WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

2:09

| THE STAND:
CHAPTER NINE |

Rhea Monroe was a wreck, the kind of wasted where you lose yourself—where the world around you becomes a blur of bitter alcohol and hollow laughter. If it hadn't been for Tristan, sending his Strix to tail her after the chaotic events of the party, she would've easily drunk herself into oblivion. At this point, she was teetering on the edge of a blackout, and she didn't seem to care.

Her hand wrapped around yet another glass of whiskey, neat. She was about to down it when the glass was snatched away. Her bleary eyes blinked up in protest, her pout both childlike and defiant.

"Well, hello, Tristan. Fancy seeing you here." Her words slurred together, and a giggle escaped her lips—a sound that would've been charming if it weren't so drenched in the sharp tang of despair. Tristan, standing tall before her, didn't even need to count how many drinks she'd had. The way she swayed on the stool told him enough. She was beyond drunk; she was obliterated.

He remembered their breakfast that morning. Rhea had put on a brave face, pretending she was fine. Now, he could see through her façade. She was drowning.

"Come on, I'm taking you home." His voice was steady, firm but gentle, as he picked up her jacket, holding it out for her. She looked at it blankly for a moment before sliding off the stool, only to trip over her own feet the second she tried to stand. Tristan moved faster than she could fall, catching her in one fluid motion, his arm wrapping securely around her waist.

"You know it's been a good day when you end up trying to hug the floor," she muttered, her voice thick with alcohol. Tristan shook his head, a trace of amusement ghosting over his features despite the concern that gnawed at him. Without another word, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms and sped them to her apartment.

When he set her down, she wobbled, her legs betraying her as the world around her spun. She pressed a hand to her temple, trying not to be sick. Everything felt like it was collapsing in on her, the alcohol only magnifying the chaos in her mind.

"Why?" she asked, her voice small, as if she was too tired to keep up her usual defenses.

Tristan's brow furrowed. "Why what?"

"Why do you care, Tristan?" she whispered, the pain evident in her voice. "Centuries later, and you're still the same with me. You're different with everyone else, but with me... you've never changed."

Her words cut through him. This was a conversation he didn't want to have, not when she was like this, but he knew he couldn't avoid it. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair.

"You're the one thing that stayed the same for me," he admitted quietly. "Human or vampire, everything else in my life has changed, but you—Rhea, you've remained constant. Even after all this time. In a way... you're what keeps my humanity intact."

Her breath hitched at his words. She had spent so long assuming Tristan's lingering attachment to her was simply about Kol, about the old jealousy that festered between the brothers. But this... this was something she hadn't expected.

She took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she stood just a few feet away from him. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "I'm a mess."

It was a simple statement, but the weight of those words hung in the air between them. He could hear the ache in her voice, the vulnerability she rarely let anyone see. She was unraveling right in front of him, and she didn't even know how to stop it.

"I guess that'll be my excuse from now on," she said, her voice suddenly hard, cold. Her eyes flashed with determination, a look that made Tristan's stomach twist with unease.

"Rhea, what are you—"

Before he could finish, her lips were on his. The kiss was desperate, her hands fisting in his shirt as if she were clinging to him for dear life. For a brief moment, he was too stunned to react, his mind reeling at the sudden shift. But reality quickly snapped back into place, and he pulled away, holding her at arm's length.

"Rhea, I know what you're doing," he said gently, though his tone left no room for argument. "And while I won't deny that part of me wants this—wants you—I know this isn't what you really want. You chose Kol. I might not like it, but I care about you enough to know that this... this isn't the answer."

His words hit her like a slap. A moment ago, she had been willing to throw herself into him, to drown out her pain with his touch. Now, shame washed over her, and she felt worse than before. This would have been the first man she'd been with since Kol, and the idea that she had been willing to cross that line so recklessly made her stomach churn.

Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. "I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice trembling. "God, Tristan, I'm so sorry."

He didn't say anything, just pulled her into his arms, holding her close. She was shaking, the weight of everything she had been holding in for so long finally threatening to crush her. She was broken, and she didn't know how to fix herself.

"You should sleep," he murmured softly, stroking her hair as she clung to him. "You've had a rough night."

She nodded weakly, too drained to argue as he led her to her bedroom. She barely had the energy to crawl into bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. As Tristan turned to leave, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

"Stay," she whispered. "Just for a little while. Ares moved out, and... I hate being alone."

He hesitated, torn between wanting to give her space and knowing she didn't want to be left in the dark. Finally, he pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down, his eyes never leaving her.

"Are you going to kill them?" she asked softly, referring to his plans for the Mikaelsons.

Tristan shook his head. "No. Not tonight."

She nodded, sinking deeper into the pillows as she let his presence calm her. "Is this still about them compelling you to think you were them?"

Tristan sighed, leaning back in the chair. "The less you know, the safer you'll be. If the Mikaelsons find out about all of this..."

She nodded again, her eyes growing heavy as sleep began to pull her under. For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel completely alone. And that, more than anything, was what terrified her the most.

⸻

"Elijah," Marcel's voice cut through the silence of the room. "We've got a problem."

Elijah turned, his posture tense as he faced Marcel. "What is it?"

Marcel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "My guy stayed on Tristan's tail all day. He picked up a very drunk Rhea from a bar, took her home, but a few hours later, he ended up at this place called The Candide Royale. He went in, and never came out. The place has hidden passageways leading out the back. Used to be a bootlegging operation in the '20s."

Elijah frowned, his mind already racing. "And?"

"And guess who just bought the building? Kingmaker Land Development. Owned by Lucien Castle."

Elijah's jaw clenched. "That's not a coincidence."

"Exactly," Marcel nodded. "Either they're brokering a truce..."

"Or they've been working together the whole time," Elijah finished, his mind spinning with the implications.

"And what about Rhea?" Marcel asked. "Think she's in on it?"

Elijah shook his head. "No. Rhea's in a dark place right now, and we can't let Tristan exploit that. Keep an eye on her. She's more fragile than she looks."

Marcel nodded, though both men knew that the situation was far more dangerous than either of them was willing to admit.