Page 120 of Burdened Bonds
I look at his face, wondering how dangerous this is, if any minute the drug might take a hold of him and he might attack me, kill me.
“You’re not going to hurt me, Tristan,” I whisper to him. “You’re my fated mate. We’re meant to be together.”
His face contorts. “P-p-piglet.”
I frown. That isn’t exactly my favorite term of endearment, but we’ll deal with that later – as well as everything else. Like his engagement to Summer Clutton-Brock.
Right now, releasing my hands so I can use my magic is the priority.
“You need to release my hands.” Inhaling, I turn around and pray whatever feelings he has for me are more powerful than the effects of the drug his father has pumped through his veins. And I realize as I wait with bated breath that I want those feelings to be real. I want what he told me about caring about me to be true. And not because I want him to release me, but because my own feelings for him have grown too.
I don’t hate Tristan Kennedy like I used to. Maybe I never have.
His cold fingertips touch my wrists, trembling against my skin. He whispers words in a strangled voice. Then he presses the catch on the cuffs and they spring open.
I gasp in relief as immediately my hands spark with magic and it flows through my body freely again.
I turn slowly back around to face Tristan.
He’s pressed against the wall again, and his body jolts like he’s possessed, like there’s another person inside him struggling to break free.
He groans, his fingernails scraping at the wall, his face contorted. Then suddenly his body jerks rigid, his eyes snap open and he glares at me with a hatred. He draws himself up to his full height and takes a menacing step towards me.
“No,” I say firmly, lifting my right arm in front of me.
He snarls at me, reminding me more of the werebeast than a human, and takes another step forward.
“Tristan, it’s me, Rhianna,” I swallow, “Piglet,” I say, that name tasting bad in my mouth.
He swipes for me, but I duck. He growls and lunges for me this time, trying to grab at me. I slip away and land my palm firmly on his chest, right above his beating heart.
At my touch, he freezes, and his body convulses all over again, like he’s fighting to regain control.
“No,” I repeat, and with my magic, I search for the drug in his blood. I find it rancid and evil, careening, lingering in his blood. It hisses at me, and a shock spins up my arm. I grit my teeth and chase the drug as Tristan’s body shakes beneath my hand, his heart pounding against my palm.
“Come on,” I grit out between my teeth, pushing my magic to race harder, until finally I grab a hold of that drug. Itstruggles in my magic’s grip, stinging and scraping at me. I don’t let go. I yank at it, trying to pull it from his body. It fights me, struggling back, burning me so violently I let out a cry.
“Rhi,” Tristan murmurs.
“You need to help me,” I pant. “Tristan, you need to help me.”
His hand lands flat against mine, warm now, the feel of his skin electric in an altogether different way.
Together we tug at the drug, pulling and pulling together until finally we wrench it clean from his body and the liquid splatters against the floorboards, a neon green. It smolders on the floor, smoking and sizzling, until eventually it sinks away into the wood.
Tristan slumps against me, his head falls forward, and he gasps, his shoulders heaving as he catches his breath.
“Is it gone?” I whisper. “Is it all gone?”
He lifts his head, his damp golden hair falling back around his face, his emerald-green eyes now vivid and clear.
“It’s gone,” he whispers.
I let out a sigh of relief, unable to drag my gaze from his eyes. They are no longer overflowing with hatred, now they are brimming with heat.
I go to withdraw my hand from his chest, but he holds it firmly in place, pressing it right against his frantic heart.
“Piglet,” he says and I scowl at him. He frowns too. “I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry.”
