Her Mating Scheme

Chapter 8

"Call them off," he growled, glancing at Diane in the rearview who was staring back at him, her face a mask of fear and confusion.

"You left a hunt, Tryson . You aren't sixteen anymore. They aren't going to slap you on the shoulder and say boys will be boys."

"Call them off," he snarled. "They don't need her. I'll get her out of here and I'll be back. A few hours, tops. This was only training anyway!"

"I warned you about this, Tryson . You didn't listen."

"What were they doing circling her house?"

"They were watching you, and you know it."

"Bullshit, Mark, you had a guy posted in the parking lot."

"Because you had an escape kit there."

Tryson trembled with an overwhelming wave of anger and frustration. He'd made sure they were aware of many of his back door plans—he'd wanted them to be. But it had been specifically to distract them from this one.

This one he'd thought was airtight. s**t.

Did that mean they knew about—

"Tryson , take her home, come back to the hunt, then come see me. We'll work something out. It doesn't have to end like this. You know that."

The words were so reasonable, so… friendly. And it was true, Mark had saved his ass more than once. He'd kept the powerful eyes away from Diane when they were teenagers. Of course, he'd also been the one to force Tryson to abandon her—and his people.

Their relationship was… complicated.

Tryson sighed like he was thinking about it, but inside his mind was spinning. He had to get this call ended quickly and leave the phone somewhere they would believe. He'd been told that the analogue ones were harder to trace. He knew it was bullshit.

They lied. A lot.

But he'd only recently figured out exactly how much.

"I don't know, Mark," he muttered. He couldn't be seen to give in too quickly or Mark would know something was up.

"C'mon, Tryson . Have I let you down before?"

Yes, but Mark didn't know that Tryson knew about that. Tryson swallowed and glanced at Diane in the rearview again.

His stomach literally clenched at the sight of her. His hands were already shaking. His hands hadn't trembled in five years. Not even after his first kill. That was the effect she had on him. And she didn't have a clue. She thought he'd left her because he stopped caring.

Holy f**k.

"I'm taking her home and you're making sure there's no one there, Mark. If I get so much as a sniff of a suit, we're gone and you never see me again. I can do it. You know I can."

Mark didn't respond well to threats, but Tryson needed him to think he was cracking.

There was silence on the line except for the tap-tap-tapping of a keyboard. Mark was in the office tonight.

"Fine," he sighed thirty seconds later. "I called them out. But there's a perimeter, Tryson . I can't remove them completely. It looks too suspicious."

Tryson breathed easier then, but he couldn't let Mark know.

"They don't touch her."

"Tryson —"

"Non-negotiable, Mark."

"You brought her into this, not me!"

"I don't give a f**k. You want an obedient dog, you reward good behavior."

"Good behavior? You are shitting me right now."

"They made contact before I did, Mark. They broke the rules."

"AFTER you followed her. Again. We aren't stupid, Tryson . And I'm not your mother, I'm not going to kiss your boo boo. I told you to leave her alone. You didn't. You brought this on yourself. People are starting to pay attention."

"Well, you can tell people to back the f**k off. Unless you're toothless suddenly?"

Mark grunted.

Tryson took the next turn at speed. Luckily it was getting late and the city streets were starting to clear. Diane sucked in a breath and grabbed at the Oh s**t handle above the door, but she didn't say anything.

He looked at her in the mirror again and when her eyes met his something snapped between them—a moment of… something. Understanding? Relief? Grief? Desire?

All of the above.

He couldn't tell her everything. He couldn't even tell her a lot. But he could let her see that he'd never stopped loving her. Had, in fact, only left because he loved her.

Teenage love, Mark had said back then. Just lust disguised as emotion. Get her out of your system then get out.

He'd been young enough and stupid enough to listen back then. And he'd cursed himself for it every day since.

"Tryson ?"

Shit, Mark had been talking and he hadn't heard a word. "I'm driving, Mark. You'll have to say that again."

"I said, they'll leave her for now. But she's going to have watchers. If you get within a mile of her, they're going to take her. They want to know how she's got a hold on you. I told them she was just holding your prick, but they don't believe me anymore."

Tryson grunted as he would if he was grateful, but inside he seethed.

How much of it was lies? How much had Mark created this? And how much was just his uncanny ability to know what Tryson was thinking before Tryson did?

Mark was the closest thing Tryson had to a father. A very sick, very powerful, very manipulative father.

"I'm taking her home," he said quietly, turning the van again and roaring back in the direction they'd come from. "But if she doesn't sleep peacefully tonight, if she sees even one suit, I'm ghosting. You hear me, Mark?"

"Be very, very careful right now, Tryson ." Mark's tone was dark and deep and utterly immovable. "You don't want to get yourself in any more trouble than you already are."

"You know me, Mark," he said bitterly. "Always a good boy."

Mark spluttered a laugh, but it rang false and Tryson felt better. Mark wasn't as certain of himself as he liked to make out.

"You rejoin the hunt within two hours."

Two hours. It wasn't enough. "Four."

"Three—and I swear to god, Tryson —"

"Three. Fine. I can do three," he snapped. "Don't get your panties in a twist."

Mark was silent—no laughter, no growling correction either. It was crazy how he could unsettle Tryson by what he didn't say.

"That'll make it exactly two sixteen am, Tryson . Don't f**k with me."

"See you then." He hung up the phone and heaved a sigh of relief. He could do this. Three hours would be tight, but he could do it.

He slowed the van, scanning the buildings that were all so similar, though he knew hers like he knew his own. If they could just—

"Tryson ?" her voice was high and quavering, but full of conviction. "What the hell is going on?"

~ Diane ~

Tryson was here, driving her home, and was talking about her to someone else. Someone who knew who she was and that he'd come for her and…

What the hell was going on?

"Tryson ?" she asked again, terrified, but also angry. What had he gotten her into?

"I'll explain when we get inside," he said.

She looked out the windows then and realized they were on her block. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. She'd yearned for the day Tryson would come to her apartment. Dreamed about it. But somehow she'd always imagined that he wouldn't happen until they'd reconnected. That out of the blue one day he would call her, or find her on social media. Something. He'd be the one to make contact. And he'd beg for forgiveness. He'd offer some fully believable, forgivable offence for why he'd left. And they'd slowly reintroduce themselves to each other. Maybe a few phone calls? Then she'd invite him to come see her and…

She'd never imagined being shot at, watching a man almost die at his hands, and then listening to him swear like a sailor and bark into a burner phone like some kind of bad movie villain.

Tryson had always had an edge. A sharp edge. But he'd also always held it in check around her. His strength and confidence had been a wall between her and the world to keep her safe, not put her under threat.

But that was five years ago.

He wasn't a teenager anymore.

Her eyes followed the line of his very broad shoulders and measured the thickness of them, the sheer strength that rippled under his skin. Even the sleeves of those ugly overalls were taxed by his biceps, pulling tight over them every time he moved his arm.

But when she'd known him before, his strength was a tool. Something he used to help, or protect. Now…

Now he felt like a weapon.

What had happened to him? Where had her tender warrior disappeared to in the past five years?

The image of him standing in front of her on that roof, his hand held out, and all the ways that simple gesture conjured their past—the way he'd known it would.

And the hurt that had flashed in his eyes when she didn't take his hand. So different from the last time he'd offered himself to her like that…

It was over a year after the first time. Dozens of open hands later.