MoboReader> Romance > Wildflower

   Chapter 10 Ten

Wildflower By Aubrey Wolfe Characters: 28307

Updated: 2019-11-21 13:01

Tristan remains quiet for several minutes, his body growing tense. I want to ask him what's wrong, but he seems so fragile at the moment, I'm afraid the smallest sound or movement will break him.

Instead, I lightly squeeze his arm where my hand is already place, reminding him that I'm here. It's the main reason I came over as soon as he asked, and I didn't turn down the offer my Uncle gave when he saw me rushing out the door. The faster I got here, the sooner I could comfort Tristan through whatever he tackled today.

My small gesture seems to snap him out of his trance enough to look down at me, the usual haunted look glazed over his eyes.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask gently.

He lets out a deep breath through his nose, staring down at his lap. I can see the thoughts flitter through his eyes.

"The man I once worked for, the one who put me behind bars..." he trailed off, giving me a side eye glance.

I encourage him to continue with a small smile.

"I learned today that he is possibly a blood relative of yours."

Now it's my turn to get lost in thought.

How is that possible? Is the world seriously that small?

No wonder Tristan looked so frightened when I told him my father's last name. To me, it means nothing other than I am the heiress to half the properties in town, but that isn't enough to really scare off anyone.

But Tristan looked like he was ready to bolt; and this is his house.

Now, I understand. My family is responsible for making his life a living hell, and tearing away his only childhood, turning him into the sheltered man he is now, instead of the bright, opened person I know he can be.

The guilt reels in my stomach and turns to bile in my throat.

What does he think of me now? He must hate me, and my family, even if it was just one relative who caused his pain, or several. If I had been put through a fraction of what it seems Tristan went through, I wouldn't care who in the family caused me that pain.

I'd want them all to suffer.

Including me.

"I don't blame you, Emily." His voice comes softly to me, like an answered prayer I didn't know I made. How is he always able to know what I'm thinking? Am I seriously that easy to read?

"How can you not? I always knew there was a dark past connected to my family, and my parents have always kept me from it, which explains why they never let me see old photos, see any relatives or ask any questions. When my Uncle stopped by today, it's the first I've seen him in five years, and I barely know anything about him, other than he is the closest relative to my father."

I'm getting nervous, which causes me to ramble.

Tristan sits in silence and listens intently, his face giving away nothing.

"Which, learning all of this, I really think I should start questioning my parents a little harder about the history of my family. It seems to be a lot darker than I have grown up to believe, and that freaks the hell out of me–"

"Emily, no offense, but please stop talking, " Tristan says, putting his hands firmly on my shoulders.

I take a deep breath, the warmth from his hands helping to calm my scrambled mind.

"I'm sorry, you're probably freaking out just as much, if not more." My rambling definitely isn't helping.

"I won't blame a group for the actions of one. I could never be vengeful towards you or anyone else in your family, because one of your relatives did me wrong. That doesn't defy who you are in the slightest, and it doesn't change how I feel towards you, " he says and lifts a hand to my cheek.

I lean into his palm as his reassuring words wash over me, banishing all my doubts and fears. I'm always fixated on how I can help take away his fears, I don't realize how much his touch does the same for me.

I feel his thumb brush over my bottom lip, igniting a small fire in my stomach. My eyes flash open to meet his heated gaze, solely fixed on my lips as he starts to trace their outline.

His thoughts, for once, are clearly displayed all over his face, the lust oozing through his deep brown eyes, adding fuel to the fire brewing in me.

Tristan leans in until I feel his warm breath fly across my face, but he stops.

I look up, questioning him with my eyes.

"I really want to kiss you right now, " he whispers.

I bite my lip, his eyes growing darker. "What's stopping you?"

"I know I won't stop at just that, and I'm afraid I won't let you leave."

"I don't see anything wrong with that." My voice comes out as breathless as I feel, imagining what it would be like to spend a day in Tristan's bed, wrapped in his arms and doing unspeakable things.

He shifts us so I'm straddling him on the couch, his hands trailing slowly up my sides. "You have classes tomorrow, and probably still have some homework and studying to do. I would hate to be a distraction to that, and make you miss your lectures."

I lean down and nip his earlobe. His hands stop their roaming and clutch the fabric of my shirt, prompting me to further my sudden bold teasing. I plant a small kiss on the base of his ear, then another on his neck, earning a low growl.

"Lucky for me, school is actually closer from here, and there is a bus stop right at the corner of your street, so I can easily make it on time for my 11 AM class tomorrow." I pull back to try and give him my best seductive look, hoping it doesn't look as lame as I feel my face does.

By the way his eyes glaze over, I say it's working.

"In that case–"

He wraps a hand behind my head and captures my lips in a heated kiss, that makes me feel like he has been holding a lot back by how hungry it is.

And I love it. I don't hold anything back, either, letting him know just how much I missed him as well. I don't think I've ever experienced this kind of need and want for someone, let alone at the same time.

These new feelings of borderline obsession I have for this man excite, and frighten me. If he were any other normal person, I probably wouldn't have any fear of falling for him.

But Tristan is anything close to normal. He's lived a horrid life, had many things taken from him, and missed out on many important life lessons and experiences. Though his intelligence and maturity excel even his real age, there are some large parts of him that are still that young, frightened 14-year-old boy.

That makes me want to both protect him, and run from him. I can barely manage my unstable ass; am I able to help someone as unstable as Tristan?

I feel his hand slide down my back and cover my butt cheek, giving it a light squeeze. I yelped into his mouth; my doubts banished from my mind.

Before I know what's happening, I'm in the air, still clinging to Tristan by the hip and mouth, as he moves us to the bedroom. I fall on the mattress with a light bounce, a giggle escaping my lips. I haven't giggled since I was a little girl, but I also haven't felt this care-free since, either.

His mouth is back on mine in an instant, his hands roaming my body like he's trying to find some hidden treasure. My hips lift as I squirm under his heated touch, feeling the solid lump protruding through his jeans.

I pull away and smile shyly up at him, my cheeks heating at the lustful gaze in his eyes. We have already gone through the awkwardness of the 'first time', but for some reason I'm still nervous as hell.

Tristan has that effect on me. One minute, he can make me feel like I'm on cloud nine, and then within seconds he can turn me into a shaking ball of nerves with one look.

And then, in another turn of a second, he sets my body on fire and clears my nerves as his hand travels under my shirt. He softly caresses the skin below my belly button, his lips continuing to do other mind-blowing things to me.

His hands travel up my stomach, taking my shirt with it and setting everywhere he touches ablaze – god damn!

The shrill sound of my ringtone breaks us apart. "Do you need to get that?" Tristan asks, pointing to my behind where the sound is coming from.

I roll my eyes but pull out my phone and see Mom flashing.

"Unfortunately, yes." I let out a groan and lift the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Emily, where are you?" my mother's slightly panicked voice comes through. I lightly push Tristan off and sit up, my heart picking up.

"What's wrong?"

I can already see the nervous smile on her face. "Nothing is wrong, not anything too serious. Is there a chance you could come home?

on never dies. She has told me stories of how she started off drawing cartoon characters from her favorite comics and TV shows.

When she was showing me a few of her old sketchbooks from when she was a teenager, she stumbled upon drawings of what looked like a young version of my father, sketched in many different ways and areas. After she flipped to the first one, she tried rushing to the next, but it was another one of my father, and she had no choice but to admit to her shame.

She used to sketch my father in secret, especially when they spent time in the garden together. I loved seeing how much my parents are in love, from when they met to now. I only hope to find that kind of connection with someone.

I'm still unsure if I've found it with Tristan. I've barely known him, and it seems there is still a lot of stuff to uncover about him; and myself.

That thought brings me back to the reason I'm lingering outside my mother's study, listening to the soft classical music floating through the large wood door.

I lift my hand and knock, the sound echoing through the hall, emphasizing my hesitation and nervousness for what my mother has to say. It's very rare that she asks to speak in her study, she only ever does it when she has bad news to deliver, like a relative has passed away. She likes to paint while she speaks, it helps her calm herself while she delivers whatever bad news.

"How was your talk with Everett?" she asks, not taking her focus off the canvas.

I wander over to a lounge chair in the corner and slump into it, feeling defeated and deflated.

"It went about as well as it could have gone. He apologized for betraying me and in a way, explained why he felt he acted the way he did, and we decided in the end to remain good friends."

This catches my mother's attention. "You aren't getting back together?"

"Why in the world would I get back together with him? I thought it was made clear today that I have moved on."

She frowns, her fingers playing with the paintbrush in her hands, still wet with the mix of white and blue. I can feel her nervous energy from the other side of the room, making me twice as nervous for what she called me here for.

"Mother, what is it you wanted to talk about?" I ask hesitantly, sitting up properly, trying my best not to squirm.

"The man I saw today, he is the one you've been speaking of? Tristan, if I remember correctly."

I nod, my nerves turning to confusion at the mention of him. "Yes, his name is Tristan, he's the friend of Parker's I've mentioned, the one who works at his club downtown."

She nods and her lips form a hard line, and she turns back towards the canvas, but motions to the chair off to the side of her.

I walk over slowly and sit down facing her, my eyes wide with curiosity and a bit of confusion. My mother has rarely acted this way, I can't really recall the last time I felt this amount of nervous energy emanating off her.

The last time I can remember clearly, was when I was a little girl, and my father had first entered my life. I don't remember too many memories from those ages, but this one is stark in my mind. My father knelt before me in a house I can't remember, and I questioned him if he is my father.

My mother had stood behind us, wringing her wrists, the same amount of hectic, nervous waves flooding off of her like now.

She takes a moment before turning to me, gathering her thoughts.

"There is something I need to tell you, that I only just discovered today. It is something that happened to me in the past, when you were maybe just entering your teen years. It was never something that mattered greatly, at least not to you, so it was never mentioned. But now, I realize it might matter a lot, and could come back to bite me if I don't confess to it now."

Though she seems much calmer and more composed, her words leave me even more confused and frightened then before.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She puts her paintbrush down and finally turns to me, placing her hands in her lap, but her fingers fluttered nervously around each other.

"You may remember when your father and I had to change banks, but not the reason why. Long story short, there was a robbery at the bank one day, something at the time that was thought to be unheard of, it was the biggest bank in New York. What I want to tell you, is that I was there the day of the robbery, and I assisted in capturing the man behind it all, or I might have assumed, because now I'm not sure."

My mind is spinning now. Is my mother seriously saying she was involved in a bank robbery? I'm imagining the kind of bank robberies you see in the movies, with elaborate planning, blueprints and automatic weapons.

Clearly, nothing terrible happened to her, or I would have at least been told about that, so I don't question her on what happened.

"Why do you think you might have caught the wrong guy?" I ask instead, that question sticking out the most in my head.

I see a flash of panic cross over her face.

"Because I saw that man today, and apparently already know quite a bit about him, that is telling me he isn't the person I might have helped put behind bars."

She stops and gives me a knowing look. It makes my heart start to pound in my chest, my blood roaring in my ears, deafening out any other sounds around me.

I already know the answer, but I ask the question anyway.

"Who is the man you saw, mother? Who did you help arrest?"

Her head hung low, she whispers, "the man I helped catch and arrest that day was a young teenager, by the name of Tristan Burke."

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