Her eyes looked around the place, trying to take it in. They were in some kind of foyer, the door to her left was closed and one to her right led to a dimly lit living room, from what she could tell. Right before them was a corridor that they were going through, at the end of which were a wide set of stairs leading upstairs.
Morana unconsciously gripped his shoulder as he started the climb straight up, night lighting guiding him through. She could see the walls decorated with pictures of some kind but could barely make them out at his speed and the light. The architecture, she realized as they stopped at the top of the stairs, was similar to the penthouse. The stairs simply opened up into a ginormous master bedroom.
There was only a single bedside lamp turned on. Before she could take in any more details, they were headed to the door at the other corner of the room, the space huge. And after carrying her through from Dante’s house to his and up the stairs, he wasn’t even breathing heavy. Seriously, what did he eat? After the state of her body, she realized she needed to get on his diet. Stamina of the body would seriously help along with stamina of the brain.
They came through the door into a huge, dimly lit bathroom, much bigger than her own at her father’s house or the guest one at his penthouse. The man clearly liked his space.
Morana watched the water steaming in the tub and a groan of pleasure escaped her, just upon seeing it. He was psychic. The scent of lemon and cinnamon permeated the air.
Morana got down from his arms, his arms on her back again to steady her. She leaned into him, and the hands slowly pulled up her t-shirt and stripped her of it. Morana pushed down her destroyed shorts and let them join the floor in a heap.
He indicated the water and Morana, naked as a jaybird but comfortable in that nudity with him, walked to the tub. Careful of her aches and pains, Morana put one foot in, then the other, and lowered herself in. The water, blessed, hot water, wrapped her in the warmest of hugs.
A noise escaped her throat – some hybrid cross between a mewl and a moan. She closed her eyes, ducking her head under the water before coming up, feeling cleaner than she had all night. He had done this before when she’d come to him after her father let her fall down the stairs. He’d been silent but offered her his care, prepped a bath for her. Back then, it had touched her, moved her, surprised her – both his kindness and Dante’s. Now, leaning her head back on the edge, letting the water lap at her tired muscles, Morana was surprised to realize she wasn’t surprised at this kindness. Somehow, she’d grown comfortable enough to even expect it from him.
She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Wiping her face, Morana opened her eyes, expecting to find herself alone.
She wasn’t.
Tristan was near the sink, getting a washcloth and some bottles, and coming towards her.
She blinked up at him in surprise, not understanding.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked softly, watching him.
He simply kneeled on the floor behind her head in answer.
His big, rough hands more at ease with handling lethal weapons slowly wiped over her cheeks, gently, like he was afraid of applying too much pressure. She rubbed her skin more when she removed her makeup. His touch was light, but sure, wiping a soft cloth over both her cheeks, her chin, her forehead.
Morana leaned her head back, relaxing, letting her take care of him in a way she’d never been taken care of and in a manner she doubted he’d taken care of someone in a long time. They both deserved this. This was theirs.
Silently, he handed the washcloth over to her and Morana looked down, surprised to find the white fabric pale red. She stared at it, at the muddled shade, and remembered her assailant cutting himself and trying to grab her face. He’d smeared blood over her face.
And Tristan had wiped it.
Again.
Heart clenching, fingers squeezing the rag, she felt her lips tremble as his hands came to her wet hair. The smell of his masculine shampoo hit her nostrils and Morana forced herself to breathe easy. His fingers, his sure fingers, firmly massaged the shampoo over her scalp, lathering up her stands. Morana tilted her head back, groaning at the amazing sensation. His hands paused for a split second before he continued again. He could totally switch careers someday if he wanted. There was something so peaceful in that shared silence, something so reminiscent of the first night she’d spent in his territory.
But she had to tell him the poison eating inside her head. She had to give it to him because he was the only one she knew that poison didn’t kill. He would take it, sip it, and still come out on the other side. She couldn’t. A life of holding onto venom had slowly started to corrode her from the inside-out until she’d let it out with him.
“I hit him on the head,” the words escaped her in a whisper in the silence of the room, given to the dark, to him.
His fingers paused again, waiting for her to continue. She had no idea why she’d spoken, but once it was out, it escaped like a torrent.
“I didn’t have any weapon,” she spoke softly as he continued to wash her hair, listening intently. She could feel it in the way his fingers moved with her words. “He tried to smother me with a pillow. I somehow got a hold of the lamp and hit him with it.”
His fingers twitched. He cupped some water in his palm and poured it over the edge of her forehead. She felt the suds flow into the bathwater.
“Somehow we ended up on the floor and he was between my legs-”
He stilled.
In a much more dangerous way than she’d ever experienced before.
Morana immediately realized her error and hurried to explain. “No, no. Not like that. No, he didn’t touch me.”
She could hear his breathing, heavier than before, his fingers tightening in her hair as his body remained motionless in that very, very hunter-like manner.
She went on quickly. “I kind of trapped his head between my thighs to make him immobile. And then I bashed his head with the lamp until he passed out.”
After a few seconds, he started to wash the shampoo out of her hair again. Morana exhaled in relief, telling him the rest. “I clicked his picture. I’ll run facial recognition tomorrow. Anyhow, he woke up and before he could chase, I ran to Dante’s. It’s a good thing he was there.”
He growled softly.
Morana felt her eyebrows hit her hairline but didn’t say anything else. She did enjoy his animal sounds, she was coming to realize. She told him the same.
‘As much as I enjoy these animal noises, you can speak, you know.’
After a few seconds of silence, she thought he wouldn’t respond.
‘Later.’
One simple word uttered in a voice barely controlled. Morana softened, giving him the time and space to process it his own way.
He finished with her hair as she finished with her bath, the water slowly pruning her fingers. After minutes, Morana looked to see Tristan take out a towel and offer it to her. She stood up and took the towel, drying herself as he went out to the bedroom.
Morana drained out the water and exited into the dark bedroom, seeing him ruffling through a drawer beside the door. Taking out a t-shirt, he handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she muttered, taking it and tugging it over her head. It fell on her body, almost hitting her knees, wrapping her in his scent. She inhaled deeply. It was the best pajama she’d ever had.
She watched him leave the room and return multiple times, taking something out, bringing something in. After the fourth round, he came to her with a glass of water and pills in one hand.
“Painkillers?” she asked, her eyes on him. His eyes were fixed on his t-shirt on her very naked body as he nodded.
Morana took the pills and drank the water. That done, he took the glass and placed it on the edge of the chest of drawers.
Then he swung her up again and carried her the few feet to the bed. Putting her down on the soft mattress that she sank in, he picked up her now clean foot and inspected it. Then he started to apply the ointment and bandage on the cut where it throbbed, not once looking at her.
Morana watched it all, her heart in her throat. She had glimpsed his scars, seen the mottled skin, the burns, the raised flesh that bespoke some of the most brutal torture, some that she could possibly never imagine. And yet, in that moment, when he took care of her little cut like it was a long gash, something deep inside her, the part of her that she was still holding on to, was given, released, handed over, to him. If there was one thing she had realized over the past few weeks, one thing that had become an epiphany in the past few hours, it was that this man would never have killed her.
As silent as he remained, Morana knew it wasn’t because he didn’t feel anything. It was because he felt too much and no matter what, she vowed, watching him at her feet, that she would ride it out with him. She had found something immensely precious in their world, a diamond in the coals, a lotus in the mud. And she vowed to cherish it, cherish him, as he deserved. He needed time to open up, to trust her not to abandon him someday, and she would give that to him. He had earned that.
Quickly wiping the one tear that had left her eyes, because she wasn’t used to anyone caring enough to fix her wounds, because despite everything he had been through this man had still found it in his heart to care for when she was hurt, Morana pulled her foot back after he was done. She got under the covers and watched him strip his t-shirt and jeans down to his black boxers, throwing them off to the side.
It was the first time she saw his body as it was. Muscles rippled in places she didn’t know muscles could ripple. Tattoos and scars littered his torso, front and back, some even down on one thigh. One lone tattoo stretched across his bicep, circling, but it was too dim for her to make it out. But the most noticeable was the confidence he was moving with. In clothes or out of it, this man knew who he was and wasn’t afraid of letting people know it.
Morana sank back on the pillows, her heart hammering as she watched him get in on the other side, check his gun on the bedside table, and turn off the light. And it was such a domestic, normal thing, Morana marveled at witnessing it.
The room plunged into darkness and Morana blinked at the ceiling, biting her lip. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light, some light seeping in from outside the door, allowing her enough to make out shapes.
She turned her neck to trace the shape of the man beside her when she felt one of his hands slide around her neck. It should have felt threatening after the attack. It should have sent panic coursing through her bloodstream after the night she’d had.
It felt anything but.
The palm pressed against her pulse, the fingers spanning her neck, the skin rough against hers – it all anchored her to the moment, to that bed, to him. She felt sheltered, cherished, and so very protected. He tugged her closer, almost until their noses were touching while their bodies remained slightly apart.
She felt his breaths over her face, the heat of his body right beside hers.
And then, for the first time that night, she heard him speak.
“Never again,” he whispered, his voice rough with an edge of the wildness she’d seen in his eyes. It sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
“They will die a thousand deaths,” he murmured, almost gently as his thumb traced the line of her jaw, “before they ever touch a single hair on your head again.”
And then, with that deathly vow still echoing in her heart, he pressed his lips to her fluttering pulse.
“I promise,” his lips wrote against her skin.
Morana swallowed, feeling the echo of that promise rushing through her blood. She arched her neck back, exposing it even more to him, sliding her body closer to his. His mouth moved, his lips parting over her pulse, sucking in every heartbeat on his tongue. Heart throbbing along with the rest of her body, Morana slid a hand into his hair, tugging him closer. The motion made pain shoot through the muscle in her shoulder.
She gasped and he pulled back, moving back to his side and tugging her close.
‘Get your stuff tomorrow.’
Her heart stopped for a beat.
‘You want me to move in?’ she asked, wanting to be sure, absolutely sure, she hadn’t misunderstood.
He tucked her face under his in response.
“I’ve never slept with anyone before,” she confessed into his neck, her nose in that happy spot again.
“Me neither,” he murmured into her hair.
Fuzzy with that news, thrilled at the knowledge she was going to be with him, Morana smiled. He pressed a soft kiss to her ear. She rubbed her nose against that spot on his neck. They didn’t say anything else. They weren’t wrapped around each other but their bodies were close. Morana heard as his breathing started to gradually slow down, her own heart finding a rhythm with his.
Tomorrow, she would have to deal with everything that had happened that night – Axton and his offer, her codes, her first assassin who had blown his head off, and the second assailant who had accosted her in her bedroom. A bedroom, that she suddenly remembered, was supposed to have surveillance and listening devices inside it. Had that failed or had this been something more nefarious? This, all of this, was much bigger than she’d realized. She would have to talk to the guys about it and figure out what the hell was going on. She didn’t know but she would worry about that tomorrow.
For now, she was pressed into a solid, warm body that cared much more for her than either of them had realized. For now, she had another wonderful man in her corner who had handled her with the care she could appreciate in retrospect. Dante had been calm, reassuring and so gentle she felt the place in her heart for him expand.
And he had called Tristan. Who had been silent the entire night until his vow to her. She was in the inner lair of the biggest predator of them all, her jugular exposed to him as she breathed on his neck, in her most vulnerable state. She had bled and he had licked her wounds clean. She had almost tasted death and he had breathed life back into her.
And she realized she’d never, not once in her life, felt safer.
For the first time in her life, she felt home.
