Penthouse of Tristan Viridian
His pocket vibrated again. His phone was going off, for the fifteenth time in twenty minutes. King wanted him at the compound, to go over numbers, schematics, the next plan to get into Phase 2 of the distribution. He clicked the phone to silent, and switched it to Do Not Disturb so the calls would go straight to voicemail. He was tired of being bothered by that shit for now. He just wanted quiet so he could think for one bloody second without the rattle of the mobile going off to distract him. One or two more rings and he would have thrown the fucking thing off of the balcony in a fit of rage and annoyance. But he didn’t. It was his phone, and the person would learn to back off shortly. It wasn’t King directly, otherwise he would have answered. Maybe.
But Why? Why did King want to rush something that was clearly still in its infancy, in its Alpha phase yet? Tristan missed his mark—and it was self-appointed, so at least he wouldn’t have to answer to his employer about that—but instead of hitting his sister, instead of hitting a pure-blood, one-hundred percent, guaranteed magical target. Fierro said Liam hit someone else instead. A wolf? Did that mean the wolves were impervious to the major side effect? The one King was going for?
He looked over his companion with cold eyes, though the distant gaze was not aimed at her. It was aimed at no one. What the fuck did they get into? Not just with King, but now with Matt? His blind friend who fancies himself a god damn hero, went out and got into a fight with a beast—one Mae said was just like her, according to the voicemails… Was this connected somehow? The chat with his father, the warning of wolves in his sister’s company, the brawler who tore apart not only Maeve, but Matt as well?
Jesus, Matty. What the hell have you gotten into? Then he swallowed. Hard. What the hell do I do now? As stubborn as he was, as angry as he was—as he still held such a contentment against his father after all these years, Tristan realized that the conversation he had with his father at the Abbey meant more to him in that hour or so of interaction than he realized. Fierro didn’t want him to turn out just like him? Hah. While that was laughable, Tristan kept that in mind. He was questioning King’s methods now, which he saw as the beginnings of doubt, a sliver of uncertainty, one wide enough to pry open, and jump through if he thought escape was imminent. Was it? Did he want to continue down this path? Walk away from family, and continue down the trail of darkness only to remain in power beneath a King he didn’t faithfully follow?
Isn’t that what Fierro did, as Trevor Williams’ right hand? And look where that got him…
As he pieced together this fucked up jigsaw puzzle in his head, Tristan just watched Maeve. She was sleeping, a little more peaceful tonight than she had the nights prior, granted the healer he had hired for the house call put her on some hefty-as-shit medication to make sure she didn’t wake up until her body wasn’t in so much pain. He wanted to touch her, brush the hair out of her eyes, kiss her sweat dampened forehead and just tell her that she would be alright but he refrained for now. The healer advised not to jostle her or touch her at all if he could help it…
Instead Tristan stood by the window, a familiar perch he took up while in deep thought. Those sea-green orbs cast over the city lights, watching for nothing in particular.