Forged in Steele (KGI #7)(52)

“Ah, you’re here,” Tristan said.

He reached for her hand but she moved it away, lifting it instead to the dressings over his face. It had been twelve weeks since his surgery and the bulkier bandages had been removed, and now only the smaller gauze rested over the healing incision sites.

His surgery hadn’t been minor. His entire face had been reconstructed, his nose and cheekbones restructured. Even his chin. It had to have been horribly painful. She couldn’t imagine doing this on a regular basis. But even with the longevity of his recovery, he’d made faster progress than she could have imagined.

“They’re looking good,” she said briskly.

She was careful to never let their conversation stray from his health. She had no desire to build any sort of rapport between them. She treated him as she would any patient. Distant and professional. Never mind she was being held captive and subject to the whims of a crazy man.

“You’ve taken very good care of me, Maren. I’m not surprised that I’m healing so rapidly. When do you think the rest of the bandages can come off?”

“I’d give it another week,” she said.

They could probably come off now, but she was in no hurry. She feared what would happen when he considered himself fully recovered. Though he’d kept his promise not to touch her, he’d grown increasingly bolder. She could tell he was growing impatient with his recovery and was ready to make his move.

She flinched when he put his hand over her belly. She forced herself to remain still and not pull away. She didn’t want to anger him, but neither did she want him touching her.

He’d been nothing but gentle with her, and it puzzled her. His touches had become more intimate, and even his speech had been nonthreatening and almost . . . tender. Like he wanted her to like him. No matter how gently he treated her, she wasn’t going to succumb to Stockholm syndrome. She wanted out. That wasn’t going to change no matter how nice he was to her.

“Shouldn’t you start showing soon?” he asked.

They were fast venturing into territory she didn’t want to go into. She moved to the side so his hand would fall away. “Soon,” she agreed, unwilling to say more.

“Does the father know of the child?”

She narrowed her eyes as she looked down at him, making eye contact for the first time. He wore colored contacts now, turning his eyes a smoky blue. She’d never seen him without them since the day after his surgery, when he’d put them in. His hair was now dyed blond and with the plastic surgery, his face had dramatically changed.

“No,” she replied, thinking that answer would please Tristan.

And it did seem to please him. Satisfaction brimmed in his eyes, but they also burned with a possessive light that sent a chill up her spine. She had to give him some credit, as much as it pained her to do so. He’d seen to her needs, made sure she was provided for and accorded her respect and demanded the same of his staff. It was as she’d been treated at his compound in Costa Rica. Pampered guest instead of the prisoner she was.

“Just as well since he’ll have no contact,” Tristan murmured. “You’re mine, Maren. And so is your child.”

She froze, her hands suddenly trembling. She snatched them away from the gauze after securing the tape once more and put them down at her sides so he wouldn’t see the effect his words had on her. She bit her lip to keep from responding to his declaration. Nothing would be gained by her outburst.

“I’d like to have dinner on the terrace tonight. Tell Armand so he can arrange it. You’ll attend, of course,” he said.

As if she had such a choice in the matter.

“I’d like to rest now,” he said dismissively. “I’ll expect you back in the morning. I’d like the bandages off then.”

She started to protest but knew it wouldn’t do any good. He did what he wanted and he’d probably already figured out that she was taking her sweet time about removing the dressings.

She walked to the door and when she opened it, Armand was standing outside to escort her back to her room—or rather her prison.

It wasn’t bad as prisons go. It was the height of luxury and comfort. She had everything she could possibly want or need. Except the one thing she wanted most. Her freedom. She was tired of living in fear. Of tiptoeing around Mendoza/Tristan and worrying each day that he’d break his promise and force himself on her. Or worse, decide to rid her of her child.

She made herself sick with worry. She was paranoid about every meal she ate, every drink she was offered. Always afraid that he’d give her something to make her miscarry. It was no way to live, and it was wearing on her. She didn’t trust his smooth demeanor. She worried that he would catch her off guard and strike when she was at her most vulnerable. So she steeled herself and remained aware at all times. And it was fast wearing her down.

She was underweight, and fatigue was kicking her ass.

Armand pushed off the wall and fell in beside her as she walked back to her room. At her door he paused and then reached down to pick up a bag she hadn’t noticed before.

“I thought you could use these,” he said.

Her forehead crinkled in confusion as she peeked inside. She pulled out a book and saw that it was a pregnancy step-by-step manual complete with pictures and a month-by-month analysis of pregnancy.

The bag also contained several bottles of vitamins and a large selection of packaged treats, as well as gourmet chocolates and an entire box of a variety of tea bags. There was also a pair of reading glasses to replace the ones she’d left behind.