TRISTAN'S POV
He knocked on the door for the third time that evening.
"Come on, love. You've been couped up in there for two days."
Since the night of the death match, precisely.
After the battle, Tristan had practically dragged the bundle of flailing limbs and anguished cries away from the bloody altar back to this house.
Then she'd bolted the door shut and decided to remain in there forever.
Maybe she needed time to grieve, he'd thought. A few hours, maybe a day if possible, and she'd emerge for food or water, he'd assumed. And the whole cringefest would be behind them all.
He hated being wrong. Two days already and he hadn't caught a glimpse of her.
Even through the door, he could smell her pain, he could even taste her hunger and thirst. But the stubborn little angel wouldn't give up or submit.
Anger, more out of frustration at her strong-willed spirit than the insatiable ache in his chest, filled his veins.
Enough of this, he thought.
