The Reaper (Dark Verse 2)

It was almost time for dinner.

A lady in her mid-forties, clearly a member of the staff, had come to the room almost an hour ago with a dress draped on her arm. She hadn’t spoken a word, simply handed the dress to Morana when she opened the door and had gone on her way. Baffling as that had been, Morana was more curious as to why Maroni would have sent her a dress and if she should wear it. Sadly, she didn’t really have an option. She hadn’t packed her own wardrobe when she left her house and all she had on her was borrowed stuff from Amara’s closet that was more casual than the dinner demanded.

Staring at the dress – a long, silky number in forest green with full sleeves, a modest neckline and simple back, and a scandalous slit on one side right to her upper thigh – Morana shook her head and took off her bathrobe, freshly showered and clean, and donned the dress. It fit like a glove and that was disturbing, especially because Maroni had sent it to her. She just knew it. The fact that he had stared at her long enough to get a measure of her sizes made the hair on the back of her neck rise and not in a good way. Fighting off a shudder, Morana smoothed the fabric out and debated whether to strap the knife to herself. While keeping it on her would make her feel safer, she didn’t have any other weapon and was she searched again, she would lose it. As much as it pained her, she would have to leave it hidden in the room itself.

Brushing her hair out, she carefully applied concealer to cover up the few bruises left behind from the night in the cemetery. That done, she applied her mascara and painted her lips blood red. She’d made the mistake of being in the mansion unprepared once, she wouldn’t do it again. She didn’t like the insecurity that bopped its head upon seeing the beautiful women, especially when one of them had her sights on her man.

Her man?

The hand holding the lipstick stopped suddenly, hovering in the air as she stared at herself in the mirror, her heart pounding hard.

Her man.

Where the hell did that even come from?

They did not have that kind of a relationship and she doubted they ever would. Even though she had been his long before she even knew him. Even though he had all but claimed her in small, subtle ways over the two weeks. Even though he had touched her for the first time as a mark of her belonging to him (as archaic as that sounded). Her eyes fluttered shut, remembering the sensation of his rough, calloused fingers going up her thighs. Exhale. Her skin pebbled, a delicious shiver coursing down her spine. She was his. By now, probably everyone in the mob knew. She knew. But was he her man?

She inhaled again and got back to her lips, carefully scrutinizing her own face. She was pretty enough, definitely. Though not as visually stunning as Chiara Mancini. But did that even matter? It never had, not to her. She had always been comfortable in her skin, mostly because she had loved her intelligence and her repressed wit that had been waiting for the right person to repartee with. Which was also why she didn’t think it mattered to him either. She remembered the way he had simply given her that tight head-shake when Chiara had been all over him, and her lips turned up in a smile.

Fuck yes, he was hers. For however long, damaged and asshole-d, and however he was, he was hers. And good luck to anyone who tried to come between that.

Feeling the strength of that acceptance seep into her pores, Morana gave her hair a final brush with her fingers, stepped into her one pair of golden heels, and opened the door, only to come face-to-face with the she-devil. Chiara Mancini.

Interesting.

The other woman, stunning in a red wrap dress that showed her cleavage just the right amount, gave Morana a smile as false as her eyelashes. Morana didn’t even bother.

“I hope you’re settling in well,” Chiara asked, her voice low and soft. Morana could understand why men who didn’t look beneath the surface would fall head-over-ass for this woman. Thankfully, she lacked the requisite body parts to be a shallow dick.

“I’m sure you haven’t come up here to ask me about how I’m doing, Mrs. Mancini,” Morana said in her most dry voice. “Oh, it is Mrs, isn’t it?” she blinked innocently, knowing she’d hit the nail on the head when the other woman’s face tightened.

“Yes, I’m married to Lorenzo’s first cousin,” she gritted out quietly. “Not the most ideal marriage. But then, when does the mob listen when a woman accuses her husband of rape?”

She wasn’t lying. Morana saw it in her eyes and her heart, as hard as it had been, softened. “I’m sorry.” What else could she even say? Some men got the license to be monsters.

Chiara visibly shook off whatever thought had plagued her and focused on Morana again. “I don’t want your sympathy. What I want is for you to keep your distance from Dante and Tristan.”

Morana tilted her head to the side, hardening herself again, even as the compassion lingered. “And why would I do anything you want?”

Chiara took a step forward, her hand slamming once on the door, her eyes angry at her. “Because they’re the good ones and they don’t deserve the shit storm you have created, princess. Neither of them. Especially Tristan.”

Morana felt her stomach tighten. “What do you know about what he deserves?”

Chiara smiled. “I know he’s fucked me on the regular for almost two years and Tristan doesn’t do regular.”

Fire.

There was no other word for whatever was spreading through her chest, eating away at her insides. She could feel the burn crawl up her neck, over her cheeks and finally mist in her eyes. But she couldn’t let it show, couldn’t let it affect her. And that hurt. Really hurt. Not that he’d slept with this woman but the fact that he’d done it regularly. Because that implied she meant something to him. Emotionally. And that fucking burned.

Years of practice coming in handy, Morana kept her composure, not even allowing her fingers to curl into her palms, and smiled at the other woman. “Fucked. Past tense, Mrs. Mancini. But I’m the present and the foreseeable future.”

Chiara’s smile faltered. “He will come back to me.”

“Maybe,” Morana shrugged. And then she leaned in closer. “Or maybe, I will destroy him for anyone else.”

Before the other woman could say another thing, Morana took a step outside. “Now, you’ve done your due diligence and warned me. I’ve not heeded it. We both know where we stand and we both know neither will nudge. Either way, I’m hungry so excuse me.”

Without another word, Morana locked the door behind her and walked away, not looking back at the woman who had poured gasoline over what had only been a small spark. It was a blaze now, a blaze which wanted to destroy. Him. She would destroy him for anyone else.

For the first time in their convoluted relationship, she took out her phone and texted him first.

Morana: My vagina just became off-limits to you.

His reply came almost immediately.

Tristan: ?

Question mark. He’d sent her a damn question mark. She was seething.

Morana: Not that it matters. Your regular would be more than happy to welcome you in her bed, I’m sure.

No immediate reply. Of course. Morana walked down the stairs, barely looking at the paintings on the walls, watching her step as that knot of fire coiled tighter in her belly. Her phone vibrated with the incoming message.

Tristan Caine: Jealous?

God, he had to be the stupidest man on the face of the earth. One did not ask a woman who was jealous as hell if she was jealous. Just no.

Morana: I’ll ask you the same after I find myself a hot stud from the buffet in this mansion.

He didn’t reply.

Morana shook her head, trying to shake off the weird cloud over her head and get back that happy mojo. It didn’t work too well.

She finally came to the ground floor, the landing almost empty except for two staff members doing their chores. Morana ignored them as they ignored her, walking in the direction of the dining area (that she remembered from breaking in a few weeks ago). Her steps were muffled by the thick carpet lining the foyer and the corridor. The lights were perched on both sides of the corridor like fire- torches, adding an ancient aesthetic to the place. In that warm glow, Morana finally entered the dining room and stopped.

It was empty, except for one lady in the housekeeper’s uniform positioning cutlery on the table. Morana looked at that table – long, wooden, and able to sit at least thirty people – wondering if this was the same table she’d been put on as a toddler or if it was another table in another room. That part of the story she didn’t know about. And if this was indeed the same table in the same room where twenty years ago a young, innocent boy had been scarred for life, Morana wondered what it took out of him to come into this room regularly and eat on the table where his father’s blood had splattered.

It was there, standing in that room full of demons, that the full extent of his torture hit Morana over the head, making her stumble. She caught the edge of the window she was standing beside, her heart shattering for him. To have to sit with people who tortured and trained him, to see them laugh and crack jokes, to quietly get sustenance where your life went to hell… how did someone ever heal from that?

She turned her back on the room and looked out the window, trying to center herself even as she wanted to weep from the pain she felt for him, for her, for them. Were they truly doomed? What was she even trying to do? What was she doing thinking a man that badly damaged could ever heal enough to be with her? They had ended even before they had begun. And that was a depressing, depressing thought. The conflict inside her ensued, one part of her tugging her to the evidence of two weeks, the other part showing her the impact of twenty years.

Letting out a breath, she watched the endless green ground surrounding the house, ending with the shadow of woods. The moon, a beautiful crescent in the dark sky, played hide and seek with the clouds. A few men patrolled the property on foot with weapons while a few others in suits were gathered around a small bonfire, talking.

“Good evening.”

Morana turned around to see a handsome older man walk into the room, dressed in a sharp suit like the rest of them.

“Good evening,” she replied quietly.

“I’m Leo Mancini,” the man said, smiling. Morana looked him up and down, her eyes narrowing.

“Are you the Mancini who likes to rape his wife or is that a poorer relation of yours?”

The man, who had been smiling until that point, lost his manners. Morana braced herself, standing tall, not looking away.

‘Be very careful, Ms. Vitalio,’ he threatened. The tension in the room escalated, broken only with the sound of people coming in. Morana looked away to the entrance, seeing a bunch of strange men and women, adults and teens, enter the room. She only recognized three faces.

Lorenzo Maroni saw her standing near the window and smiled the smile that made ants crawl up her arms. Morana looked away deliberately, to see Dante enter under the arch, wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, a gun tucked in his belt, his hair wet and slicked back from his strong face. It was the first time she was seeing him so casual. He saw her, gave her a small smile which she returned, glad to have a friend in this strange place.

And then Tristan Caine entered, dressed similar to Dante, his t-shirt black and jeans faded, no gun in sight. She didn’t know if that was ballsy or stupid or both. Either way, she couldn’t help but admire that kind of confidence. Watching the two men in a crowd of people dressed to the nines, Morana didn’t know if this was how they always dressed for dinner or if this was a giant “fuck you” to Maroni and his system. Judging by the disapproving look on the man’s face, she would place her bets on the latter.

She was aware of the curious gazes on her as she walked to the seat Lorenzo indicated for her to take. The staff was bringing out the food as everyone took their seats in choreography that spoke of years of practice. She pulled out her chair, strategically placed between a teen boy with dark hair and an older man she didn’t know. Her eyes sought out the two people she did know, to see them opposite her side but closer to the head of the table where Lorenzo sat like a self-proclaimed emperor.

“Are you family?” the teenager asked her curiously.

She shook her head. The boy opened his mouth to ask something when a shadow fell over them. Morana looked up to see Tristan Caine standing behind the boy, his face wiped of all emotions, his eyes on her.

He addressed the boy. “Wanna sit with your cousin?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “But I’m not allowed up the table.”

“You are now. Scoot.”

The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He was out the seat and beside Dante in all his youthful exuberance. Morana saw Tristan Caine take the seat beside hers, hyper-aware of all the eyes on them, hyper-aware of his big, solid form warm just inches away from her. She swallowed, focusing on her breathing, donning the mask of carefully crafted indifference like this wasn’t a big deal at all. Nope. No big deal. Tristan Caine changing years of seating arrangements and sitting beside her in front of everyone – no big deal. She could smell that musky scent that was all him, feel the air every time he inhaled and exhaled softly, feel the sheer force of his presence caress her all over.

Food came. Nobody said a word. He didn’t say a word. Morana could practically feel the tension climb up as she kept her eyes glued to her plate like it was the answer to global peace.

“Tristan,” Maroni’s voice came from the head of the table, loud. The sound of cutlery paused. She kept her head down, aware of the man beside her looking up silently.

“This won’t happen again,” he warned.

The man beside her said in the same tone. “It better not.”

Holy shit. She looked up just in time to see Maroni bristling. Tristan Caine continued eating. Nobody said anything but slowly, they resumed eating. Morana looked down at the soup in front of her, her appetite lost under all the tension in her body. Forcing herself to drink a bit, she almost dropped her spoon when a hand went under the slit of her dress, holding her inner thigh like it had every right to. She knew what he was doing. He was testing her.

Morana relaxed her body, closing her thighs hard, trapping his hand between them, just inches from her throbbing core. He flexed his fingers, the movement sending sensation coursing like an arrow to her center. She didn’t open her legs or give his hand room to move. He gripped one of her thighs hard, his fingers prying her legs loose enough to get his hand out. Morana felt the loss ghosting over her skin, knew from the warmth that the imprint of that hand would be darkening the flesh inside her leg. It thrilled her, the knowledge of his having been there, the proof of it marked on her skin, so close. She was wet.

“Morana,” Maroni’s voice broke through her lust-induced daze, chilling her. She looked up to see the man wipe his mouth with his napkin.

“I’ve informed your father you’re here.”

Morana tensed but didn’t remove her eyes from the man. “Awesome,” her voice came out nonchalant.

Maroni smirked under his beard, looking around the table. “Everyone, this is Morana Vitalio, the daughter of Gabriel Vitalio.”

The air around the table, which had been curious but relaxed, chilled at the announcement. Every eye turned to her and she kept hers steady on the man at the head seat. He continued. “She is here as a guest, of course, so everyone will treat her as such. Anybody who sees someone not treat her as a guest will be reported to me.”

Morana heard the warning to herself loud and clear in that. Do not make yourself at home.

Maroni went one step further. “She is staying in the guest room on the second floor,’ he told everyone. ‘Nobody will bother her. She is her father’s daughter, after all.”

Her jaw clenched as her hand fisted, the urge to walk up the table and punch the smug bastard in the face acute.

Maroni looked around the table, his eyes coming to rest on Tristan Caine. “And nobody will touch her.”

The hand on her thigh returned. This time, she let it stay.

“But you have to be careful, Morana. Accidents can happen anywhere sadly.”

Which meant anyone could hurt her and he wouldn’t do shit about it. Morana knew what Maroni was doing. She was caught in that battle between him and the man beside her but she had willingly placed herself there. She knew what she was getting into.

And it was that which prompted her to retaliate. “And what if I want someone to touch me?”

Maroni’s eyes flew to her, surprised. He had not expected that. And then he gave her that slick smile that made her want to bash his head.

“Then you will get more than you bargained for, little girl.”

Fucking. Bastard.

Her blood boiled. She moved to get up when the hand on her thigh tightened, keeping her in place, telling her to be calm. For the first time through dinner, she looked at him, her anger at everything bubbling over. But the storm she saw in his eyes made her pause. His eyes, those magnificent blue eyes, were trained on Lorenzo Maroni and screamed so much death it sent chills down her spine. She realized she could never hate Maroni as much as this man hated him. And that soothed her.

“I think the only ones you’re scaring are the children, father,” Dante commented dryly from his place. “Let them eat in peace.”

The children, on that note, stuffed their mouths quickly. The adults followed. The rest of the dinner flew by, remnants of tension lingering in the air. And throughout dinner, his hand remained on her thigh, not stroking, not moving, not doing anything except just being. Morana had never experienced it – the way a touch could anchor her. The only time she had come close had been with him when she’d had her panic attack. But this was different. This time she was conscious and aware of everything, her emotions still all over the place, and his touch, not sexual, not sensual, simply a touch, was grounding. It made her realize how hungry she had been for this sensation all her life, how much her skin had craved contact with another and never had it, how much she had desired his normal touch. Just the weight of his hand on her flesh made her feel light, lighter than before.

Done with dinner, the children excused themselves and left the room. Some adults took the cue and skipped dessert to leave as well. Morana wanted to do the same and escape the suffocating area. She didn’t because he didn’t.

“Did you know you were here quite a few years ago, Morana?” Maroni began conversationally, sipping his drink. “In fact, you sat on this very table and played.”

Morana felt the man beside her tensing and for the first time, instinctively, she put her hand on his thigh, hoping for her touch to anchor him like his was doing to her. She felt the tight muscles in his legs and held it firmly.

“Father,” Dante warned from the side.

“Terrible day that was though,” Maroni continued speaking. “Such a terrible day. Do you remember, Morana?”

She gave him a relaxed smile. “Of course I don’t. Unlike you, I’m not ancient, Mr. Maroni.”

Dante coughed to hide his chuckle as Maroni’s smile evaporated at her dig. “I have been here a long time, indeed. And I have stayed here for a good reason.”

Morana retained her smile. “Terror.”

“Power.”

Morana nodded, pretending to agree. “Senility. One of the signs of old age.”

The silence on the table would have been terrifying had she not felt the hand on her thigh give her a small squeeze.

‘You forget your place, girl,’ Maroni spoke, his voice so quiet she could feel his anger.

She was so done with this shit. ‘Let me make something very clear to you. I think you mistake me for someone you can push around, Mr. Maroni,’ Morana spoke, her voice reflecting the steel in her spine. ‘I’m not. I’m your Pandora’s box. So, if I were you, I’d keep me very, very happy and very, very alive. Because once this box opens, your power, your empire, you will crumble and you wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop it.’

Chiara Mancini sneezed and Morana’s eyes went to her. The squeeze of his hand on her thigh turned sour. Done, completely done with the miserable evening, Morana pushed her chair back, dislodging his hand.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” she addressed Maroni.

Without waiting for any of them to respond, she stood up and turned on her heels, leaving the room. She headed outside through the side door for some fresh air. Stepping out on the porch, she looked around to find a quiet place, seeing the bonfire a few feet away to the left and the men patrolling on the right. Turning, she walked around the house, breathing in the fresh air, looking inside the dark windows. The ones that were lit had the curtains drawn over them.

“Be careful of being alone outside.”

Morana stopped to see Dante come up beside her, his eyes on the men near the bonfire. ‘I’m sick of people telling me to be careful.’

His huge form relaxing, he took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag. Morana blinked, surprised. “You smoke?”

“Used to,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Now, it’s occasional.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Dante’s lips turned up in a smirk. “Seeing that beautiful show inside. Thanks, by the way. Keep it up and the old man is going to have a heart attack from the sheer shock that someone aside from Tristan is immune to his power.”

Morana chuckled, well aware. ‘I’ll try my best.’

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Dante smoking and Morana contemplating, before she broke the silence. “So what’s the deal with Chiara and him?”

‘Who?’

Morana rolled her eyes. ‘Dante!’

Dante cut a glance at her, smiling, before turning again. “You should be having this conversation with him.”

“I will. I wanted to know your thoughts,” she clarified.

Dante huffed a laugh. “Chiara is a viper. sleek, beautiful, poisonous.”

Morana looked away. “She told me she was raped by her husband.”

“She was,” Dante confirmed. “And then she proceeded to prey on barely legal boys who didn’t remind her of her husband. Don’t waste your sympathies on that woman, Morana.”

That was twisted. And she felt slightly nauseous.

‘Well, then,’ Morana rocked back on her feet. ‘Thank you for standing up for me today, by the way.’

Dante gave her a curt nod. Not wanting to make it weird, Morana bid him goodnight and headed back into the house, completely through with the night. What she needed was sleep, good sleep and when she woke up this nightmare would seem better.

Climbing the stairs, thankfully not encountering anyone else on the way, she went to her room, unlocking the door. She entered, pushing the door behind her. But the sound of wood hitting wood never came. Morana stilled, turning around to see Tristan Caine holding her door open, leaning against the doorjamb.

Oh no. No, nopity, nope. She was not in the mood to deal with him tonight.

Ignoring his ass, she turned again and went to the dresser, dropping her heels on the side. The door shut behind her. Locked. From the way her body was reacting, she knew he was still in the room.

“Nice dress.”

Her hands paused over her earring, her eyes watching as his reflection joined hers in the mirror. “Thanks,” she responded, taking her earring off. “Maroni sent it as a welcome gift.”

His eyes flared in the reflection. Score one.

He took a step closer, his presence almost behind her. “Did you enjoy the buffet?”

Morana inhaled deeply, keeping her eyes on him. “I’ve only seen the dishes so far. But from what I’ve seen, I’m certain they taste really good.”

Before she could blink, she was pressed against the mirror, her head pulled back with his hand in her hair. Their eyes collided in the mirror, his breath on her neck, warm, soft. His chest pressed against her back, expanding with every breath he took, syncing her own breathing to match. Her heart started to hammer, blood rushing under her skin, her entire being thrilled at making him snap, at making him react.

“Look at all the dishes you want, wildcat,” whiskey and sin poured down her ear and dripped into her body, “but the only dish filling you up is right here.”

Morana fought back a moan at the way his teeth grazed her ear, his eyes hot on hers. “I don’t share.”

His hand tugged her head a bit, his nose inhaling her. “Neither do I.”

Stalemate. They were both breathing heavily. And then she remembered there were listening devices in the room.

“They can hear us,” she reminded him.

“Let them,” he stated, his nose running along her neck. “Let them also listen to what I’m going to do to anyone who touches you.”

His hand left her hair, coming to the front of her neck, holding her as he did, her pulse drumming against his palm. “I’ll break every single finger of the hand that touches you,” he whispered, writing death over her skin as she looked at them in the mirror, her nipples hard as though his words caressed them, his big form behind her.

“Then, I will slit their throat just on the surface, letting them bleed and howl while I skinned them alive,” he continued, making her shudder both in fear and pleasure, his eyes blazing on her, his hand simply holding her by the throat. “And then I will set them on fire.”

She felt owned. “And what if I want them to touch me?” she asked the same question she’d asked Maroni.

His lips twitched, his hand pressing her closer to his body. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” he leaned into her neck, his lips ghosting over her skin as he spoke, “you come alive only for me.”

Morana shivered, her toes curling into the carpet as her jaw trembled. He was right.

Not wanting to be left a step behind, Morana boldly rubbed her hips against his, feeling him harden against her back, and declared. “Mine.”

And for the first time since she had known him, she saw a smile crack his face. It was small, just a little curve of lips, but it was genuine and it was there. And it tilted her world on its axis because he had a dimple.

He.

Had.

A.

Fucking.

Dimple.

She stared at it in surprise, somehow thrown by such a simple thing, wondering who had been the last person to see that dimple.

Their eyes, still locked together, had an entire conversation in themselves. His smile dropped slowly by degrees and she shook her head, raising her hand behind her in the mirror, feeling the scruff brush against her palm for the first time.

That pushed him over the edge. His other hand pulled the dress up and over her ass as she bent forward, giving him room to move, their eyes connected the entire time. She felt his fingers between her legs, testing her wetness. She was dripping.

“Clean?”

She felt the weight of that one word question in his husky whisper. She knew it would change things, knew it was one step closer together. Wordlessly, she nodded. He nodded his own answer.

Just as wordlessly, she felt the tip of him behind her. She went on her toes to get level, canting her hips to ease access for him as his fingers left her, going to under her knee and pulling it up. She balanced her feet on the edge of the dresser, the other held up on her toes with his strength. His other hand stayed steady on her throat as his eyes stayed steady on hers. She realized it would be the first time she would actually see him when he entered her, the first time he would enter her naked.

Anticipation built, her heart thudding in her ears, her skin aware of everywhere they touched and aware of every breath he took.

And then he thrust into her suddenly.

A loud yelp escaped her as the dresser banged against the wall, her mouth opening on a pant as her walls welcomed him in. The fact that there were listening devices all over the room, the fact that he didn’t care, and neither did she, the fact that just the banging of the dresser would have made people in the house aware of what was going on sent a thrill down her spine.

Their eyes on each other, understanding passing between them, he pulled her flush against him, his cock lodging itself deeper inside her, sending heat through her body. He pulled out almost completely, her walls quivering with the loss, before he plunged in, harder. The dresser banged into the wall louder. She moaned, her breaths escalating and his roughened, her muscles clenching around him like a vise. His hand left her knee, going to her throbbing clit, rubbing.

Her eyes fluttered close on the onslaught of sensation.

“Name,” he growled. Her eyes opened slightly, finding his, confused. “Say my name.”

Her heart stopped. She gulped, aware of him pulsing inside her. His fingers flexed on her throat, so big he encompassed it, the sense of danger and safety mingling together in a heady concoction.

“Mr. Caine,” she whispered, her eyes glued to his.

He took the skin of her neck between his teeth, tugging. “Name.”

“Tristan Caine,” she muttered.

He pinched her clit, making her hips rock involuntarily.

“Tristan,” she sighed, her hands holding the dresser tightly.

He rolled his hips, almost blacking her out with the sudden movement, touching her magic spot. “That’s the name you’re going to be screaming for a long time, Ms. Vitalio. Remember it.”

“Stop talking and fuck me then, Mr. Caine,” she challenged.

He complied. He started to fuck her in the true sense of the word.

The mirror in the dresser started to shake so much it rattled. The sound of the wood plowing a hold in the wall matched the rhythm of him plowing into her. Their eyes remained connected even on that shaky glass as he thrust in and out of her, rolling his hips, alternating. Her walls squeezed him in sync, weeping and clinging to him, the friction inside her spreading fire all over her body. Sweat coated her skin, her shuddering gasps turning into loud moans turning into small screams she could not control anymore.

“Tristan,” she panted, urging him on, moving her hips to his, watching him. It was erotic, watching him like that, watching herself like that, both of them dressed but so, so naked.

‘Louder,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

It shook her. ‘Tristan,’ she moaned louder, feeling all the ridges on his cock, could feel those pulsing veins, all naked inside her for the first time. He started to rub her clit harder, his hips picking up speed, her knees knocking against the wood as she balanced herself on the toes of one feet and the knee of the other, his hand around her throat holding her up and level. It wasn’t too tight but firm enough to make her feel completely surrounded, completely owned in that moment. She owned him right back, keeping him trapped inside her with every push. Slowly, the fire in her body concentrated on her burning core, her entire body shaking as she started getting light-headed from the overload of sensation.

And then she felt his teeth on her neck. Hard.

She exploded, screaming as her knees buckled, her balance forgotten, her walls releasing like never before, her heartbeats through the roof, so loud she could feel them thundering everywhere in her body. She could feel her own wetness running down her thighs, her eyes seeking his magnificent blues as she watched her come, committing everything to memory.

He pulled out all of a sudden, pushing her down over the dresser, and she saw him stroking his erection in his fist, his face twisting into agonized pleasure as he exploded over her back, his come pooling on the dress. Morana watched, fascinated, still reeling from her own pleasure, listening to that growl leave his chest as he jerked off for a few seconds, milking out every drop, exhaling.

His eyes, which had closed, opened again and found hers. He tucked himself back in, zipping up. Morana straightened slowly, watching as his hands came to her breasts for the first time. Not to touch, no. He still didn’t touch her breasts even as her nipples strained towards his palms, aching with a hunger only his fingers could satiate. He never did. He just took the neckline of her dress in both hands and ripped it apart in one go, the sound of the tearing fabric loud in the room. He stared at her for a long minute, his eyes never wavering down to her bra, now completely exposed in the dress that hung on her only by the sleeves.

Gently, silently, he took the sleeves down and pushed the dress to the floor.

“Get rid of the dress.”

With that growled command, he turned on his heel and walked out, locking the door behind him with a click.

Morana blinked, all of it too quick for her to process. What the hell had just happened?

Her gaze drifted down to the discarded green dress that Maroni had sent her. It was ripped, tattered and had his semen drying on it. A slow smile teased her lips the longer she stared at it. A laugh escaped her, the situation suddenly funny. Picking it up, she walked to the bin in the bathroom and threw it in. Humming quietly to herself, she turned to wash her hands and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes lingered on the red mark on the side of her neck where he’d hickey-ed her. She touched the mark gingerly, the smile on her face full-blown now.

Showering quickly, she changed into her cute pajamas and jumped in her new bed, the knife safely under her pillow, a pillow pressed into her chest. She cuddled into it, thinking about the entire roller- coaster of a day. Her first day in Tenebrae. Despite being in the enemy city in the enemy’s house full of hostile strangers, a small bubble of happiness nestled its way inside her heart. Her life, in many ways, was better than what it had been weeks ago. She had found a true friend in Amara and a protector in Dante. And she had found, under all the madness and chaos, Tristan.

Tristan.

Just Tristan.

She exhaled, her heart squeezing at the giant steps they had taken forward.

She didn’t know if he would acknowledge them tomorrow or revert to his usual self. She didn’t know how Maroni would respond to her words tomorrow. She didn’t know if someone would try to harm her tomorrow. What she did know was tomorrow, she would wake up and work on the mysteries that were plaguing her. Tomorrow, she would work out a plan to deal with the sharks better. Tomorrow, she would think of how to deal with Chiara. Tomorrow, she would call Amara and talk to her. Tomorrow.

She might not be safe but she mattered. She mattered to someone. And he had started to matter a great deal to her.

And tomorrow, as they said, would be a new day.