Her Vengeful Embrace Read online

  He wouldn’t give her the same leeway he gave her enemy, but still better to start this process off with Nicholai feeling a bit off-center over this minor screw up. Amarante gave him a sharp smile. “Forgive me if my trust is somewhat damaged.”

  Now the muscle definition in his jaw was clearly defined. “I suppose you have an idea on how I can make amends.”

  “I do.” She smiled. “I’d like to see the meeting rooms now.”

  Nicholai sighed. “You know part of smoothing the way through negotiations is ensuring everyone comes in on the same playing field here. That means no advance walk-throughs.”

  “Nicholai.” She drew his name out. “You know very well that the other players have an advantage. They set the schedule and apparently members of their party are able to walk the hallways unmonitored. If anything, showing me an advance look at the meeting rooms will remedy an uneven playing field.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue, but finally shook his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this. You all are going to be the biggest pain in the ass while you’re here.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Fine. You can see the meeting rooms briefly before we reach your room, where you will stay until someone is sent to fetch you in the morning.”

  That most definitely wasn’t going to happen, but she still nodded. “Of course.”

  He gave her another long look and shook his head again. “Come along.”

  Chapter 2

  Tristan followed Amarante and Nic at a distance as they moved through the halls to the meeting rooms set up for the summit tomorrow. Summit. He shook his head. A pretentious-ass word for a meeting that he still wasn’t sure what Zhao intended to accomplish. If he wanted to take Amarante the same way he’d instructed Tristan to take her brother, Ryu, a few days ago, there were better and less expensive ways to go about it.

  No matter how secure they thought the Island of Ys—their little trio of islands off the coast of Africa—was, nothing was too secure for him to get through.

  He shadowed their steps, listening to the cadence of Amarante’s voice as she questioned Nic about the set-up. She was so fucking cold, and though she was only a handful of feet away, she might as well have been on the moon for the distance she put into her careful selection of words.

  She didn’t used to be like that.

  He banished the thought. It didn’t matter that he and Amarante had a history of sorts. It was as dead and buried as every other part of his past. He waited for Amarante and Nic to enter an elevator before he turned back the way he’d come. Once she reached her floor, there was no getting to her easily. The Warren’s elevators were locked far more securely than any civilian hotel. In addition to the requirement of a hand scan to reach the correct level, there were also constantly monitored cameras to ensure nothing untoward went down—and ensured that the elevator car didn’t stop on floors where an enemy might be waiting. An extra layer of protection considering what would happen to anyone who broke Nic’s enforced truce, but considering the clientele he catered to, it wasn’t nearly as paranoid as it seemed.

  Tristan didn’t go back to his room. Now that Amarante had arrived, he would be expected to dance to the tune Zhao set. There was no room for error in the next few days, and there sure as fuck wasn’t room for casual disobedience. Since Tristan liked having his head attached to his neck, he only stepped out of line when he knew he could get away with it. It happened rarely. Zhao knew he had a nuclear bomb in the form of a person when it came to Tristan, and he only used him when absolutely necessary. The rest of the time, he preferred to keep Tristan close.

  It was almost as if he didn’t trust him.

  He smiled at that. Zhao was too smart to trust Tristan, even after a decade of dancing to whatever tune the old man set. Which just proved he wasn’t a fool. The only person Tristan gave complete loyalty to was himself. Working for Zhao served his purpose… until it didn’t.

  After amusing himself by wandering for a bit, he circled back to one of the restaurants. A drink wasn’t out of the question before he made his report. This whole summit reeked of a terrible idea. Zhao couldn’t move on Amarante within these walls. Even he wasn’t above the Warren’s laws, and he was responsible for the actions of the people under his command. He couldn’t sacrifice some young idiot to get the job done.

  Tristan would like to see one of them try, though. It’d be amusing to watch Amarante take them apart piece by piece. He hadn’t seen her fight in years, but she wasn’t the type to let such a valuable skillset fall by the wayside. No, she was blade sharp and just as likely to gut a man.

  He strode into the restaurant, a carefully cultivated design that conveyed big money while still being bland as fuck so it wouldn’t insult anyone. Tristan snorted. The Warren danced on the edge, a constant balancing act to keep everyone slightly—but equally—uncomfortable. Equality was the name of the game, even when it came down to the types of food offered and the color on the walls.

  A hostess appeared, a pretty Black girl. She smiled at him. “For one?”

  “Just looking for a drink.”

  “Of course, sir.” She pivoted on a low heel and led him deeper into the restaurant. A small table was their destination, tucked against the wall, but not perfectly. Tristan slowed, taking in the room again. The walls… curved.

  He laughed. “They really weren’t taking any chances here, were they?”

  “Sir?”

  He waved it away. “Never mind.” A curved wall meant no one could quite get their backs to it. There would always be the chance someone could sneak up in their blind spot. Tristan shook his head. This was going to be a long-ass couple of days.

  The waitress appeared the second he sat down, a white girl with brilliant red hair. Her smile widened at the sight of him, but Tristan couldn’t even enjoy her flirting. Not when his mind was still tangled up in seeing Amarante again. He ordered a beer, and ignored the waitress’s disappointment.

  Amarante.

  As if his thoughts conjured her, she walked through the entranceway and into the restaurant. The hostess tried to intercept her, but Amarante’s gaze fell on him and she ignored the other woman to stalk in his direction. And it was a stalk. She moved like she fully intended to deliver her namesake. Death. He’d known her before she became one of the so-called Four Horsemen who ruled the Island of Ys, but the role suited her. She was dangerous in the same kind of way Tristan was dangerous.

  And, fuck, she was even more beautiful than she’d been at eighteen when he met her. She’d taken the time to change into a pair of tailored black pants and a suit jacket with something funky going on with the shoulders. Beneath it was lace that gave tantalizing glimpses of her golden skin beneath it. Her shoulder-length black hair hung in a perfect curtain that swung a little with each step, and she had some eyeliner shit winging over her eyes, emphasizing their darkness.

  She walked to his table and slid into the seat across from him.

  Tristan raised his beer in a mocking toast. “By all means, join me.”

  She took his beer out of his hand and sipped it. The audacity made him grin, but Amarante looked deadly serious. “My brother’s fine, in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.” He sat back in his chair, giving all evidence of being relaxed. He wasn’t sure he was faster than her. Maybe he had been once, but they hadn’t sparred in a long, long time. Tristan couldn’t be sure he’d react in time if she struck. He didn’t think she’d waste her shot on him, but if he could anticipate her moves that well, they wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.

  She took another sip of his beer. “You weren’t trying to kill him.”

  “If I wanted him dead, he would be.” Amarante studied him. Her eyes were so fucking cold, he almost believed they could freeze him on the spot. He made a show of looking at himself. “Sorry, the ice gaze isn’t a thing outside of comics.”

  “It’s not going to work.”

  He knew better than to let her
bait him, but he wanted to know where she was headed with this. “You don’t think so?”

  “My father doesn’t want peace. You know it as well as I do. He’s merely looking for the chance to wipe us off the board once and for all.”

  Honestly, Tristan agreed with her. There might have been a chance to take the Horsemen off the map ten years ago when they first showed up, but they’d built an empire of their own. Removing them would be messy and it’d draw attention. Neither were things Zhao shunned, but he had his reasons for ignoring them until they forced his hand when they started hunting him.

  “Easier ways to get you dead if that’s his goal.” The old man’s end game was a mystery, but he wasn’t in a habit of losing when he wanted something done. He’d ordered Tristan to take Ryu. Not to kill him.

  She went perfectly still. “Do not tell me that he’s attempting some kind of reconciliation. I won’t believe it, and you’ll just embarrass yourself.”

  “I’m tired of talking about him, Te.” Tristan grinned. “Let’s talk about us.” He truly enjoyed the way her fingers spasmed the tiniest amount every time he used her old nickname. Amarante may play the part of the ice dragon, but she was flesh and blood just like the rest of them; which meant he could get under her skin.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Come on, now. I don’t think three years and several months of sharing the same bed—”

  Amarante moved. She threw his beer at his face before he could do more than start. Fuck, she was fast. The cold cascaded over him and he blinked at her. “You just ruined my shirt.”

  “You can afford another one.” She turned and held up her hands at the waitress and hostess who’d both appeared the second she moved to attack. Amarante gave a careful smile. “A friendly disagreement. No harm done.”

  “Except to my shirt.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t a fork I threw.”

  A fork wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt like a bitch. He shot her a look and then turned a smile on the waitress and hostess. “No harm done.”

  The waitress approached slowly. She didn’t have a gun on her—none were allowed on the property, even by staff—but she would be trained to take down a threat just like the rest of Nic’s people. She looked between them and sighed. “I’ll get you another beer. Would you like something, Ms. Death?”

  “No, I won’t be staying long.”

  Tristan pulled the wet fabric of his shirt away from his chest. “Dramatic.”

  “You deserve worse.” She was back to being cold again, that flash of heat carefully banked and controlled.

  He shouldn’t provoke her. He had a job to do, and riling Amarante would make his job harder. Knowing that didn’t seem to matter. But then, Tristan had never been that good at denying himself the things he wanted. No, he set his mind on a goal and then he went after it with everything he had until he achieved it. Money, power, women.

  There was one exception, one person completely immune to his charms, and she sat across the table from him. He leaned forward. She still felt something. He wouldn’t be able to get under her skin so easily otherwise. Whether it was simply hate or something more complicated remained to be seen. He barely dared hope that it was the latter. “I still want you, Te. I never stopped.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want.” She bit out each word. “You made your choice when you went to work for him. If I’d known the pain that would cause the people I care about in the future, I would have killed you that day and been done with it.”

  She meant it. Every word.

  Back then, she might have even succeeded. Hell, she might succeed now if they went around. He honestly didn’t know which of them was better, and it made him crazy. “You’re welcome to make up for the lost opportunity now.”

  Her lips curved a little, but her eyes went even colder. “Fighting or fucking. That’s all you are, Tristan. I enjoyed the entertainment you offered when I was young and foolish, but I know better now. A scorpion cannot help but be a scorpion; no matter how pretty its face, it will sting you the first chance it gets.”

  Layers beneath layers of her words, but he still couldn’t get to the center of it. No matter. He’d just keep poking until he found out what he needed to know. Tristan was rather skilled at provoking people. “So what I’m hearing is that you think I’m pretty.”

  She planted her hands on the table and rose. “I don’t have regrets over the things I’ve done in my life. They’ve been necessary in one form or another, and they’ve served to reach the end game we’re playing out right now.” Amarante straightened. “I do regret you, though. Only you.” She turned and walked away.

  Tristan watched her go. The strange ache in his chest had to be from the cold-ass beer making everything miserable. But even as he tried to tell himself that, anger rose, a welcome wave of warmth. She regretted him. Fuck that.

  Fuck.

  That.

  He didn’t believe in regrets any more than she claimed to. Yeah, he’d stung the untouchable Amarante when things fell out the way they did. He wasn’t naive enough to believe otherwise. It didn’t change the fact that those few years they were friends—and then more than friends—meant something, and fuck her for acting like they didn’t. It wouldn’t change their path going forward; nothing could change where they’d ended up now. Knowing that didn’t mean Tristan had any intention of letting this lie, though.

  He didn’t lose control. Too much rested on his ability to get shit done, and messy emotions were exactly that: a mess.

  That didn’t stop him from pushing to his feet and taking off after Amarante.

  He found her heading for the elevators, her walk measured and unhurried. Either she didn’t realize he’d follow her, or this was some kind of fucked up power play. He didn’t know which he preferred, but the end result was his catching her so Tristan wasn’t about to complain. He picked up his pace and reached for her.

  He never made contact.

  Amarante moved through his fingers like water, spinning on one stupidly tall heel. Fast. She was so fucking fast. She grabbed his wrist and pulled a move he should have seen coming a mile away, twisting it between his shoulder blades and shoving his face against the wall.

  “Don’t touch me.” Her voice was just as calm and cold as ever… if someone didn’t know her.

  Even after all this time, Tristan picked up the tremor beneath. He shifted in her grip and cursed when she wrenched his arm back harder. “You’ve proven your point.”

  “I don’t think I—”

  He didn’t give her a chance to finish. Tristan slammed them back against the opposite wall, using his larger size to shove her despite the pain in his arm. Amarante’s grip faltered and he spun around.

  She punched him in the fucking throat.

  Tristan stumbled back with a rasping gasp. “The fuck?”

  “I told you not to touch me.” She smoothed down her suit jacket, but the ice had cracked and the fire beneath bristled. “You used to be able to take simple instructions.”

  “Your simple instructions used to be harder and more and right there.”

  She looked like she wanted to hit him again. “Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?” It hurt to speak, but he didn’t give a damn. This might be the last time they could talk alone, and Tristan would say whatever it took to ensure she didn’t walk away. Not yet. “Taking a walk down memory lane.”

  Footsteps sounded, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was Nic’s people rushing to ensure he and Amarante didn’t kill each other in the hallway. He glared in their direction. “Come on.”

  “The fuck I will.” Fury had worked its way into her words, and he relished that level of reaction.

  Tristan held out a hand. “We’re about to be dragged before Nic to explain ourselves. I’m not in the mood. Are you?”

  She hesitated, but the footsteps were getting closer. “Fine.” She ignored his hand and started down the hallway.

&n
bsp; Tristan picked up his pace to get in front of her. “This way.”

  “If you’re leading me into a trap, I’ll slit your throat myself.”

  He laughed hoarsely. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Te. You’re never worried about getting your hands dirty. Come on.”

  Chapter 3

  Following Tristan through a door and into a dark room was a mistake. Amarante went out of her way to ensure she didn’t make mistakes, but she couldn’t seem to help herself where this man was concerned. She stepped into the darkened room and he shut the door behind them. The move put Tristan too close, his body nearly pressing against hers. Moving away meant admitting defeat, and she’d already shown her hand too blatantly.

  Tristan took a step back, but she didn’t have a chance to appreciate the new distance because he stripped out of his shirt in quick, economical movements. Even in the low light, the sight of him stole her breath. He shouldn’t seem larger without his shirt, but he somehow was, each muscle seeming to be cut from stone. He’d never be beautiful, not really, but he was unmistakably powerful.

  There isn’t enough air in the room.

  A silly thought. Of course there was enough air in the room. Her lungs worked, even as her mind spun back upon itself, inhaling and exhaling just like they’d been doing since her birth. This wasn’t a physical reaction, not in the way her brain wanted her to think it was. No, this was just pheromones and her responding on a cellular level to Tristan’s presence. It was science.

  Knowing that didn’t make the winch tightening around her chest any looser. Why was she here? Not here in the Warren, but here in this room. She had no reason to run with Tristan, no logical reason to follow his rough order. “This was a mistake.”

  “Te.” She hadn’t seen him move, but he was suddenly closer, boxing her in with his presence even though she could clearly see a path to the door. Tristan lowered his voice, and it was just like so many nights all those years ago, when their careful friendship had shifted into something else entirely. Right before it ended. “You look good, Te. Really good.”