Possessive

Chapter 17

The nightmare woke me up again. I couldn't take this anymore. My body couldn't take this anymore. I needed the sleep, especially after the grueling workout that Tristan put me through earlier this evening.

Getting dressed in a tank top and a pair of denim shorts, I made my way out of my room, leaving Tristan still asleep on my bed. I didn't see the need to wake him up. My nightmares were mine and mine alone.

After fixing myself something to eat, I ended up making my way towards Tristan's office. I opened the mahogany door and entered the silent room. I placed my plate on his desk and looked at the million books he owned in his library. Impressive works: Jane Eyre, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist, Gulliver's Travels, The Mysterious Island; the man cared for fantasy. Quite shocking.

I sat down at his desk and moved to grab my plate when my hand mistakenly touched Tristan's laptop. It instantly came to life but that didn't bother me. What bothered me was the picture on Tristan's laptop. The picture was of me, only dressed in a T shirt, lying on a bed on Tristan's yacht. There was caption as well: S H E ' S Q U I T E A B E A U T Y.

Who the hell took this picture?

"I see you're awake," I heard someone say.

I looked up to see Tristan standing by the doorframe, only dressed in pajama pants with his hands buried deep in the pockets. Once upon a time, I would've blushed until I was as red as a tomato but right now I didn't care though. I was too angry.

I turned his laptop in his direction so that he could see what I was looking at. "Why do you have a photo of me on your computer?"

I watched as Tristan closed his eyes and deeply sighed. "I was hoping you wouldn't find that. He took it and left it on the yacht for me to see."

My eyes widened. "'He' took it? 'He' was there?" I asked, my heart pumping in my chest. "He was that close to me?"

Tristan could see that I was starting to freak out and walked over to me, pulling me out of the chair and sat down in it, placing me in his lap. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to his body to comfort me; his fingers were rubbing small circles on my back.

"I'm sorry, Heaven," he whispered in my ear.

Tristan hardly ever apologized to anyone so for him to say that to me, twice no less, meant that he cared.

I twisted myself to look at him. "Who is he?"

Tristan was silent. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. I knew he was pondering on whether to tell me or not but I was not giving up until I had some answers.

"I'm sure you've realised by now that Yasmine and Landon look nothing like me," he suddenly said. I nodded my head. I always wondered why. "That's because they aren't my brother and sister."

I stared at him in shock. "Excuse me?"

Tristan sighed. "Yasmine and Landon Devareaux are not my real brother and sister. I've always considered them my siblings but they are not. Clarissa and Jason Devareaux adopted me when I was seven. My real name is Tristan Carmichael."

I looked at him strangely. Tristan stared at me like I was supposed to have some sort of idea as to what he was talking about.

Tristan saw my reaction and sighed. "I suppose you wouldn't remember. Phillip and Dominique Carmichael were both found shot dead in their house twenty years ago. You would've been four. The news didn't go into much detail about their deaths. Apparently, it was quite gruesome. They had two sons. One was six, the other was nine. Tristan and....."