Morana silently thanked Amara, once again, for telling her the truth. The fact that Tristan had not been with that woman for long as she’d wanted Morana to believe made her relax. She had been the only constant in his life, even though they were entwined by traumatic pasts. But they did have the possibility of something beautiful. She had sensed it, felt it, tasted it.
On that happy note, she munched on some salad Zia had quietly left for her while she’d been talking to Amara, and finally switched to work mode. The codes needed to be traced. More importantly, any damage that they had already done or could do needed to be contained. She quickly worked on writing another set of codes, as she’d told Dante she would do days ago. These new codes would alert her as soon as the original codes were used and contain any damage they wanted to do. Along with that, she was also customizing it to backtrack and trace any unique elements of the original codes so that even if it was used separately by anyone, anywhere, she would know. As the person had some knowledge of computers, she didn’t want to take any risk.
It took her hours of focused, concentrated work. She had her earphones in, her soothing instrumental playlist on, her glasses sticking to her nose. Zia came and left, not disturbing her once and always shutting the door behind her. Her phone buzzed once but she didn’t check. But hours and stiff fingers later, she finally had all the new codes up and running, her trap set. There was only one limitation to her genius – whoever had the codes needed to use them or her program wouldn’t be triggered. It would be running for years if that didn’t happen. But she was relying on the culprit to use them. Or why else would someone go through the elaborate scheme of having Jackson woo her, steal them from her, and frame Tristan to take the fall for it? They had to use it at some point in time, right? Or what was the point of stealing it at all?
Tired after spending hours intent on the task, Morana stretched, her spine stiff, and cracked her neck, looking out the window. It was already dark, time being flown by at rapid speed while she worked, undisturbed. It was some of the best work she had done.
She picked up her phone to check the message that had come in and saw her father’s name.
Father: Are you seriously in Tenebrae?
Morana looked at the message for a long time, wondering if she should reply at all, then decided against it. Fuck him and fuck his agenda. She didn’t owe him anything. For the first time in her life, she had something good, even in the middle of chaos. She wasn’t going to let him taint that. Never again.
Disgusted, she threw the phone on the cushion to her side and put her feet up on the table, crossing her ankles. Pulling her laptop up on her lap, Morana minimized the programs she’d initialized and opened another window. Seeing her father’s name had reminded her of something she had been meaning to look up after she’d eavesdropped on Dante and Tristan’s conversation the night of the Choice, as she liked to think of it. Yes, with a capital C. Dante had mentioned something about Tristan Caine going into her father’s territory when she’d been missing. And Morana was crazy curious to know what had happened.
Which was why she was pulling up the cameras in her father’s study/office that she had installed years ago. He didn’t even know that they were there. Morana, as out of the loop as she had been back then, had wanted to be in the loop. And what better way to be in the loop than rig the boss’ office. Seeing and listening to conversations not just kept her informed but also allowed her to build ammunition of files against many, many men of their world. Most importantly, her father. She knew of most of the dirty things he was involved in, had made note of conversations and meetings, and filed them away for a rainy day.
Her failsafe.
Closing her eyes at the disappointment and pain he caused her, Morana shook it off and concentrated on the more important matter at hand. Quickly typing in the multiple passwords, she logged into the system and put in the date of the day she wanted the record of. She put in the time after what had been her last text to him and pressed ‘enter’.
The screen lit up from the feed of the camera in the upper right corner of the office, showing the inside of her father’s study. It was empty. Fast-forwarding a few minutes, Morana pressed ‘play’ when her father entered, his steps agitated. He picked up his office phone and spoke into the receiver, his voice hard and grainy in her earphones.
“Is it done?”
She knew he was talking about her car, her beloved car, being blown up. Whatever the other person on the line said did not make him very happy. He sat down on his chair and put his hand to his forehead.
“What do you mean the men aren’t answering? Call them! I need to know if she’s taken care of.”
‘Taken care of’. Nice.
Morana just observed impassively. Her father put the phone down and stared out the window for a long time. Morana would’ve liked to think there was a hint of remorse, a hint of sadness inside him after what he’d just done to his only daughter, but she didn’t think there was. A man who let his child fall down the stairs, who ordered her to be blown up, was not capable of remorse. The only reason he was contacting her now was that Maroni had informed him of her presence and she was ruffling his feathers.
She watched as something outside the window drew his attention. Her heart started to beat faster.
Leaning forward without realizing it, Morana watched, stunned, as Tristan blew into her father’s office like a raging storm. No warning, no explanation. He simply strode in like he owned the place, not even glancing at the three men behind him with their guns on his figure, his entire frame coiled tight to spring any second. He was a bomb and he was ticking.
“He just broke in,” one of the men panted, explaining. “We tried to stop him but he knocked two guys out.”
Morana watched, mesmerized and shocked, as Tristan Caine – no, The Predator – took a seat in one of the chairs opposite her father’s, his entire form vibrating with a kind of rage she had never, ever witnessed. Heart pounding, she didn’t dare move a muscle as she watched the tension in the room climb higher and higher.
“I remember you, boy,” her father stated, leaning back in his chair, his eyes on Tristan. “You shot your father point-blank between the head. A boy your age. That’s a hard thing to forget. I didn’t place you when we met recently. Now I can.”
The Predator simply stared him down. “Where is she?”
Her father smiled the Maroni kind of smile. “And I remember the way you walked to her, wiped the blood off her face.”
Morana felt her pulse race, no memory of the incident in her mind but just the thought, the idea of that boy wiping the blood off a baby’s face, of him doing that to her, made her heart clench.
‘Where is she?’
“And the way you stared at her in the restaurant,” her father continued, pretending to be unperturbed by the gaze of a lethal, lethal man on himself. But Morana could tell he was worried. He had a tick at the side of his cheek. “Surprising, no? The women who can attract you? I wanted to get her married to the son of one of my partners. I even had everything planned. But that little whore spread herself good for you, didn’t she?”
Before she could blink, Tristan Caine was out of his chair and around the table, his one hand twisting her father’s arm behind his back and the other hand holding his face down to the table by the neck.
“Her name,” Tristan leaned down to whisper, “is Morana.”
Chills.
Morana paused, trying to catch her breath and her stomach dropped. She observed the man she had let inside herself in more ways than one, watched his form frozen on the screen, bent over her father, his lips poised open at the last syllable of her name.
Swallowing hard, she pressed ‘play’ again. Guns trained on him. Her father whimpered. A thrill shot down her spine as she heard him speak her name for the first time, felt the syllables wrapping around his tongue, heard her name infused with whiskey and sin. Letting out a shaky breath, she watched enraptured.
“Call her a whore one more time,” Tristan continued, “and what I did to my father will look like a child’s play compared to what I’ll do to you.”
He twisted her father’s arm harder, making Gabriel Vitalio yelp out in pain. He didn’t even spare a glance at the multiple guns on him. “Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Where is she?”
Her father’s words got jumbled because of his cheek pressed flat against the wood. Tristan eased his head a bit.
“She’s dead.”
Still.
The stillness that took over the room made goosebumps erupt over her flesh, and she wasn’t even in the room. She waited with bated breath, her heart in her throat, her eyes glued to the black and white screen.
“You’re lying,” Tristan spoke, his voice clear.
“I’m not,” her father replied. “I gave the order myself.”
Tristan slammed her father’s head into the table, harshly pulling on his thumb, the crack loud in the room. Her father yelled, one of the men fired. Tristan ducked, took out his own gun, and stared the men down while keeping her father immobilized.
“I don’t have any problems with you,” he told the men. “Leave now, leave alive. Or die.”
She watched as the men hesitated, two of them leaving, evidently aware of his reputation. The third one, trying to be brave, held his gun up. Tristan shrugged, shot him in the shoulder, and pointed to the door with his gun. The man escaped, leaving him behind with her father alone.
Tristan eased up on him and tucked his gun back in his waistband.
Her father looked at him with venom in his eyes. Tristan sat down on the edge of the desk and leaned forward.
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
Tristan smiled, a cold, hard smile without the dimples she now knew he had. “You have nine more fingers for me to break. Then two wrists. Two elbows. Two shoulders. Six ribs I can break without damaging you internally and don’t even get me started below the waist. And it doesn’t heal well in your age, old man.”
He tilted his head to the side, holding her father’s hand in his almost casually. “I have the time and patience to make you feel pain the likes of which you’ve never felt before. Pain that will make you wish you were dead. So, I’ll ask again. Where is she?” His fingers poised over the other thumb.
She saw her father’s arm shaking, his jaw tight as he looked up at something much worse than death. “I’m not lying. I gave the orders.”
“Where?”
“A cemetery behind the airport,” her father admitted. “My men have trailed her going there multiple times.”
Tristan straightened, throwing away the hand, turning to leave.
“Is she your weakness, Predator?” her father’s voice stopped him cold in his tracks. Her father, evidently the stupidest man on the planet, goaded Tristan instead of letting him go. “After so many years, I would’ve thought she would be the last person you would look for.”
Tristan turned, raising an eyebrow, his hands relaxed by his sides.
“You know you’re risking war, don’t you?”
Tristan chuckled, without mirth. “You don’t have the balls for war, old man. You didn’t have the balls to protect your daughter when she was defenseless with a gun pointed to her head back then. You don’t have the balls now.”
Her father stood up, offended for his masculinity. Seriously, how was she related to this pompous, egotistical douche of a man?
“I have always protected my daughter. You were stupid to come here,” her father uttered.
Tristan walked back to the desk, leaned forward with his palms flat on the desk. “If a hair on her head has been harmed, I will come back here again. Not quietly, no. This time, I will come to your house, and I will kill you, and I will take my sweet time doing it.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“I’m warning you. Post as many guards as you want,” Tristan said, in that soft, lethal way he had. “And pray she is okay.”
“Why do you care so much about her?” her father asked point-blank.
Morana felt her heart stop at the question, her hands shaking as she waited for his answer.
Tristan didn’t reply for a long moment. And then he did.
“That’s for me to know and her to find out,” he said in that menacing tone. ‘No one else.’
Turning on his heel, he walked to the door again, then stopped, pinning her father with that brutal gaze of his.
“Stay away from her, old man,” he warned, his voice hard. “Come after her again, I’ll come after you.”
“Her pussy must be magical for you to…”
Before her father could finish that disgusting sentence, he was pinned back into his seat and Tristan punched him hard on his recently healed nose. Blood started to pour out of her father’s mouth, making her realize he’d probably broken a tooth too.
Tristan gripped his jaw tight in one hand, and leaned down, almost nose to nose.
“One more word,” he said in a tone that sent chills over her body. “Give me just one more reason to cut out your tongue.”
Her father stared at Tristan, speechless.
“One word,” Tristan urged, the mask fallen from his eyes.
Her father mutely shook his head.
“Now, listen to me and listen hard,” Tristan uttered, shaking her father’s jaw for emphasis. “She’s under my protection. Mine. Nobody hurts her. Nobody talks shit about her. Not me, not you, not anyone. Next time I hear you call her anything less than the woman she is, I will cut your tongue out and feed it to your dogs. Next time I see you anywhere close to her, I will kill you. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. Her. Do you understand?”
Her father nodded.
Tristan nodded. “Good. And anytime you forget that, just remember how I killed my father when I was a boy for her. And think on and think of the people I can kill now that I am a man to keep her safe.”
Her father nodded mutely again.
This time Tristan Caine left the room.
Morana sat back, stunned.
Overwhelmed.
Her eyes still stayed glued to the screen, watching her father make calls and whatnot. She pressed rewind and watched it all again from the start. The entrance, the broken thumb, the threats, the gunshot, more threats, the exit. And then she watched it again, and again, and again, until every stance, every nuance, every word had imprinted itself on her heart. Every word of his hammered onto her heart, cracking it open slowly, until it split in two and let him in.
She could not remember, not once in her life, anyone standing up for her. She had lived with men who were supposed to be strong and lived in fear. She had lived with her father turning the other way when men touched her under the table. She had lived alone, never, ever thinking someday, someone would storm into her father’s office, fearless, hurt him, threaten him, all for her.
And he had. Even before she had asked him to make a choice, he already had. Even before he knew that she knew, he had wanted to protect her. Even before she had exposed herself to him the way she had, he had wanted her. That entire interaction with her father – hours before he had found her, only based on their interactions as they had been – had shown her nothing but his fierce protectiveness and the respect he had for her.
A tear rolled down her cheek as she put the laptop on the table. Morana wiped it away, her heart full in a way it had never been. Surrounded in a warm, safe place with a strange woman who had opened her heart to her, with friends in her life and a man who would go to the ends of the earth for her without fear, her heart was full.
Standing up, she went to the window, more tears escaping her eyes – joy, sadness, pain, relief, gratitude all mixing together in a concoction until she couldn’t tell one from the other. Staring out into the lawns, she didn’t move until she heard the main door to the house open and Dante’s voice drifted in. Morana turned to the door, her heart in her throat, and waited for it to open.
It did.
Dante and Tristan walked in, both men still dressed in the same suits as they were in the morning but rumpled now. Dante’s tie was askew and Tristan wasn’t wearing one. Dante looked at her and gave her a small smile. Tristan just looked at her.
And Morana couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she ran towards him, and threw her arms around his neck, holding on tight.
She felt his body go rigid with stunned surprise and buried her face into the crook of his neck.
“Dante,” she heard his voice rumble from his chest.
“I’ll be outside,” Dante spoke. Morana heard the door shut behind them.
And then she felt his arms come around her, tentatively, as if unsure of how to hold her. Morana wrapped her own tighter around his neck, standing on her toes, leaning her entire weight into him, pressed into him like that for the first time. His arms, slowly, held her tighter, one around her waist, the other coming up to cup the back of her head.
“Did something happen?” he asked in a quiet, almost soothing whisper, the whiskey-and-sin of his voice right next to her ear.
Overcome with all the emotion bursting inside her, her eyes leaking, she shook her head.
“You okay?” his tone relaxed slightly.
She nodded into his neck.
She could feel his confusion at the way she was behaving but for once, she didn’t care. She deserved to hold someone who cared for her as he did. He deserved to be held by someone who cared for him as she did.
Without another word, he picked her up and moved in the direction of the seating area. Morana clung to the strong muscles in his neck, her legs hanging in the air. He turned, sitting down on the same couch she’d been sitting on and Morana bent her legs to accommodate, straddling him, feeling the gun at his waist press inside her thigh, still hiding in the space between his neck and shoulder.
She could smell his musky scent and his cologne mixed around his pulse, feel the vein throbbing against her cheeks as she nuzzled into him, feel his soft hair against her hands as she ran her fingers through the strands. His heart beat against her breasts crushed to his chest. His warm muscles felt hard against every curve of hers. His pelvis tucked into her hips perfectly.
His arms, tight around her smaller frame, didn’t move. Not to stroke, not to explore, not to do anything. She could sense he was half-afraid it would trigger her into something and half-confused as to why she was clinging to him like a koala to his favorite branch.
After minutes and minutes of holding him, and him allowing her to hold him without complaint, Morana pulled her face out of his neck and looked at his Adam’s apple, exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt.
Letting her eyes travel upwards, she finally locked her gaze with his.
Those blue, blue eyes made her sigh softly. They were patient, not in the alert way of predators but in a softer, much tender way. He was waiting for her to explain her bizarre behavior.
Morana moved her hands to the sides of his face, cupping his jaw in her palms, feeling that scruff scraping against her palm in that delicious way and told him, in two words, with every emotion strangling her heart.
“Thank you.”
His brows furrowed, just minutely, as he tilted his head slightly to the left, trying to figure her out.
After a minute, he asked. “What for?”
Morana stroked his cheek with her thumbs. “For caring.”
He didn’t get it. Of course, he didn’t. How could he? He didn’t know her entire history. He didn’t know what he had become to her. He didn’t know she’d seen him do what he had done to her father when she had been missing. He didn’t get it because he didn’t know how it had tilted her world on its axis again, how it had split her chest open, how it had warmed her to the bone in a way she knew she would never be cold or alone again.
And she wouldn’t be able to convey it to him, to tell him any of it. So, she did it in the only way she could in that moment.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
He stilled.
Completely stilled.
His hands tightened slightly on the side of her hips but he sat frozen under her. Morana didn’t care. She held him with all the affection she felt for him in her heart, and tilted her head, pouring it into that one kiss. She nipped at his lips, sipped from them, kissed them gently, reverently, giving him tenderness she knew he had never received in two decades.
He let her. He let her shower him and received it. Accepted it. Didn’t kiss her back but didn’t push her away.
Morana tasted his lips the way she had wished to for such a long time. Tilting her head to the other side, she fit their lips together again, locking them for a moment before sucking at his lower lip, feeling the scruff on his chin rubbing against her skin, the bristles around his mouth burning hers.
Someone knocked on the door.
Morana pulled away from the simplest, most beautiful of kisses and stared deep into his eyes.
“You,” she whispered to the space between them, “Tristan Caine, are a beautiful, beautiful man. And my heart beats for you.”
The confusion and surprise on his face were priceless. This was not The Predator. This was the boy who had been called a monster for doing the brave thing and left behind alone never to be told he was precious. This was the boy who had buried himself deep inside the stronger man, who could not understand or process her actions or the thoughts behind them. She had reached under the persona and found the man, the boy.
Without another word, Morana stood up. It was proof of his shock that he let her.
She opened the door and Dante looked at her, eyebrows raised. Morana shook her head. He smirked.
“We should get to the house. It’s time for dinner,” Dante announced, indicating the main door. “We can talk on our way there.”
Morana nodded. “Is it okay if I leave my laptop here? I’ve left some programs running and I won’t feel comfortable with them in that house.”
“Of course.”
“Can we have a moment?” whiskey-and-sin asked from behind her, addressing Dante.
“Another moment?” Dante grinned, before shaking his head and walking out the main door wordlessly.
Morana turned to ask what he wanted to talk about when suddenly, she was slammed into the wall beside the door. She looked up, baffled, barely catching her breath, only catching a fleeting glimpse of the wild look on his face before his mouth crashed down over hers.
Her toes curled into her shoes, her fingers going around his tight waist, feeling the gun tucked to the side of his trousers under her palm. Body catching fire, heart thundering in her chest, Morana caved to him like sand under an ocean wave. His hands fisted in her hair, tilting her head back as he devoured her mouth. This kiss was nothing like the one minutes ago. It was harsh, almost bruising in its intensity, but the undercurrent of something untarnished ran through them. She still felt his confusion in the kiss, but there was something else there too. Something precious. Something she couldn’t understand and he was trying to tell her. She parted her lips gladly as his tongue swept through them, dipping inside her mouth before pulling out. His entire body pressed hers into the wall – feet to feet, hips to hips, chest to breasts – as he leaned down and she went up on her toes as high as possible.
Sensations coursed through her body, her blood heated and burning every single part of her from inside out. His teeth tugged on her lower lip; a moan left her mouth. He swallowed it, stroking her tongue with his, tangling them together for a split second before pulling away again. Her hips canted into his, her hands pulling him closer as he feasted on her mouth, his hands firm but gentle in her hair.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was more, much more.
They broke apart for much-needed air.
“Dinner,” she mumbled through a hazed mind.
“I’d rather eat you,” he murmured back, kissing her feverishly once again. Morana lost herself in the kiss, let herself drown anchored by him. They kissed for seconds, or minutes, or hours, she didn’t know. All she knew by the time he pulled back was her lips were swollen and she wanted more. He did too. She could feel it in his body, see it in his blue eyes.
“That’s how you kiss me next time,” he told her, putting a little space between them.
Morana rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the tutorial.”
She caught the flash of a dimple as he turned away towards the door. She tugged him back by his shoulder and planted another one on him. That dimple was to blame. He returned it. Passion burst between them.
Panting, he took a solid step back this time. Morana straightened her clothes and brushed her hair with her fingers. Following him out the door, she saw Dante take note of her swollen mouth and Tristan’s disheveled hair.
“Not a word,” Tristan warned, slipping back into his usual mask.
Dante just grinned, pushing one hand in his trouser pocket and another around Morana’s shoulder as they started walking towards the mansion. Morana saw Tristan glance pointedly at Dante’s hand, which the man did not remove. Tristan looked forward again and kept walking. She relaxed into his hold.
The night was quiet, beautiful. The sky was still littered with clouds, the moon still peeking from behind them. Men, who had been visible around the property during the day, became invisible again. Strolling towards the mansion with the two men, Morana broke the silence, announcing, “I had a little moment with Mr. Maroni today. Nothing that I couldn’t handle.”
She informed them about the conversation, at least parts of it, and about the coding programs she had worked on all day. Leaving out the parts about her watching the camera recording and talking to Amara, she walked, tucked beside Dante, walking beside Tristan. It felt surreal. Safe.
The closer they got to the house, the more she could see both men tense. After a point, Dante dropped his arm from around her and walked into the mansion. Tristan was back to his stoic, cold self as they reached the door. He gestured for her to precede him. She did, still fuzzy in the heart and the body.
They entered the foyer. As the door shut behind them, surprising the hell out of her, Tristan pulled her into his body and looked down into her eyes. His hand came up, his thumb circling her heavy lips where his mouth had left his mark.
‘Tonight.’
Morana inhaled sharply as she felt the touch throb in her body. She gulped, nodding. He dropped his hand.
“Give them hell,” he whispered to her.
She smiled. He stared at her smile for a long, long minute, his magnificent eyes glued to her mouth.
And the most beautiful, precious thing happened.
His cold, aloof eyes warmed.
