Page 60 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
His mouth clamped shut around whatever he had been about to say. It was time for Christine to wield her own weaponry.
“Yes? Deserves you were about to say? Deserves what, exactly?”
“Justice,” Tristan said, finally.
“In court before a judge and a jury. Not summarily at the hands of a man who feels he has been wronged.”
“I have! My family has!” Tristan barked.
“And yet you are not destitute? You dress well, have property, horses, and carriages. You are still wealthy.”
Tristan laughed bitterly. “Easy to say when you have never had these things.”
“Yes. Perhaps I can see how meaningless such things are when I have been deprived of them. Perhaps I value other things more, and perhaps you would do well to learn from my example.”
“My family lost more than coin!” Tristan roared, “Do not dare trivialize what your brother did to us!”
Christine saw the savage anger in his face, felt the rawness of the wound. This was not just about a rich man who had lost some of his wealth but could spare it. Not just the wounded pride of a wealthy aristocrat who felt himself duped. She frowned, wiping water from her face again.
“I will not,” she said, calmly, “I would not where genuine loss has been suffered. I lost my father. Charles’ actions led to his death. His heart broke from the strain of the dishonor he felt.”
She felt tears pricking at her eyes and hoped the rain would disguise them. She could do nothing about the catch in her voice, though. The trembling that ran through her words, especially the wordfather,was a betrayal of her emotions.
Tristan stared at her, breathing hard, face tight with cruel anger. The wolf at bay. He stepped closer and took her hands. His grip was gentle, as tender as though he thought her made of flower petals.
“I lost the man who was a father to me. The man who stepped into my true father’s shoes and…excelled. He lost most of the Duskwood fortune to Charles’ schemes. The guilt consumed him.”
Tristan removed his hand from hers and held it up. She looked at the bisecting scar. She ran her fingers down it.
“I lied. I did not receive this burn as a child on a swing. I…” He trailed off. Christine saw his throat flex as he swallowed. “I had to tend to my uncle after his death. There was a rope and…” He cut himself off abruptly and looked away.
“Then why did you lie. There has been so much suspicion and distrust in my life; why add to it? Particularly when you have wished to earn my trust?” Christine asked.
Tristan rubbed his palm and scowled. “Forgive me for not making you the center of my world, even when I barely knew you.”
“You knew me well enough to wish to marry me,” Christine replied, “to force me to marry you.”
“I forced nothing. You agreed. I merely suggested what was in your best interests,” Tristan retorted.
Christine laughed bitterly. “You discovered my name and bent your will to molding me to yours.”
“You had and have agency,” Tristan snapped, “if you choose not to exercise it, that is not my fault.”
“I have exercised agency in the only way I could.”
“Then we agree! You have made your own choices.”
“I have selected from a very small number available to me.”
Tristan threw up his hands in exasperation. Christine watched his face, saw the mask fall away for the first time. There was naked grief there, as fresh as the day it had been caused. Open pain as though the scar were a fresh wound. She was aware of the trust the Wolf Duke placed in her, revealing even the slightest wound, but he was still willing to overlook her own wounds in his pursuit of justice. She folded his fingers over the scarredpalm and released his hand, though her own trembled as if to reach.
His eyes were wide and full of an energy that drew Christine, that leaked into her soul and set it alight. He was breathing hard, as though he had been running. Lips slightly parted made Christine wish to be kissed. To press her mouth against his, silence his words, and feel only his passion. The air between them hummed.
For a long, silent moment, she breathed. His palms were rough, not the hands of a man of indolent wealth. His scent was intoxicating, filling Christine’s head with thoughts of kissing, nipping, touching. Of being pressed against him and held. Of holding him. Her lips parted because to breathe hard against his skin felt like a scandalous intimacy.
“If I do not get you into shelter, you might catch a fever,” Tristan whispered.
His hand cupped the back of her head, and his own head lowered to hers until their foreheads touched. Christine looked up, questing for his lips and finding them briefly. The instant’s touch was enough to set every nerve afire and her pulse running like a startled deer.
