watch me.”
When his voice drops into that low, dangerous grumble, when his gaze pins me like he’s staking a claim he hasn’t earned yet, my breath stutters. My chest brushes his with every sharp I inhale. “You want to control me, Tristan? You want to tell me where I can go, who I can see, who I can fuck?”
His jaw ticks. His breath scorches my cheek.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Locking me down, never letting anyone else so much as breathe my name.”
He smirks. “Nice try, but your mind games won’t work today, Birdie. No amount of guilt, shame, doubt or uncharacteristic weakness will make me cave. I’m not jeopardizing your safety, no matter what you say.”
Damn.
His eyes dip to my mouth, and for a second, I swear he’ll kiss me. My pulse slams in my ears. My hands curl into fists at my sides—not to shove him away, but to stop myself from pulling him closer. Tristan Morra is the only man who can make my fury feel indistinguishable from desire.
Instead, he says, “Why didn’t you tell me about your beef with the MC before?”
“I thought it was inferred. I told you about Shane, about us leaving. You heard he was shunned. I mean, you ride a bike, you read my books. I thought you knew how it was in motorcycle clubs. Their code, their rules.”
“Who’s Mason?”
My heart lurches, tripping over itself. I school my features into confusion, tilting my head as if I’ve never heard the name in my life. “Mason?” I echo, soft, feigned bewilderment.
With unnerving precision, he studies me, peeling back my skin to find the lie underneath. “The biker woman, she said she was sorry to hear about what happened. She mentioned your mother, Shane and Mason.”
“I don’t know any Masons. Maybe he’s a guy in their club, and something bad happened to him, too. It’s a one-percenter MC. A lot of bad things happen in those.”