The Reaper

by RuNyx

  The female vocalist breathed ‘I don't wanna fall in love with you’ into the microphone. He bent her over his arm, his nose breathing the entire line of her neck. Bringing her back against him, his hands on the edge of her ass, her breasts pressed into his torso, her nipples hardened as his mouth stayed close to her ear. She could hear a ragged breath he took, semi-hard.

  Uncaring of the unusual display, Morana inhaled his scent in, the mix of musk and man familiar to her now, comforting even.

  “It seems you’re done avoiding me, Mr. Caine,” she remarked breathlessly, deliberately using his last name.

  He said nothing, only his hands tightening infinitesimally on her flesh in response.

  Morana sighed, shaking her head. “Next time you need a moment, just tell me. We're honest with each other, remember?”

  He didn’t say anything. She knew he wouldn’t, not when there were people around, unfriendly people, and not when they were watching him like a hawk. He was still The Predator. Only he was doing a very public mating dance, uncaring of those who watched. She didn't understand him sometimes.

  The song changed to one she didn't know. His nose brushed against the lobe of her ear, sending blood rushing to the spot.

  “Do you have the blade?” he murmured into her ear, like a lover whispering sweet nothings to any watchful eye.

  Morana kept her body relaxed in his arms, nodding against his shoulder, pressing her nose into the V created by his shirt.

  His hand brushed against her ass. “Let me have it,” he spoke, half-stating half-asking.

  “Why?” Morana wondered, her mind spinning.

  He stayed quiet for a second and then whispered softly, “Trust me.”

  Oh, she wanted to. How she wanted to. But old habits had her hesitating, debating. If she let him have it, she would be unarmed and he knew it. And he asked for it, despite that knowledge. There had to be a good reason, a reason he probably couldn’t share in this setting.

  Closing her eyes, her stomach churning, Morana jumped off another cliff. She raised her left leg and wrapped it around his hip wordlessly, his hand automatically coming down to support her thigh. He turned them to the side, hiding her exposed leg from prying eyes, his fingers brushing over the strap holding her knife. Containing the shiver that wracked her body at his fingers stroking her skin gently, Morana held on to his shoulders. She felt his chest rise as he took in a breath, pressing right against her, the air around the side of her head buzzing with his life. With a small jerk, he pulled the knife out from the sheath, his hand disappearing from her thigh.

  Morana put her leg back down again just as the song ended.

  And felt him press a soft kiss on the top of her lobe.

  Before she could even process that tiny action, he stepped back and walked away, leaving her gaping on the dance floor. Quickly controlling her expression, Morana stared at his retreating back, unable to understand what had just happened.

  Suddenly aware of everyone stealing glances at her, Morana quickly ducked her head and headed for the door, thankfully not stopped by anybody on her path. Exiting out into the lawns, Morana took off her heels, lifted the hem of her dress and walked out away from the mansion, feeling her toes sink into the damp, dewy grass. The crisp air was refreshing. The sounds of the party faded away into the background as she strolled deeper and deeper into the lawn, heading towards the treeline, mulling upon everything.

  A mysterious man had come to the party solely to warn her about a possible assassination attempt. Moreover, he had come because, according to him, they had the same goal - discovering what had happened twenty years ago with the Alliance. And his reasons were personal. Morana genuinely didn’t know how to feel about that. He was dangerous, yes, but she hadn’t sensed any creepy vibes from him. More importantly, she hadn’t sensed any kind of masculine interest from him in her. While they had been dancing close, none of her antennas had been sending any off signals.

  And then there was the way Tristan had cut into the conversation. After the way he had avoided her since last night and his snub earlier with the eyes, Morana had doubted he would even speak to her, much less walk over to dance with her. And though he hadn’t been Mr. Warmth, he had still oddly warmed her. He had held her not in possession but with the confidence of a man who knew she had given herself to him. The very public nature of that had been interesting though. She couldn't figure out what he was trying to do. She'd thought he would fly her under the radar. Instead, he was beaming the spotlight on her. And somehow, despite the many, many eyes on them, he had maneuvered her into giving up her one weapon, consequently, giving him another small part of herself.

  And then he had fucking kissed her ear. Her ear. Like seriously?

  Morana touched her lobe where his lips had grazed her softly, rubbing the sensation off. God, the man confused her.

  She emerged out of the treeline finally, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The lake rippled calmly a few feet from her, the wind dancing over the water in a soft breeze. Morana walked over a few steps, her toes curling into the grass, eyes going to the small house beside the lake.

  His house. His home? She didn't know.

  Up close, she observed the building. It was almost the same size as Dante’s. There was a porch at the front, a comfortable-looking wooden recliner sitting on it, looking out at the lake. Morana imagined him sitting there in the evenings, gazing out on the lake, completely alone, nothing in his life except what he had made for himself. She imagined him sitting there, night after night, watching the same moon she had watched without even knowing about him. He had known about her and she imagined him clinging to her, to the only goal he had in life sitting alone in the dark. She imagined him thinking about her.

  Drawn to the house like a moth to a flame, she took a step towards it. Then hesitated for a second, her step faltering. She shouldn’t. No. Not without his invitation.

  Taking a deep breath, she veered off the path and went towards the lake instead, standing exactly where she’d seen him and Dante standing yesterday. There was something almost peaceful about the place, away from the main house. She turned her neck to see her window from this vantage. The mansion was lit up and her window was very, very visible from where she stood. She could picture her silhouette in the room when he watched from here.

  It was as she was contemplating everything that someone came out from the treeline towards her. Someone she didn't know, had never seen before.

  Her heart started to pound.

  The man she didn't recognize was dressed in black, his blonde hair light in the dark, his cold, dead eyes trained on her along with the end of a gun. Morana swallowed, taking a breath to try and quieten her heart.

  “Who sent you?” she asked calmly as if she wasn’t looking death right in the eyes. He didn’t reply. She hadn’t expected him to.

  Mind whirring, Morana felt her fingers tighten around the strap of her stilettos. She could use them. Throw one at the gun right as she ducked down. She could then jump in the lake because running won’t work. If she ran he would chase, maybe even hit her with a bullet. She would make an easier target running away. The lake would be harder for him to maneuver, the darkness would be her ally. She could easily hide in the murky depths for a while.

  As all the plans came and went through her head, Morana kept her eyes steady on the assassin.

  Out of nowhere, she saw the tip of a knife press into his neck.

  “The lady asked you a question.”

  Morana watched, stunned, as the assassin reacted to the blade and that voice. Whiskey and sin and death. So much death.

  Where the hell did he even come from? She’d been facing the tree line the entire time and hadn’t even glimpsed a shadow slinking around. How?

  The assassin unlocked the gun. The knife pressed into a point on his throat in silent rebuke, the point the Predator had told her would make her bleed out slowly and wish for death by demonstrating on their first encounter. She saw a drop of blood slid
e down into the assassin’s dark clothes.

  “I’m one second away from slitting your throat,” Tristan warned, his voice so chilling she shivered. “I suggest you start answering some questions.”

  The assassin looked at her. “You shouldn’t have gone digging old graves.”

  Before she could even blink, the man twisted his arm, turning the gun and shot himself through the head.

  A shriek left her and she clapped her hands over her mouth, shock coursing through her as she watched the now-dead assassin fall, his blood splattered over Tristan. She stood rooted to the spot, her heels falling from her numb hands, as she watched Tristan quickly pocket the knife, squatting down to pat the corpse swiftly.

  Morana stayed frozen.

  He found a wallet, taking it out and rummaging through it, before pocketing that as well. Suddenly stopping, as though remembering she was still there, he looked up through a face splattered with blood, so much blood, his blue eyes sparking with something cold. Those eyes perused her quickly, thoroughly, before locking with hers.

  “Get back to the house,” he ordered quietly, without getting up.

  Morana opened her mouth to say something but he shook his head, just once, silencing her for the first time. She didn't even know what she would have said. Her mind was blank. Just the idea of staying behind with the body made her feel nauseated all of a sudden.

  She swallowed, her eyes going to his house just feet away, lingering, coming back to him in silent question.

  His eyes blazed. He didn’t respond.

  Slightly dejected at still being uninvited, Morana sighed and moved around him and the corpse towards the treeline.

  “And text Dante,” his voice said from behind her, still quiet. He was in his mode but something was simmering under the surface, in a way she hadn't seen him in before. “Tell him to get here.”

  Morana nodded, pulling up the contact on the phone, making the call. Dante picked up on the second ring.

  "Morana," he greeted, his voice neutral. She could hear the party in the background.

  "You need to come by the lake," she told him, her voice so neutral, surprising her. She sounded so calm, too calm.

  Dante paused. "You two okay?"

  Morana looked at the dead body, then at Tristan, still covered in blood, checking the man's gun. She gulped. "I think so."

  "I'll be there in 5."

  Dante disconnected and Morana relayed the information to Tristan. He nodded and looked pointedly at the house.

  Morana hesitated, part of her wanting to stay and help. But she didn't know anything about taking care of dead bodies and what to do with them. It wasn't her forte. And looking at the blown-out face of the assassin, she never, ever wanted it to be her forte.

  "I need you to leave, now," Tristan told her, still crouched on the ground. He needed her to leave. He needed her to go so he could do whatever he had to do. She was a distraction at the moment. Realizing that, Morana nodded and walked back to the house without turning to look behind her, her steps quick. Thankfully, she didn’t encounter anybody on the way. Entering through the main door, she climbed up the stairs and went straight to her room, locking the door behind her.

  Heaving a shuddering breath in, reaction finally set in. With trembling hands, she took off her dress and jewelry, pushing them off and going straight for the shower. Stepping in, she closed her eyes as the warm water poured over her, the image of the assassin shooting his head off, his blood spraying back all over Tristan, burned in her memory. Scrubbing her skin, as though the blood was on her, Morana shivered in the warm water, her body shaking even as she tried to calm it down.

  It was okay. Nothing happened. She was fine. He was fine. She was fine. He was fine.

  She repeated it over and over like a mantra, eventually feeling her heart catch its normal rhythm. Blowing out a breath, she shut off the water and wrapped herself in a towel, her brain finally putting the pieces together.

  Tristan had set a trap.

  Like a true predator, he had taken her knife, perhaps because he’d been unarmed, and left her on the dance floor, knowing she would want to escape and her would-be assassin would follow. Somehow, without her or her assassin even getting the slightest hint, he had followed them, stalked them. And then he’d had the other man exactly where he’d wanted him - on the other end of the knife.

  Getting into her new, cute pajamas, a sense of comfort washing over her, Morana got into bed, turning the light off. Her eyes open, she watched the lights from outside play on the ceiling, still surprised at the entire evening, at the meeting with the man who was her ‘new friend’, at the way Tristan had reacted at the party and then everything that had happened by the lake.

  The last words of the man echoed in her head. Words he had said right before killing himself. She was digging old graves and someone, somewhere really wanted to keep them buried. But the thing was, she had no clue what she was digging into and who wanted to silence her so bad that they’d sent an assassin to the house of the Maronis. It didn’t escape her attention that anybody gutsy enough to send an outsider in Maroni’s property was either really desperate or fearless. She did consider if it was Maroni himself but discarded the idea immediately. If something happened to her, he would be the first suspect for Tristan and Tristan would go rogue on his ass, which Maroni couldn’t afford at the moment for some reason. It couldn’t be her father, not after the scene she had witnessed between him and Tristan.

  And he had protected her, yet again.

  She didn’t want to be protected but she was realistic enough to know that in the world she lived in, having Tristan’s protection was the only thing keeping her alive, especially after the enemies she had made unknowingly. She was grateful for that.

  As she stared up at the ceiling, a part of her wished he would have told her to go into his house. She was curious about his space, yes, but more than that, she wanted to be invited where nobody had gone with him. She wanted, one day, to stare up at his ceiling in his bed with his body sleeping beside hers.

  But he didn’t trust her enough for that, not yet. And honestly, she really couldn’t blame him. While she was more open to them, she was holding a part of herself back too. They were progressing but god, they were slow. She just hoped they kept moving forward and not back. She was willing to give him whatever time he needed to come to terms with things, but she had to nudge him to communicate, if not with words then some other way.

  Sighing, blanking her mind of everything that had happened tonight and leaving it for tomorrow, Morana closed her eyes and let sleep take over.

  Something woke her up.

  Morana stayed relaxed, keeping her eyes closed as she let her senses expand around the room. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. There was light in the room - light she could feel at the back of her eyelids.

  Nerves taut, a knot low in her belly, Morana opened her eyes just a slit.

  The door to her room was open.

  Her heart started to hammer.

  She automatically reached for the knife beside her pillow and came up empty. Tristan still had it. Fuck.

  Without another thought, she extended her hand to the bedside lamp, anything to defend herself, just as a large silhouette moved to her.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  And the noise got drowned behind the pillow shoved into her face.

  The thing they said about life flashing before the eyes during that moment of reckoning? They lied.

  Morana didn’t have any flashes, any moments from the past invading her mind in that second, nothing except the most primal need for survival clawing its way to the front as the pillow smothered her. Lungs burning, trying to replenish themselves with oxygen that was deprived to them, Morana struggled against the form holding her down, her legs jerking from side to side. Her noises muffled against the stuffing of the pillow. Her hands tried to scratch and hurt her assailant. Her fingers made contact with leather on muscled arms, slipping, her nails cracki
ng open in the struggle. The pain was diminished by the intense burn in her chest and the methodical numbing of her face.

  Panic tried to squeeze itself into her heart and in one split second of clarity, Morana knew she couldn’t let panic win. Not in that moment. If she did, the bastard above her would succeed. She would die in her bed in new pajamas while a party went on downstairs. She would die and Tristan would detonate. He would destroy on his path to decimation, people including Dante and Amara and hundreds of innocents who did not deserve it.

  She couldn’t die. She couldn’t trigger it. Not at this stage of her life. She had finally found something worth living for. Nobody could snatch it away from her. Not now. She had to make it. She had to live.

  Trembling from head to toe, she extended her right arm to the side where it had been before, letting go of her resistance against the pillow for one second. Immediately, the pressure over her face increased exponentially, the panic for survival burning through her again. She refused to let it win, overextending the muscles of her arm, feeling the strain in her shoulder. She didn’t care.

  Her fingers made contact with the cool metal of the bedside lamp. Pulling a muscle with the strain, she grabbed onto the handle. Without hesitation, she gripped it tight and blindly swung it wildly in the direction of her assailant.

  And missed.

  She swung it again, and again, and again, finally making contact with solid flesh.

  The assailant took his hands off the pillow to block her weak attack but it was enough. Throwing herself off the bed to the side, gasping loudly for the suddenly available air, Morana fell hard on the floor. Her back arched against the impact, her tailbone bruised. Uncaring about any of it, she looked up at the shadowed male figure wearing a balaclava, coming at her again. Instinctively throwing her right foot up in the air, she kicked him right between the legs and kicked him hard.

  Her foot made contact with his groin and the man screamed in pain, cupping his balls as Morana tried to scramble for a weapon. His hand enclosed her ankle and dragged her back down. The frantic fear tried to grab her again and Morana deliberately kept her head cool, letting her brain kick in. Sliding down the floor as he tugged her, Morana spread her legs and trapped his head between her thighs, squeezing for her life. Whimpers left her mouth, her chest heaving as she grabbed the wire connected to the lamp and brought it to her. Her assailant struggled between her legs, the pressure on his skull immense, his intense movement straining her thighs, and everything in between.