Page 32 of Dylan's Dad
I nod again. "I left Dylan the next morning. And not on good terms."
Tristan tilts his head. "Meaning?"
"Meaning he beat the hell out of me to the point of knocking me unconscious, I left when I woke up," I say flatly. "That’s the blood you found."
His gaze flicks over me, as if searching for any lingering signs of it. Too late. The bruises have faded, but I know he’s picturing them anyway.
"You didn’t report it?"
I huff out a humorless laugh. "No."
"And you haven’t seen him since?"
"No."
Tristan doesn’t look convinced. "You expect me to believe that he just let you go? No attempts to find you? No threats? Nothing?"
I shrug. "Maybe he realized I wasn’t worth the effort."
"That doesn’t sound like the guy whose house looked like a war zone."
I keep my expression blank. "I don’t know what to tell you."
Tristan exhales, rubbing his jaw. "Your phone. You haven’t heard from him on that?"
I shake my head. "I left it at the house when I ran. If he tried to call me, I wouldn’t know."
That gives him pause. He was waiting for me to slip, but I didn’t. Because it’s not a lie.
Reaper moves slightly, positioning himself just enough to remind Tristan whose side he’s on. Protective. Unyielding.
Tristan’s eyes flick over me, taking in the way Reaper’s flannel hangs off my frame, barely covering what needs covering. His expression doesn’t change much, but I see the way his jaw ticks. He shifts his attention to Reaper, studying the way he stands close, the way his hand rests possessively on my waist.
"So, you two seem awfully cozy. What’s going on with you two?" Tristan asks, his tone sharp, like he’s already got his suspicions but wants to hear Reaper say it.
Reaper doesn’t hesitate. "It’s exactly what it looks like."
Tristan exhales slowly, nodding like he expected that answer. "Didn’t take you for the type to get involved with your son’s—" He stops himself, but the implication lingers.
Reaper’s grip on me tightens slightly, his body coiling like a predator ready to strike. "Careful," he warns, voice low and steady.
Tristan ignores Reaper’s warning, turning his attention to me. His stare is sharp, cutting straight to the point. "So, how do you go from Dylan to his dad?"
The bluntness of it doesn’t rattle me, but I can feel the way Reaper tenses beside me. Tristan isn’t satisfied with silence, though—he tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "You were with Dylan. Living with him. Now you’re here, wearing his father’s shirt. That’s a hell of a jump, don’t you think? How does that happen?"
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "It happens when the person you thought you loved turns into a monster. When he hurts you. And when someone else is there to show you what love is supposed to be."
Tristan watches me closely, like he’s waiting for some hesitation, some flicker of doubt. But I don’t give him one.
His gaze shifts back to Reaper. "And you? This serious?"
Reaper’s fingers press into my hip, his grip grounding, certain. "I love her." The words are simple, but there’s a weight behind them that leaves no room for doubt.
Tristan’s eyebrows lift just slightly, like maybe he wasn’t expecting that kind of honesty. "Love, huh?"
"Yeah," Reaper says, firm. "She’s mine."
Tristan exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Hell of a situation you’ve got yourself in, Reaper. Can’t imagine Dylan would take this well."
