Salt Kiss – Episode 08
Mark’s confession vanished behind his usual composure before Tristan could ask what it meant. They moved back into the current of the club, where music, bodies, and coded exchanges demanded Tristan’s full attention. Understanding the Lyonesse, he was beginning to realize, required more than standing at its edge and passing judgment.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Mark said, “but at least pretend to enjoy yourself here.” He studied Tristan’s rigid posture with faint disapproval. A bodyguard who looked ready to raid the building would attract precisely the attention he was supposed to avoid.
Mark explained that he needed to retrieve Tristan’s uniform. Until he returned, Tristan was to blend in and watch the room. “Be my eyes and ears, Tristan.” The assignment was simple in form, if not in execution.
“Yes, sir.” Tristan answered automatically. Mark’s gaze lingered for a moment, as if noticing how naturally the response came, then he disappeared through a private doorway.
Left alone, Tristan surveyed the crowd. Pretend to be one of these twisted sadists getting off on pain? Never. His disgust offered a reassuring boundary between him and everyone else in the room, but his stiff uniform and guarded stare made him conspicuous.
If he had to fit in, he decided, he might as well play the part convincingly. He accepted a drink and raised it in a terse salute, trying to look like a man accustomed to the club rather than one mapping every exit. The sweet bite of fruit followed the alcohol when he ate the cherries offered with it.
A woman’s attention settled on him before he could return to surveillance. She carried herself with the same unhurried authority as Mark, though her interest was openly physical. Her gaze travelled over Tristan’s shoulders and chest with an appreciation that made him feel assessed all over again.
“Did Mr. Trevena claim all of this muscle?” she asked, coming close enough to be heard over the music. “Or are you up for grabs?”
The language irritated him. Claiming belonged to property, not people. “I don’t belong to anyone.” He meant it as a warning, but the woman smiled as though he had issued an invitation.
“Good. I don’t like sharing.” She introduced herself as Dinah, though her manner suggested names mattered less here than roles. Tristan registered her confidence, her proximity, and the fact that no one nearby seemed concerned by her interest.
He should have stepped away. Instead, warmth began to gather beneath his collar, loosening the vigilance he had maintained since entering. Dinah’s touch and attention seemed unusually vivid, while the room around her softened at the edges.
“Why don’t we go somewhere a little more private?” she asked. The invitation sounded easier to accept than it should have. Tristan told himself he was blending in, following Mark’s command, perhaps learning what happened beyond the public rooms.
He followed Dinah through a door and into a quieter space equipped with restraints he did not examine too closely. The heat under his skin intensified. His breathing grew shallow, and a slow haze interfered with the instincts warning him that the situation had shifted.
Dinah watched recognition struggle across his face. “How did those cherries make you feel?” Her amusement confirmed what Tristan’s dulled mind had only begun to suspect.
“What?” He tried to retrace the last few minutes—the glass, the fruit, the sweetness on his tongue. The pieces would not stay aligned. “Don’t.” The command lacked the force he intended.
“I feel hot,” he admitted, hating the weakness in his voice. The sensation was no longer ordinary attraction. It spread through him with chemical insistence, turning every nerve toward Dinah while clouding the judgment that should have sent him back into the main room.
“I know just the thing.” Dinah moved closer, her tone warm and controlling. “Have you been a bad soldier? Do you need to be locked up?” The question threaded itself through the drugged fog, attaching pleasure to obedience before Tristan could defend against it.
He looked toward the closed door, knowing Mark had ordered him to be vigilant and that something was badly wrong. Yet his body leaned toward the promised relief even as his mind resisted. Alone in Dinah’s private room, Tristan discovered that blending in had carried him far beyond observation—and Mark was nowhere in sight.