by RuNyx .
Dante moved from the door and Tristan Caine walked out, his animalistic body contained inside that suit, flexing with his steps as he strode with four other men on his heels. He stopped to talk to Dante, presenting her with his profile. Keenly aware of her father standing right beside her, Morana averted her eyes and pretended to check her phone, her heart pounding everywhere in her body, from her chest to her ears to her core. Everything throbbed. She throbbed.
And then his eyes came to her.
Again.
Fuck.
She contained a shiver. Barely.
And then his eyes left her.
She held her breath, and when it didn't return, she looked up at her father, to find him watching Tristan Caine with narrowed, angry eyes.
Curious, she followed his gaze to the man who'd been between her legs just minutes ago and blinked in surprise.
Tristan Caine was holding her father's angry glare without blinking, one of his eyebrows raised, his lips curled in a small sneer that was as fake as her British accent. What was he doing?
She got her answer a second later, understanding the game. It was a game of dominance. And there he stood, asserting his dominance in her father's territory, completely unruffled. And she knew, deep in her gut, it was about her.
She'd never felt so alive and never wished she could be more dead than she did at that moment.
"Get in the car," her father spit out angrily, pushing her arm towards the town car. At any other time, Morana would have dug her heels and argued. But not right then. Right then, she practically bolted to the car and got inside, needing to get away from the situation that could explode at any time. Her skin sizzled with the tension hovering in the air and she got in the vehicle without sparing him one glance.
Her father followed, shutting the door and telling the driver to pull away.
Morana grit her teeth and looked out the window, resisting the urge to clench her hands into fists as her father watched. Slowly, her heart calmed down and the shaking inside her stopped as she closed off. She'd been dealing with her father for many, many cold years. She would deal with him now. Ignoring the ache in her body, keeping all and every thought and memory of him at bay, Morana sat straight and just kept her eyes on the fleeting scenery –poised, calm, collected.
Her father didn't say a word for the entire ride. Not that she'd expected him to. No. All the cool he lost would be in private, not in front of his men where she could insult him again. His reputation was much, much more important than hers.
It was a short journey from the restaurant to the mansion. It was long with her knowledge of what was coming.
The minute the property gates appeared and the car slid into its spot, Morana got out of the vehicle and started walking towards the monster of a mansion, closed behind high fences and weapons that could turn against her at a moment's notice.
She almost reached the stairs to her suite when her father's voice boomed from behind her.
"He couldn't keep his eyes off you."
The words, the memory of that gaze lingering on her skin, stroking her naked back, caressing her flesh made her falter on the third step. She quickly recovered before the falter could be noticed and kept her voice cool.
"Isn't that why you doll me up?" she asked, her heart hardened over years of disappointment and hurt.
"He was gone from the place. You were too. And then he comes back and can't keep his eyes off you?"
Morana ignored his harsh words that evoked rough, physical memories, and kept climbing up.
"What were you doing with Tristan Caine?"
Her father followed after her, for the first time in her memory. He never came to her suite. It had always been summons for her.
Morana reached the landing and turned to him, gritting her teeth, the anger in his voice fuelling the cold inside her, the wheels in her head turning.
"I was having sex with him," she told him, her eyebrows raised in challenge.
She saw his arm come up to hit her, hover mid-air, and drop back down.
Her heart pounded, the cold, cold ice in her heart seeping deeper as she stood her ground.
"Tell me the truth," he demanded, his jaw clenched and eyes mad.
"I told you," Morana insisted, prodding him. "I was having wild sex with him in the bathroom with you right outside."
Her father sighed. "No, you weren't. You're not that kind of a girl. I raised you better."
Morana scoffed a laugh at that. "You didn't raise me at all." She was exactly that kind of girl. The heart of the daughter in her – the young girl who'd never won either her father's love or approval – ached. Morana hardened it again.
Her father narrowed his eyes. "What about the man on the bike? Who was he then?"
Morana smirked. "Oh, I slept with him too."
Technically, she had.
"Enough!" her father glared at her, his voice cutting, his accent deepening in the anger. "If you think I will not bring a doctor to have you checked, you are mistaken."
How dare he?
How fucking dare he?
Her blood boiled.
"I dare you," Morana snarled, her lips curling in a sneer. "You even think of bringing a doctor to violate me, I'll shoot her in the head and anyone else who comes near me."
"I've given you too much independence," he grit out, his dark eyes raging. "Too much. It's time it's put to a stop."
"Try to lock me in," Morana clenched her teeth, her voice lowering, her eyes glaring at the man who had spawned her, "and I will dump a heavy file on you right in the FBI's lap and serve you up like meat."
Her father gritted his teeth.
"Oh, I'd die too, but I'd take you down with me," Morana told him, uncaring about her own death. "Keep your nose out of my business, or I'll put mine in yours. And you wouldn't like it, Daddy."
The sarcastic emphasis on the word couldn't be missed. The threat lingering in the air couldn't be missed. The utter, black rage in her father's eyes couldn't be missed.
"You should have died," her father spit out, the words like bullets to her chest.
What? What was he talking about? She couldn’t ask.
Morana turned to leave but he gripped her arm tightly, swinging her around. "I'm not done!"
The sudden motion made her totter on her heels. Before she could blink, her right ankle twisted and her left overbalanced at the edge of the landing, her entire body moving backward. Deja-vu suddenly flashed through her, of the moment she'd been tipping over the stairs at the penthouse and Tristan Caine had gripped her neck and prevented her fall. Her father was gripping her arm, and she kept her heart from pounding.
And then it happened in a split second.
In that split second, Morana knew the stark difference between her father and Tristan Caine.
His grip loosened.
Deliberately.
She fell back, her eyes widening.
Down the stairs.
Down and down and down and down until there were no more steps to fall from.
It was over in a series of mere seconds.
It was over before she could realize it had started.
And then it began.
Every single bone started to hurt. Every single joint started to ache. Every single muscle started to pain.
Morana lay there, on the cold marble floor, as cold as the house, as cold as the man who stood at the landing, his face an odd twist of remorse and iciness. She didn't know whether her body hurt more or her heart, all those shattered hopes splattered on the cold floor beside her. But she knew, in that moment of utter betrayal of the worst kind, in that moment of finally letting go of the little girl she'd held on to, she knew this was a good thing. Because she knew there was no hope now. Not anymore.
Slowly sitting up, Morana bit back a sharp cry of pain as her ribs protested, removing her heels from her feet and threw them to the side.
As fluidly as she could, she picked up her clutch from the ground where it had fallen with her and st
ood up on wobbling legs. Her teeth dug into her lips as she locked the pain away for later. Without another word, another glance, picking up all her dignity as sharply as she could, Morana took a step towards the door.
Sharp tendrils of pain shot up her legs, up her spine. Her body was making her feel each and every stair she had tumbled over. The ache between her legs that had been the highlight of her night was buried under all the other painful sensations.
Bruised, battered, she walked out of the house on bare feet, keeping her spine straight and not sparing anyone any glance, her rigid frame screaming for her to relax and let her skin breathe.
She didn't.
She stifled the groans and let her skin turn blue, angry welts appearing all over her arms and legs and back, the gravel of the driveway cutting the skin of her feet. But she kept walking to her car, her only friend in this world of pain, and pulled out the keys from her clutch, thanking heavens she always kept it with her.
Throwing the clutch and her phone on the passenger seat, she got inside, the action resonating in every single bone in her body, muscles she didn't know she had hurt.
But she clenched her jaw, keeping every sound at bay, her eyes flooding with tears that rolled down her cheeks, burning the skin of her cheeks where the marble had cut.
Pulling out of the driveway without sparing the cursed house a glance, she drove out into the road in the deep night, the moonlight bathing the way, trees lining on either side as she just drove and drove, away and away, her tears torrential.
A sob escaped her throat, rapidly followed by another, and another, and another till they became uncontrolled, the noises loud in the silence of the car, mingling with the familiar purr of the engine.
She drove mindlessly, trying to keep all thoughts at bay, everything inside her breaking with each sob. She didn't know where to go. She had no friends, no people who cared about her, not one place she could go to when she needed to stay. She could go to a hotel but with the battered clothes and bruised skin, the police might become involved and that couldn't happen. She couldn't go anywhere public. Not even a hospital.
No one tailed her as she drove. Why would they? Her father had dropped her. What if she had broken her neck? What if she had died? Did she really not matter at all?
It was a few minutes of her harsh thoughts before Morana realized where she was heading – the penthouse.
Subconsciously, she had steered her car towards the penthouse. Why? That was the last place she could go, should go. Especially after the night. Especially as she was.
And yet, she didn't hit the brakes.
She was two minutes away and over the bridge, and even as she knew she shouldn't go there, she continued to drive.
What would it mean? She was going to him. He had told her she wasn't out of his system, and in all honesty, neither was he out of hers. But they were still who they were and their hatred hadn't gone down.
She remembered those glass walls, remembered that truce for one night as he'd sit beside her, an almost decent man. Could that truce prevail again? Should she even ask for it? Because she was not her best, neither physically not emotionally. And yet, as the building came into view, as the guards waved her in, recognizing her from before, Morana parked her car and sat in silence.
The comforting scent of her car, the sounds of her own breathing made her calm down a little.
But she didn't take a step out.
She couldn't.
She wanted to move, to walk, to get out. She couldn't.
Wiping her tears from her cheeks even as more escaped, Morana sat in the car quietly in the darkened area, her chest heaving with sobs. Sitting there, she let herself cry, let herself weep in a way she'd never allowed herself to do. She cried for the girl she had been, the girl who had died after the fall today. She cried for the lost hopes she'd been clinging to, for the lost dreams of maybes. She cried because she had no one to give her a shoulder and hold her as she cried because she had to wrap her arms around herself and hold herself together, in the basement of her enemy. She cried.
The sound of the elevator dinging had her wiping her tears. She looked up, alert. She didn't want anyone to see her even as a part of her wanted someone to.
Swallowing, she watched as Dante walked out in the suit he had been in at the restaurant, his phone held up to his ear, his voice low as he talked to someone. He headed to a black SUV two cars away from her, and she saw him still as he spied her vehicle lingering innocently in the lot.
"Morana?"
Shit.
Morana quietly opened her car, berating herself for not even knowing how bad her face looked with the injuries. She got out and closed the door, and saw Dante's eyes take her in, from head to toe, his eyes widening slightly in concern.
"I'll call you back," he spoke into the phone, his voice hardening as did his eyes, anger flashing through them.
Morana remembered what Amara had told her, about the two men being protective of women. She remembered Dante offering her comfort when she'd had to stay the night. And tears welled up in her eyes again, because that comfort, that concern, was a stranger to her.
He took a step towards her, still keeping his polite distance, his handsome face twisted in anger.
"Who did this?"
It touched her. The fact that he was the enemy and yet he wanted to hurt the culprit. It touched her deep.
Morana gulped.
"I fell down the stairs," she spoke quietly, her voice shaking just a bit. She really, really hoped he didn't ask her what she was doing there. She didn't have an answer.
He searched her eyes for a long moment before his eyes softened. "I will be away for the night. You can go upstairs and rest, Morana."
Morana felt her grip tighten on the car door handle, her lips trembling. She shook her head. "No. I'm okay. I'll go stay with some friends."
The fact that he didn't call her out on the obvious lie, that her presence there of all places was the indication that she had no friends, gave him a point in her books.
She shook her head again, and he cursed. "Tristan's up there."
Her eyes flew to his, her heart pounding. She didn't know why but it did. Anger burnished her.
Why? Why the hell did it matter? Why was her stomach in knots over it? Why had she come here of all places?
"Look," Dante's gentle tone broke through her spiraling thoughts. "Just let me call Amara. Stay over at her place if you're not comfortable at mine. You're hurt and Amara won't hurt you."
Morana was coming undone at his genuine concern. Unraveling bit by bit.
Her lips trembled but she shook her head. As tempting as the offer was, she couldn't drag Amara into this mess, not knowing that she couldn't protect herself, not knowing her history. Perhaps that's why she'd come here. Because she knew he could protect himself, that he had dragged himself into her mess. In a way.
"It's okay," she told him, opening her car door, ready to leave. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone" – him – "about this."
Dante stared at her for a long moment, before suddenly moving towards the private elevator with a loud "Fuck it!"
Morana watched, shocked, as he typed in the code and looked at her, tilting his head towards the open door.
"Go up."
Morana stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
"Morana, I don't have all night and I cannot leave you like this," Dante told her quietly, his eyes beseeching. "Please go up to the penthouse and rest."
She was the enemy. She was the woman his blood brother hated for a reason he knew of.
And yet...
Swallowing, she locked her car and moved towards the elevator on aching legs, her heart beating hard.
She looked up at Dante, her lips trembling. "Thank you," she whispered, meaning every single syllable from her heart.
Dante nodded.
She entered the familiar elevator and pressed the button. The doors closed on Dante's face. The mirrors stared back at her.
&n
bsp; And Morana gasped.
Her dress hung off her shoulders, her hair a mess around her face, her cheeks cut and knees abraded, the skin of her hands and legs and shoulders turning bluer by the second, her lips swollen from her own bites and eyes puffed red from the tears.
She looked like a wreck. No wonder Dante had let her in.
And Tristan Caine was up there.
And she was going up.
What the hell was she doing?
Nerves attacked her, her chest constricting as panic hit.
No. No. No.
She couldn't let him see her like this. She couldn't enter his territory, not like this.
Heart hammering in her chest, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, keys digging into her palm, Morana raised her hand and let her finger hover over the button for the parking, ready to hit the moment the elevator stopped. She was going to turn her tail and go back to her car and go to some seedy motel if she had to. But she was going back. She was not letting him see her like –
The elevator stopped, the doors sliding open.
He stood right at the entrance, waiting.
Morana hit the button for down quickly, before he could see her.
The doors started to close.
Her heart thundered.
She hit the button again.
The doors kept sliding shut.
Almost there.
And just when they almost closed, his hand inserted itself in between.
Morana bit her tender lip, her heart pounding, pressing her back into the mirrored wall, her body aching, her lungs unable to draw in a deep breath. The long-forgotten ache between her legs throbbed at the proximity to its perpetrator, her eyes glued to the large hand that forced the doors apart again. She could see callouses on his long fingers, the ridges and hard lines. The hand was wrapped in a bandage from when he'd bled on her, from tonight when she'd made him bleed.
Her heart picked up pace seeing that hand.
And then the doors slid apart.
She straightened her back, her ribs hurting from the action, and stood as tall as she could, which didn’t amount to much on her bare feet.
