Page 69 of The Enemy's Daughter

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It’s only right that he learns how his father died. He deserves to know the truth.

But it means revealing the role I played. My hands turn damp as I wish for a minute to think this through. “Can we go somewhere?”

“Where do you want to go?” he asks.

I glance around. We’re right outside my bedroom door. Across the hall is where he’s been sleeping.

“Come on. I have an idea.” Tristan stands and pulls me up, then leads me downstairs. He grabs a dark burgundy blanket as we pass through the living room, then continues through the kitchen, into the pantry, and out a back door.

Two yellow couches and three padded chairs are arranged in a circle around a firepit. Intricate patterns of brick lie beneath our feet. The area is somewhat secluded, surrounded by rosebushes and oak trees, and farther back, a simple wooden fence. A horse whinnies from near the barn.

“It’s beautiful here.”

“This was my mum’s favorite place for reading. Enola likes tokeep it nice. Maybe I should come out here more.” He sniffs, looking around. Then he wraps my shoulders with the blanket, his hands lingering.

So much between us has changed in the last hour. My whole world has shifted, and now touching each other feels like the most natural thing. But everything could shift again with what I need to show him. I spin in his arms, unable to meet his eyes.

“Don’t be nervous.” His lips brush my forehead in a kiss.

“Quit reading my emotions.”

He laughs. “As if I have a choice.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

His handsome face loses his teasing grin. “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m not so sure of that. I only hope he’ll forgive me. “This is about your father, and I’m sorry, but it isn’t going to be pleasant.”

His brows furrow as I concentrate on reliving the memory.

A horse trots out of the darkness. There’s something—someone—strapped to the horse’s back behind the rider.

An ax of grief lands square in Tristan’s rib cage, and he tenses. I wick his pain away, taking it on as my own.

“Do you want to stop?” I ask. “Or sit?” I gently tug him toward the couch, but Tristan doesn’t move.

“No, keep going.” His face turns desperate. “Please,” he adds, much softer.

I swallow hard and pick up the memory with Liam’s face coming into view.

Anger, deep and black, radiates from Tristan. “Is that the guy who found us in the forest?” His eyes blaze, then he releases a string of curses. “I had him. I could have—”

I clench his arm tighter. “Tristan. Keep watching.”

A mix of uncertainty and rage flows from him and into me.

“Trust me,” I say.

He reluctantly obeys.

“Crank the siren,” Father says to Denver gruffly, then he raises his voice to the dozen or so neighbors who have gathered, awaiting news. “Our tormentors have been defeated. The contest has a champion.”

Tristan lets out a huff. “Tormentors!I knew it was organized, but a contest? A fucking game?”

I flinch, wishing I didn’t have to say it. “Yes, and I was the prize.”

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