by RuNyx .
He came into view. Shirtless.
She gulped.
Blue.
Blue eyes locking onto hers, making her breath catch, before moving down her cheeks, down her neck, to her breasts and hands and legs down to her bare feet. And standing there as his eyes took her in, Morana realized the utter difference between his perusal from earlier at the restaurant and the perusal right then. This perusal was heated but not with hatred. It was heated with fury. Sheer, utter rage that made his eyes blaze as they roved over every single inch of her skin, before coming back up to her eyes.
Morana didn't know how that made her feel. She was so used to the other kind of heat from him, this was putting her off-kilter, more than she already was. She let her eyes take in the bare muscles of his torso, the muscles she'd ogled the other day right in the apartment, the sight of his scars and tattoos as much a shock as it had been then, along with those magnificent muscles under it. But it was the still unbuttoned jeans that, combined with him waiting for her, made her realize he'd thrown clothes on quickly and woken up from rest in the buff.
The sight of his blue, angry eyes made her take a deep breath, her body sapped of energy even as she stood there.
His nostrils flared, lips pursing, and he took a step to the side while holding the elevator doors back, the silent invitation to enter clear.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Morana took a few steps into the dark living room illuminated by gorgeous moonlight, the stunning, clear view of the city and the sea making her breath catch for a moment.
She heard the elevator ding upon closing, and stilled, her heart stopping for a second as realization dawned upon her.
They were alone.
Completely alone.
And she stood in his living room, and he was somewhere behind her.
What was she supposed to do? She couldn't curse him, she couldn't thank him and the limbo between the two urges tired her.
Morana held her breath, waiting for him to move.
He did. Towards the guest room.
Morana tracked his movements with her eyes, watching his muscles flex as he moved his body, his frame tensed, coiled. She would have appreciated the raw beauty of him had her own body not been aching, had her own heart not been bleeding.
He disappeared into the room for long moments while she stood pinned to the spot, not knowing what to do. Then, he came out, keeping his eyes away from hers, heading towards the stairs that led up to his master bedroom.
And then, he vanished into his room.
Morana heard some sounds, angry sounds, of doors opening and slamming shut, and headed towards the guest bedroom on slow steps, sapped of all energy, her shoulders slumping.
So, he wasn't the most hospitable man. Nothing she didn't already know. But at least he hadn't turned her away. She wasn't sure if she would have been able to take that humiliation tonight, on top of everything else.
The moment she entered the bedroom, she blinked. The bathroom door was open, steam billowing out from a full tub while a large black t-shirt and drawstring pants lay draped over a chair, the sheets on the bed turned down.
Morana stood there in the doorway, blinking back the sudden tears welling up in her eyes, her heart unable to understand the man. He hated her, she had no doubts. He had claimed her death and he had tried to fuck her out of his system. He had not spoken a word to her, not even looked at her, and yet, there lay the evidence of a kindness that was completely at odds with everything she knew about him.
Pursing her lips, she picked up the clothes and headed to the inviting bathroom, closing the door behind her but finding no lock. Shaking her head, she looked around the large room, the brown and cream tiles a comforting sight for the sore eyes, the tub sunken in a block of deep mahogany granite, two towels on a stand beside it. Morana shoved her dress off her body and onto the floor along with her underwear, turning sideways to look into the mirror above the sink.
Blue and purple crisscrossed all over her torso, the sides of her ribs tender.
Her father had done that. Without raising an arm, without actually abusing her, he had punished her. And she was seeking refuge with a man like Tristan Caine. How messed up was her life?
Closing her eyes, she dipped her toe in the warm, perfectly warm water, before slowly gripping the edges and sitting down in the tub.
A groan left her the moment she did, tears of pleasure at the intense relief of having such warmth envelop her muscles flowing down her cheeks. She leaned back against the tub, relaxing into the water, closing her eyes, and forgetting, for one brief moment, about everything.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
Peeking with one eye, she opened the message and blinked in surprise.
Tristan Caine: Do you need a doctor?
Why hadn't he asked her himself?
Surprised, she typed back a response.
Me: No. I'll be out of your hair in the morning.
She waited for a response after that. It didn't come.
Shrugging, feeling oddly conflicted but deciding to leave all the thinking for the morning, she stayed in the tub until the water cooled, and then slowly, languidly rose. Her body hurt even more, and yet, the knots in her muscles were relaxed after the bath. Quickly drying herself off, Morana pulled on the borrowed clothes. The t-shirt hung on her small frame, almost to her knees, the scent of something musky wrapping around her as she walked out to the bedroom.
The sound of voices drew her towards the closed door, voices coming from the open kitchen.
"You have a plane for Tenebrae in an hour, Tristan," Dante's voice came through.
Morana's heart sank. She didn't know why it did, and it made her angrier. Why did she care?
Tristan Caine stayed silent. What was up with him?
Morana heard Dante sigh. "Look, I would have gone, but father specifically asked for you. You know when he summons..."
"I'm not his dog," Tristan Caine grit out.
"Neither am I." Dante's voice hardened. "But we have innocent people to watch over. So, go to Tenebrae. I'll handle stuff here in the meantime."
Tristan Caine didn't say a word, and Morana retreated back into the comfortable bed, sliding into the sheets and switching the lights off.
Her phone buzzed again.
Tristan Caine: How much of that did you hear?
Morana swallowed.
Me: Enough to know you’re leaving.
Tristan Caine: Relieved, are you?
Me: Doesn't bother me either way.
There was a pause for a heartbeat before another message came.
Tristan Caine: There are painkillers in the drawer.
Morana looked at the message for a long time, before closing her eyes and going to sleep, no worry in her heart. If Tristan Caine killed her in her sleep, it'd probably be a mercy.
It was the sound of some kind of crash blaring through the apartment that woke her up.
Morana sat up on the bed suddenly, all the aches in all the muscles coming back tenfold as a groan left her, her eyes blinking into the dark. How long had she been asleep?
She looked at the clock beside the bed and blinked. Eight hours. She'd been asleep for eight straight hours.
The door to her room suddenly opened, and Tristan Caine stood there, his eyes blazing with such strong fury that she trembled. Wasn't he supposed to be in Tenebrae?
"Give me your car keys," he growled.
Morana blinked, her hand automatically going to her clutch before she stopped. "Why?" she asked, slightly suspicious.
"Because your car has a fucking tracker and your father is tracking it here as we speak."
Morana felt her jaw drop, before she got down from the bed, his clothes hanging loosely on her. His eyes never took in the clothes or any other part of her body. He just stood there, all harsh lines and hard angles of a man, his hand held out as he waited for the keys.
Keys to her car.
Swallowing, Morana turned the keys over, her stomach tying i
tself up in knots, biting the urge to ask him what he intended to do with it. Tristan Caine turned away without a word and handed the keys over to Dante.
The other man looked at Morana, his face hard as well, before he nodded at her and left. Morana stood in the doorway, lingering, with no clue of what to do or say as she watched Tristan Caine, in a sharp dark suit that hugged his body, making calls on his phone. He didn't look at her again, not once, just like last night.
She stayed silent for five minutes, a million thoughts running through her head. Could the Outfit be installing a tracker in her car instead? Could they be exploiting this as an opportunity? Could they be using her too?
She shook her head. If the Outfit had wanted to do it, it could have been done while they had gotten her car fixed. And Dante, or he for that matter, had not faked that outrage last night at the sight of her injuries. She could still feel her tender, bruised skin, and pain in her body. It would be a long time before she healed completely.
But why wasn't Tristan Caine in Tenebrae? Last she'd heard, he had to be there.
And she had to get out of there – of the apartment, of the life. She'd had enough. Codes be damned, she had to leave and go someplace far, far away.
But she needed her car. Damn it.
The sound of his phone ringing made her clear her thoughts.
"Yes?" he spoke, crisp, cold, completely unlike the man who'd pinned her against the door and propositioned her.
Morana took a deep breath, realizing that she was sore between the legs too.
"Fuck! Stop him. I'm on my way."
He was out before she could utter a word.
Morana blinked and went to stand beside the window, looking down. She could see tiny, little cars at the end of the road. She could see three other vehicles leave from the building and reach them.
"Morana," Amara's voice came from beside her as the other woman joined her. Morana looked up, surprised she'd missed the woman coming in.
"Amara," she nodded, watching as the woman took note of her injuries, her eyes compassionate.
"I'm sorry."
Morana swallowed, looking back out the window.
"What's happening?" she asked, curious and worried.
Amara took a deep breath. "Your father came looking for you. He tracked your car here."
It hit her at that moment, watching it from the glass wall.
It had been a setup.
She had been a pawn and she'd fallen exactly with the plan.
Her father had been testing her, seeing where she would go. That was why he'd insisted she leave her car behind for dinner, why nobody had been tailing her. She should have suspected something, but her own grief had blinded her. And she had come straight here. To Tristan Caine. To the biker. Fuck.
It hit her at that moment, watching the two sides stop at the road, that she belonged on no side of the line. She belonged nowhere, not with her father and certainly not with the other man who was reputed in the mob for being the predator.
What was she doing?
Panic hit her chest. She couldn't stay.
"Amara, do you have your car here?" Morana asked quietly, feeling the other woman's eyes turn to her.
"Yes."
"May I borrow it?"
"What for?"
"I need to leave," Morana clenched her hands to keep the panic at bay. "I have to get out."
The other woman blinked in understanding. "I can't let you go, Morana. Especially not with the situation as it is right now. It could turn into a blood bath. And Tristan would never forgive me."
That snagged her attention. Morana looked at the woman sharply. "You know why he hates me, don't you?"
Amara nodded. "Yes, but it isn't my story to tell."
"What can you tell me?" she asked bluntly.
Amara tilted her head to the side. "How much do you know about the time the Alliance ended?"
Frowning, Morana tried to recall. "Not much."
"Look it up. That's all I can tell you."
Morana sighed, knowing the woman wouldn't divulge any secrets. She even admired that.
Keeping her eyes on the scene below, Morana saw the cars turn back and return to the building, and straightened her spine, picking up her phone.
Me: I need my car.
Tristan Caine: For?
Morana raised her eyebrows but replied quickly.
Me: Leaving.
Tristan Caine: Where exactly do you plan on going?
She had no idea, but she sure as hell wasn't telling him that.
Me: I'm leaving the city. I have a friend I've spoken to.
Tristan Caine: Unspeak to your friend. If I'm not leaving this city, you sure as hell aren't.
Morana grit her teeth, her anger burning in her gut again.
Me: You don’t get to decide that, Mr. Caine.
Morana walked towards the couch, dropping her body onto it, glaring at the elevator as her phone buzzed again.
Tristan Caine: We have unfinished business, Ms. Vitalio.
'Apparently, you're not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio.'
His words rattled her mind. Last night. It had just been last night. It seemed like a lifetime. Deliberately misunderstanding his words, Morana typed a response.
Me: I’m done with the codes.
He obviously wasn’t because if he was framed, his neck was on the line.
The elevator doors opened just as her phone vibrated. Morana looked up to see him enter the room, his lithe, muscular body fitting right into the sunlit apartment, his blue eyes finding hers, the energy in them burning her. Blue locked with hers, the color beautiful in the bright sunlight, shining and focused, right on her.
Morana took a deep breath and broke their gaze, looking down at the text he'd sent.
Tristan Caine: I wasn't talking about the codes.
Tristan Caine: I meant our business.
Her heart thumped. She didn't look up, aware that he stood just feet away in the room, talking to Amara. She didn't need this. Not right now. Not on top of everything else.
Me: We are done. Is my father is gone?
Tristan Caine: With more bruises on his face than yours.
Morana's eyes flew up, locking with his.
He'd hit her father? Was he insane?
And seriously what was she doing? Predators scented injured animals and attacked. He'd attacked her father.
And yet, there she was, in the den of the deadliest predator, one who had told her in no clear terms that she was his prey and his prey alone. There she was injured, bleeding, and vulnerable in so many ways. Yet, she'd never felt safer.
Panic hit.
Morana Vitalio was not a woman easily scared.
She'd been brought up in a house full of snakes. She'd seen and observed those slimy beings since before she had learned to walk. And she'd never feared them. Not when she'd seen their guns. Not when she'd seen the mayhem they were capable of with her own young eyes. Not when she'd seen the bright color of blood splattered on the pristine white walls, only to be covered up within the day.
She hadn't been scared when her own life had been on the line with the codes, nor when her father had let her fall down the stairs with the possibility of her breaking her neck.
No. Morana Vitalio was not scared of death.
But she was scared of Tristan Caine, even though she didn't want to admit it.
She watched him move about the kitchen with the natural grace of a predator - lithe, sure and completely certain of its victory- the jacket of his suit hanging on a chair while his white shirt stretched taut across his back, the sleeves rolled up over his muscular forearms as he moved the frying pan with one hand and added the seasonings with the other. She sat on the same stool she'd been sitting in the last time she'd spent the night in the penthouse mere days ago. Lord, it felt like a lifetime.
Back then, she'd seen his body in motion and harbored a minuscule root of feminine appreciation for such beauty. Now, she marveled. Because she knew, intimatel
y, how that body moved inside her. She knew how he felt inside her, knew how he pulsed inside her.
And that's all she knew. Because that was all she'd allowed herself to know. And for some reason, it had only fuelled her hunger.
She watched the muscles in his back flex and wondered what they'd feel like if he was above her. She watched his hands moving the pan skilfully and wondered what they'd feel like playing with her body, caressing her skin. She watched that taut, taut ass of his and wondered what it'd be like under her teeth.
Heat pooled in her belly at her erotic thoughts. Squirming uncomfortably on the stool, her blood heated and her body bruised, Morana moved her eyes away from him to the two other people sitting in the room, far away from each other. Amara scrolled through her phone a few stools beside Morana, and Dante watched the spectacular setting sun from the floor to ceiling windows, sitting on the other side of the room while Tristan Caine cooked silently.
The tension in the room, between each and every one, was choking her. It was fucking unnerving. And she was not used to it. This awkward silence – because she knew they had to talk but couldn't in her presence because there was some weird stuff going on between Amara and Dante and the other two people in the room knew it. Also because there was some weird stuff going on between herself and his majesty, and the other two knew about it too. Everything was just weird. Yet, weirdly comfortable in a way it shouldn't have been.
"What should I tell father?"
Dante's quiet voice broke through the silence like a whip, his dark eyes trained on Tristan Caine's back.
Tristan Caine turned off the stove, the smell of something hot and spicy permeating the air, making her mouth drool while she closely observed him for even a minute reaction. She got none.