by RuNyx
The contrast between their reflections at that moment - his darker skin to her pallor; his clean dark clothes to her dirty light; his tall, broad frame to her small, curvy one; the power radiating from his very being, even in a disheveled condition at a moment when he wasn’t even glancing at her, prickling against her skin - sent a shiver down her spine.
While the thought of having this man’s body against her had merely aroused her until a few days ago - although to a level she’d never understood - it was a chaotic frenzy inside her now. Fascination and lust, compassion and lust, anger and lust, mingled in an ardent concoction she could feel brewing in her stomach, knowing that while now wasn’t the time, she would have him again one day - this time as naked as she would be, this time with his flesh against her, his sweat, his scent, his scars rubbing on her as she marked him with hers.
He would be her ruin. And she would ruin him right back.
But now was not the time.
Taking a deep breath to center herself, to give both him and herself the time to process the events of the last twenty-four hours, she peeked at where he stood, remembering the first time she’d entered this elevator with him. He stood leaning against the back wall, mere feet away from her, scrolling through his phone, not once looking up or making eye contact with her. It was odd, this lack of eye contact between them. And now that he was denying her those magnificent eyes of his, she realized how much she’d come to rely upon them to read him.
She knew that he knew that she was watching him. Yet, he deliberately kept his gaze on his phone.
Blowing out a breath, she started rubbing her arms to warm herself, conscious of the slight pain on her wound, when the doors finally slid open, showing her the majestic view of rain and the city outside those windows she’d come to love so much, that always made her breath catch for a split second.
And, then, angry voices reached her.
One loud, masculine. One soft, feminine.
Reigning in her surprise - both at finding Amara there and hearing Dante sound so unlike himself, Morana stayed glued to the spot and looked at the silent man beside her, seeing him finally put his phone down and concentrate on the two people inside.
“You had no right!” Dante spoke, his voice higher than Morana had ever heard, his anger brimming in every word. “It wasn’t your story to tell.”
“I couldn’t just stand aside and let him destroy himself or her!” Amara retorted, her voice still low and raspy but firm enough to let Morana know she meant business. “I’ve seen him do that for years and I cannot stand it.”
“This isn’t about you, god damn it!” Dante yelled and Morana flinched. “You want to tell someone how you got that scar? Do it. Tell them all. But you don’t get to tell anyone how he got his, Amara! I told you all of that in strict confidence and you betrayed it. You betrayed him. How. The. Fuck. Could. You?”
“You accuse me of betrayal? God, I don’t even recognize you sometimes,” Amara whispered, the rage in her voice boiling over, her tone a whole world different from how it had been an hour ago speaking of this very man. “Yes, I told an innocent woman who had no part in any of what happened to him about why her life was at stake. I told the truth about him to a woman who makes him so alive, I’ve never seen him like this before. If by betraying you and him, he gets a chance at a better life than he’s had, then I’d betray you a hundred more times! She deserved to know and he deserves a chance!”
“Do not start with this again,” Dante whipped out. “It’s a fucking simple thing. We trusted you and you broke it. It was his story to tell and he would’ve told her if he wanted. He didn’t.”
“Because he’s scared it’ll change things!” Amara cried out, her soft voice straining. “And things need to be changed, don’t you get that?!”
“Not like this.”
There was silence for a second before Amara asked quietly. “Are you mad because I betrayed him or because I betrayed you?”
Atta girl.
Morana cheered silently on the woman who’d become her friend, who had knocked a yelling man down a peg with her soft, scarred voice. Something akin to pride filled her.
Before another word could be uttered in the apartment, the hulking man beside her - who’d stilled more and more with every word - stepped out of the elevator and turned right, striding towards the dining area where the voices were coming from. Morana followed quickly, a few steps behind him, biting her lips to keep her thoughts to herself.
She stopped at the edge of the living room, seeing both Dante and Amara frozen to their spots, inches away from each other but both looking at Tristan Caine with wide eyes. Dante’s gaze flickered to her for a moment, taking her in from head to toe, his observant eyes lingering on her lips for a long second that suddenly made her realize how swollen they were. Morana didn’t avert her eyes from his dark ones in his troubled handsome face. He shook his head once before moving away sharply towards the window and glaring out at the view.
Amara didn’t look at her at all, not for a moment. But stared right back at the man beside her, her spine straight and chin up, no remorse on her face for what she’d done. Morana felt her respect for the woman go up a notch - because being on the receiving end of Tristan Caine’s eyes drilling holes into you was intimidating as fuck.
She looked up at him to find him staring back at Amara, his jaw clenched.
Nobody uttered a word.
The tension between the two seemed to climb higher and higher, so much so that Morana debated interfering for a moment. But then she saw his lips move.
“Go home, Amara.”
His voice - that voice of whiskey and sin - spoke for the first time in hours, softly to the beautiful woman, a demand and a request rolled into one.
Amara nodded without any argument or explanations, picking up her bag from the counter and walked past them towards the elevator. She came to a halt beside the console and turned to look at Dante as he looked out the windows, her dark green eyes angry.
“Stop being a coward, Dante,” she spit out softly in his direction. “It’s high fucking time.”
Uh oh.
With that, she walked into the elevator and closed the doors behind her.
Okay.
But it wasn’t over, it seemed. Morana watched with her eyebrows up in her hairline as Dante fisted his hands beside him, before picking up a vase from the nearest cabinet and throwing it on the floor, smashing it to glimmering pieces. Flinching from the suddenness of the noise, the beautiful crystal shattering loudly, and the broken bits splattering all over the floor, Morana inhaled sharply.
She was too tired, too overwhelmed, to witness anything more emotional in any kind, not until morning. In a way, she was actually grateful to Tristan Caine for keeping his silence and not being the forceful whirlwind he could be sometimes. For now, she needed to unwind lest she resembled that vase on the floor - shattered from a force it could not withstand.
So, knowing it would be better for her to retreat and to leave the men to their mutual brooding and privacy, to go tend to her wound, she stepped back.
Retreating towards the guest room on silent steps, she opened the door and slipped inside, aware of the pin-drop silence in the apartment, the only noise coming from the torrent clashing with the glass windows. Letting out the breath she’d been holding since getting on the elevator, Morana quickly put her phone on charge, headed to the bathroom, and went about turning the warm water on in the bath.
Taking a seat on the ledge beside the sunken tub, she went about cleaning her wound again, hissing as the sting made her already sensitive eyes water, and closed it with butterfly bandages. Then, stripping her clothes, she threw them in the corner, knowing she would never wear them again. The water tested, the door shut, she dipped a toe in the large bathtub and finally sank.
It was like a full-body hug from the best warm water she’d ever dipped in.
The best hug.
Groaning at the amazing way the water caressed her sore m
uscles and kissed her little cuts, she dunked her head once before tipping it back against the tiles behind her, keeping her arms on the ledge beside her, her eyes closed.
She didn’t let herself think of anything - not her car, not her cold-blooded murders, not her father, not his attempt to kill her, not the man who’d come for her, not the choice they’d both made, and definitely not the kiss that still stung her heavy lips. She didn’t let herself relive it - not the rain, not the gun, not the man. She didn’t let herself remember it - not the soft caresses, not the hard hunger, not the silent choice.
She just lay there, letting the water be her tender lover who soothed her hurts, cleansed her, and relaxed her completely in its arms.
The thinking could wait until tomorrow. She ignored the string keeping her together, ignored the ache as it pulled taut on every thought, ignored it all. She just lay there.
After long, long minutes, when the water went cold and her skin began to prune, when she was almost lulled to sleep by the simplicity of a good bath after a hard day, she somehow dragged herself out of the tub, pulling the plug, her eyes stinging, the exhaustion and lack of sleep of the past few days catching up to her. All she wanted was to put herself in that comfortable bed, draw the thin blankets over her head, and sleep undisturbed for the next ten years. Minimum.
Sighing, she switched off the lights in the bathroom and walked out to the still-dark bedroom, without a stitch of clothing on, not caring because she was exhausted and not worried because she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to enter her bedroom tonight, not after all the avoiding he’d done since the cemetery.
Without another thought, she climbed into the bed, snuggling into the abundance of pillows, a groan escaping her at the plush comfort.
A buzzing noise from her phone made her peek one eye open. It had come to life.
Grabbing it from the bedside table and removing the charger, she unlocked the screen, to see alerts for 4 Missed Calls and 3 Text Messages from Tristan Caine.
Blinking, sleep fading from her eyes, she swallowed, clicking on the texts, seeing her last message to him.
Morana Vitalio: They should be. After all, I just blew up a car and killed two men in cold blood.
(Sent 4.33 PM)
Tristan Caine: Where are you?
(Received 4.34 PM)
Tristan Caine: This is not amusing, Ms. Vitalio. Where are you?
(Received 5.00 PM)
Tristan Caine: I swear to god… WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?
(Received 5.28 PM)
Then nothing.
Nerves balled up in her throat, stomach heavy with the very roil of emotions that she’d been trying to avoid, Morana closed her eyes and put her phone back on the stand, turning on her side.
It was almost 10.30 now. Which meant she’d seen him in the cemetery at roughly 9. What had he been doing since that last text?
No. Deliberately shaking herself out of it, she inhaled deeply - the light citrusy scent of fabric conditioner on the sheets filling her nostrils - and told herself to just sleep for the night. There was a lot of time in the morning, to think, to process, to plan. For now, despite the day, she was alive and tired and her brain could wait for a few hours.
Nodding to herself, she almost closed her eyes again when the voices from outside broke into her consciousness. Frustrated, she covered her ears with the pillow.
And then put it down.
The men were talking.
Tugging her lower lip with her teeth, she wondered what they were talking about when the silence in the penthouse aided her, their voices, though not loud, still drifting to her well enough that she could hear it.
“Father called when you were out,” Dante spoke.
So, no questions about the emotional health of either, then. Men.
The sound of crystals clinking together against plastic told her either of them was cleaning up the mess on the floor.
“Things are escalating back home, Tristan,” Dante stated, in the calm, collected tone she’d come to associate with him. “It’s getting worse. We need to return.”
Tristan Caine didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then, his voice rolled over her naked skin.
“Yes, we do.”
Morana indulged in his gruff tone for a second, before the words broke through. He was leaving?
That knot in her stomach tightened, an odd kind of panic filling her for some reason. After the past few hours, the past few weeks, after making certain she wouldn’t run away when she’d wanted to, he was going to leave the city behind? And her? Right after she’d made the gamble of her life?
Her heart sunk.
Gripping the blankets in her fists, she tried to keep her head quiet and focus on what they were saying.
“Are we going to address the very big elephant in the room?” Dante.
“I don’t see one.” Blase. Indifferent. Him.
She heard Dante sigh. She was pretty sure that sigh had been his friend for a long time. “What were you doing at that bastard’s house tonight, alone of all things?”
That had so not been the elephant in the room she’d imagined. But who were they talking about?
“Paying him a visit,” Tristan Caine answered.
Her eyebrows went up at that tone inviting challenge.
Dante didn’t disappoint.
“Things are already fucked up for you at the moment, Tristan. In case you’ve forgotten, someone is out for your blood-”
“Someone always is.”
“-and you just keep feeding it fuel. We do not need Gabriel Vitalio going cocky-assed on us right now, not when we’re here.”
One.
Two.
Stunned.
Morana looked up at the ceiling, stunned out of her freaking mind. He’d visited her father? At his mansion? Alone? Was he insane?!
Her brain supplied her the image of his hands on cue - those bruised, broken knuckles that had told her, even as he’d kissed her, that he’d made someone’s night hell. She’d vanished and he’d gone to her father’s mansion alone and yet made it out? And now had broken skin on his knuckles?
What. Had. He. Done?
Breathing heavy, heart racing like a wild horse out of control, Morana couldn’t even begin to grasp the implications of this. She just couldn’t.
And yet, there was something else too. A novelty. Because she had fallen down the stairs and he had punished her father. Because she had gone missing and he had walked into the lion’s den and burned it and made it out unscathed. The novelty of feeling like this, for the first time in her life, dampened her eyes. Having been alone for all her existence, with the knowledge that nobody would break a sweat if she disappeared, the fact that this man - the man who had hated her for twenty years of his life - had broken flesh made her heart clench in a way she’d never experienced before, in a way she could not understand. Only feel.
Taking a stuttering breath in, she kept listening, her knuckles white from gripping the sheets.
“It’s a good thing we won’t be here for long then, isn’t it?”
A long pause.
“Does that include Morana?” Dante asked quietly.
Morana’s heart battered in her chest, hammering with a force that mingled with the inexplicable emotions inside her, as she waited for a response from him, to understand what he would do. Because while he’d given her silence, he’d also given her actions. She needed his actions now.
When he didn’t say anything for long moments, Dante sighed again, and her heart slipped. “Tristan, she’s his daughter. As much as I understand why she’s been here, we can’t let this go on. Vitalio might retaliate. And it could end nasty. You know that.”
More silence.
“You haven’t been focused as much as you usually are on the threat and weeding it out. We cannot afford a full-blown war like this, Tristan. You’ve been distracted–”
“It’s not her fault–”
“Isn’t it?”
A paus
e.
Dante continued. “Look, I don’t want her under that jerkwad’s roof any more than you do. We have a safe house we could move her to. Maybe get her fake passports, get her out of the country as we did with Catarina and the girls. I will stay back to ensure it all goes smoothly and she’s not harmed and—”
“She comes with me.”
Four words.
Soft. Guttural. Irrefutable.
The breath she’d been holding in her throat escaped in a rush, her heart pounding so hard she felt faint. Putting her hand on her naked chest, she felt the fast thumping under her palm and took a few steadying breaths, relief and something else filling her.
She comes with me.
Did she want to go? To leave behind the only home she’d known, the only city she’d known, the only life she’d known? She knew she could fight him on this, but did she want to?
No.
Dante stayed silent for a long minute and Morana wondered what they looked like right then, how closed off they were to each other, how hard they challenged the other’s stare.
“Father will retaliate,” Dante warned in that quiet tone.
Tristan Caine snorted. “Like I give a fuck.”
“It’s not retaliation against you that I worry about,” Dante clarified. “It’s her. For doing what he couldn’t ever do.”
Which was what exactly? she wondered.
“Leave it, Dante,” Tristan Caine uttered, his voice a dangerous blade. “He’ll know the exact score once we land. Just get the plane ready for the morning.”
“Be ready at 8,” Dante stated.
“Done.”
Okay.
Taking a deep breath, she heard the soft ding of the elevator, indicating Dante had called for it.
“By the way,” Tristan Caine called out, “Chiara called.”
Chiara Mancini. The phone call. Who was she?
“What for?”
“I didn’t answer. Nor will I,” Tristan Caine replied. “But if he gets her to–”
