The Predator: An Enemies to Lovers Dark Romance (Dark Verse Book 1)
The Predator: Chapter 13

‘The more you know, the less you do.’

Morana remembered reading that quote somewhere a long time ago. The words had stuck to her brain, but she’d never truly understood it. Being a certified genius, she’d always believed knowledge was the ultimate power. It was her thirst for knowledge which had made her bold enough to step out of her defined norms, time and again. It was this very belief that had led her into putting in everything she had and making those codes she’d come to dread so much.

Knowledge was power, but in the wrong hands, it was a weapon.

The Alliance had ended twenty years ago. Twenty-two, to be precise.

Two days after her laughable escape attempt, two days of living inside the guest room like an actual guest and not someone despised, the seething mess of Morana’s emotions were finally calm.

For the first time in a long, long time, Morana felt in control. She felt she was seeing things clearly and logically again, not letting her emotions run roughshod over her in raging waves. Whether that was because she’d come to face and accept some facts about herself or because Tristan Caine had been largely absent from his own house doing god-knew-what for the two days, Morana just knew her cool, composed head was back and she was grateful. She didn’t like feeling off-kilter, uncontrolled by her own body.

And though his absence and lack of pursuit did confuse her to some extent, she’d learned not to put too much thought into what he did or didn’t do. The fact was, she was the daughter of Gabriel Vitalio who’d never returned to her prison of a home after leaving. She was taking refuge in the enemy’s camp instead. The fact was, that the said enemy had punched her father in full view of his people in his territory and refused to return back to his own when summoned. The fact was, knowing her father, she was getting antsy because he hadn’t reacted to any of it.

That wasn’t like him. Her father made statements; he retaliated in a way that set examples. To let Tristan Caine get away with something like this wasn’t in his DNA. That was why Morana was a little worried, this silence from her father more unnerving than anything else, like the calm before the storm. And in their world, a storm could mean anything from a dead body to a street war. It wasn’t a soothing thought.

As for Lorenzo Maroni, she didn’t know how he would react. From what she’d heard of the man, his hands were even dirtier than her father, and Dante had seemed worried about his reaction. But then again, what did she know? Maybe refusing his summons was a normal thing in the Caine-Maroni relationship. If Tristan Caine wasn’t worried about it, which she didn’t really know if he was, she wouldn’t give it much thought either.

Her objective thoughts were focused on two very important things – replaceing the codes, and end of the Alliance.

Now that she was level-headed and mostly alone in the huge penthouse with the gorgeous view, Morana had a plan. She and the Outfit brothers had been focusing on trying to replace the codes and then subsequently destroying them, but from their success so far, it didn’t seem very plausible in the near future.

So, she changed the plans and decided she was going to write a new set of codes, and create a software that would completely undo the effects of the original codes the moment they were initialized. Although she wasn’t really clear on how she was going to go about it, she knew she had both the capability and the incentive. And since Tristan Caine had been a ghost in his own house, Morana called Dante after waking up to discuss this with him.

As she sat curled on the plush couch in the living room in more clothes that Amara brought for her yesterday, she watched the sunlight dance with the tall peaks of the buildings. It filtered in through the windows and warmed her, warming the entire apartment with its soft glow, Morana let her mind drift to the other thing she needed knowledge about.

The Alliance. Or rather, it’s demise.

The Alliance had been in place for so long, peaceful and beneficial to both the families involved, so why exactly had it ended? What had happened twenty-two years ago that had led to the end of one of the most lucrative associations in mob history? There hadn’t been any wars. Morana had researched for those and the last known war between the two families had been more than fifty years ago. It was the end of that war that had created the Alliance. For almost three decades, it had worked well.

So what had happened?

More importantly, what did that have to do with Tristan Caine hating her? How did everyone else know about it? She hadn’t even known much about the Alliance, which was surprising considering she’d grown up listening to everything her father and his men had talked about. She’d known of the Outfit and its people through word of mouth. She’d known of the many players around their area through those conversations. So why had she never known of the Alliance? Had they purposely never mentioned it in front of her? Or was she imagining things? Why would her father hide from her the very thing that made his enemy despise her?

Morana picked up her phone and logged into her personalized search engine, continuing reading her old research on the topic quickly. She prayed for some good leads as she combed through the content.

The sound of the elevator opening jolted her from her search, making her hastily lock her phone. She looked up to see Dante’s huge form walk smoothly out the doors, his body in one of those pristine dark suits she’d come to associate with him. Morana tilted her head, considering the man, realizing she’d judged him a little too quickly in the beginning, her own prejudices covering the reality.

Just like Tristan Caine and her, Dante wore a mask on the outside. Being in his company for a few days, seeing the way he had reacted to her bruised body that night, what he’d done despite his misgivings, Morana had warmed to him. Though he was still the enemy, he had been good to her so far. And that was more than she could say for her own father.

Shaking off her thoughts, Morana waved at him and he strode forward to take the chair opposite her, his polite smile in place even though his dark eyes were less guarded than usual. Guess he’d warmed to her too.

“So, what is it you wished to discuss with me, Morana?” he asked in that same cordial tone he’d always used with her.

Morana played with her phone as she asked, already knowing the answer. “Do we have any leads about the codes?”

Dante shook his head. “No. There’s been a situation in Tenebrae, and everyone’s been busy handling that.”

Morana frowned. “That situation with the fake dealers who were pretending to be Outfit?”

“Yes.”

Morana pondered on that for a long moment, the wheels in her head turning rapidly. “Do you think it could be connected?”

Dante’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What could be connected?”

Morana sighed impatiently, leaning forward on her elbows, her mind racing as the dots started to make an odd kind of sense.

“All of this! Don’t you think it’s weird? The timing of it all? Someone pretends to be Mr. Caine and steals the codes from me, taking the extra efforts to frame him should the codes be used. Also, enough to get my attention, which had I not been me would’ve meant the attention of my family. And then someone pretends to be the Outfit where you guys used to do business and takes the profits while framing you for the losses. Really, what are the odds?”

How could she not have seen this before? There was a clear pattern. There was one person or one group doing all of this, one mastermind. But who were they trying to frame – Tristan Caine or the Outfit? Was it personal or was it bigger than that? And how did she figure into all of it?

Dante sat in stunned silence for a whole minute, absorbing what she’d said, the implications of what she’d said going through his head at breakneck speed. She could feel it even though his face refused to betray a thought. He and his blood brother were certainly alike in that regard.

“Could it be your father?” Dante finally broke the silence, asking the most obvious question.

Morana shook her head. “No. Had it been him, he’d have just ordered me to give him the codes and never let the whole Jackson-is-my-boyfriend-thing happen. That would hinder his greater agenda of getting me married to some asshole who wants a pristine, virginal mob bride.”

Dante’s mouth flattened in a hard line, his eyes dimming slightly. “That’s how this world works, Morana. I wish it didn’t. I’d give anything for it not to, but that’s how it is. You are truly lucky you could escape. Not everyone is.”

Morana looked at him, her heart softening as she remembered what Amara had told her in similar words.

Taking a deep breath before she could respond, he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly done with whatever emotion he’d expressed. “Okay, so we have to consider the possibility, which is large, that these are all connected events and not isolated like we had been treating them to be. Thank you for that. Anything else?”

Morana shook off her own gloomy thoughts and inhaled. “Yes. I’m going to write a failsafe software that will prevent any consequences of the original codes since we can’t get it and destroy it. So this software will undo anything that one does once I initialize it.”

Dante raised his eyebrows. “Will it work?”

“In theory, it already does. Writing it is going to be a bit of a job though.”

He nodded. “Great. If that works, we’ll all sleep much better.”

Morana bit her lip, her hands wanting to wring each other for this next part. “But, to write this, I’m going to need my own stuff. My laptop and hard drives, mainly. Which, by the way, is still in my office. In my suite. In my house. Which I left a few nights ago.”

Dante nodded, standing up. “It’ll be handled. Do you need anything else?”

Morana shook her head. “Thank you. I’m good.”

“Good. Call me if you think of anything else.”

With another polite nod to her, he strode out towards the elevators just as the doors opened, and Tristan Caine, in a suit without the tie, walked out, coming to an abrupt stop upon seeing Dante.

So, the ice between them had not cooled since the disastrous lunch. Good to know.

His eyes never moved in her direction from the other man, and Morana forced herself not to move, not to attract his attention, not to allow him to influence her emotions. She liked her level-headed self a lot, thanks very much. And this man made her want to scream like a banshee on crack, which although wasn’t the most enticing imagery, was very appropriate.

It also helped to know that first – he had avoided her for two days – and second – that he usually never addressed her as long as there were other human beings in the room. She didn’t know his policy on cats or puppies so far. So, she was safe from her banshee self for a little while longer, and if all worked the way it had been, he’d be gone and she’d be rational.

“We need to talk, Tristan.”

Not the most inviting of statements. But at least Dante’s even voice cut through the tension between the two men enough to make her look up at them – two tall, broad, handsome men who were as lethal as men could be.

“Yes, we do,” Tristan Caine replied, the warning in his tone clear for her to hear, warning for Dante not to open his mouth with her ears glued to them. As if. She rolled her eyes and turned back to her phone, aware of both men leaving the apartment and getting into the elevator. The doors closed with a soft ‘ding’, and Morana felt the tension she hadn’t been aware of seeping in leave her body on a loud exhale.

So, new codes out of the way till she got her stuff, Morana unlocked her phone and got back to researching the mysterious break of the twenty-two years ago Alliance.

Morana woke up abruptly, disoriented, her neck in an odd position on the back of the couch, her legs numb and curled under her, her hair sprawled all over the place as her hands held her phone, lost somewhere on her lap. She straightened her neck, a dull ache throbbing where she‘d given herself a crick, her eyes going to the gorgeous windows, to see dusk settle across the city in a fiery embrace, losing itself to the dark velvet of the coming night. The twinkling lights of the city and the cool waves of the sea on the opposite side were a cool contrast to her senses.

This was a view she’d been seeing for the past few nights without fail, these windows becoming a part of her since that rainy night in a way her car was. And yet, she didn’t think she’d ever tire of watching this same thing over and over and over again. It wasn’t just the beauty of it all. It was more than that. It was the memory of what had accompanied this beauty, the memory of a sad, lonely night that hadn’t been so lonely anymore.

Would she have felt the same way about these windows had that memory not been there? Or would they have been like the windows of her own house? Just windows. Yet, every time she looked their way, every time she saw the city, saw the sea, saw the stars and the limitless sky, her breath caught in her throat.

Just as it was at the moment.

She suddenly became aware of her surroundings as sleep drifted further and further away from her mind.

The lights were still off, only the glow from the outside world penetrating inside, seducing the shadows inside, the sound of her own breath lingering around her in the stillness.

But she knew she wasn’t alone.

He was there. Somewhere in the dark. Watching her.

She didn’t know where he was, didn’t turn her head to feel him in those seduced shadows, didn’t do anything but sit still, letting him watch, letting herself thrill in being watched. It was twisted. It was wrong in so many ways. It had never felt so right.

And this, right here, was exactly what she didn’t understand about herself, about them. This need to give and seek attention from each other while loathing it. This thrill that shot through her even as she knew it shouldn’t. This heightened awareness inside every pore of her body as soon as he came into the vicinity.

Had it been like this since that first night in Tenebrae? Or had it happened later? Where had she lost her body, her senses to his? At what point had being watched by someone in the dark from behind become not something threatening but thrilling? And only by him, because Morana knew, was it someone else, she’d be running for the knife.

Her heart pounded in the silence, as she stayed unmoving, barely breathing, nerves stretching tighter and tighter with every single breath, her nipples hardening under the constraining fabric of her bra, heat pooling between her legs. Good lord, she was ready to combust and she didn’t even know where he was. Didn’t know how he was affected. She was going to change that. Make sure he got as affected as she did. She wasn’t going to be burning alone, not if she could help it. If he afflicted her with this insane lust, the least she could do was return the favor.

He liked to watch? She’d give him a fucking show.

Trusting her instincts, which had worked pretty well for her so far, Morana slowly uncoiled her body from its slumberous position, stretching her arms above her head and her legs out before her, arching her spine, playing his game. She was caught unawares by the sudden rush of blood to her sleeping legs, the sudden million pinpricks bursting across her skin.

A moan of relief escaped her lips unbidden before she could call it back, and she suddenly tensed.

That one sound in the silence had been loud as a scream. It hadn’t broken the tension. It had thickened it.

Morana could feel his eyes drift leisurely, heatedly all over her, examining her with a scrutiny that should have been disturbing but wasn’t, would have been disturbing but wasn’t. The thickened silence hung over her like a thunder cloud. She held her breath, her heart pounding, for the lightning to split the air between them, for the thunder to roar in her body, for the electricity to singe them and leave its mark.

She waited.

His eyes never moved away even as she felt his movement in the room, the air snapping around him, changing around her. Was he stepping closer? Or farther? Would she feel his breath on her skin, or feel the empty caress of the air?

She waited, her nerves stretched so taut she was afraid she would snap.

The sudden vibration of her phone on her thigh made her jump, her heart thumping against her ribs. Aware of his eyes on her, Morana picked up her phone with slightly unsteady hands and unlocked the screen, blinking at the message.

Tristan Caine: Meet me in the parking lot in 5 minutes.

Morana could’ve spoken. She could’ve talked and asked him why. But she didn’t want to break this silence, this moment where she was sitting in the dark alone being watched by him from the darker shadows.

Me: Planning to make me go somewhere, Mr. Caine?

Tristan Caine: On the contrary, I’m planning to make you come somewhere, Ms. Vitalio. 5 minutes.

Her breath caught as she read the message, the dinging of the elevator loud in the quiet of the penthouse, telling her he’d left her alone and stepped back. Knowing he was gone, Morana put a hand to her racing heart, feeling its hard thump under her fingers, her breasts heavy and heaving as she inhaled and exhaled, regularizing her breaths.

Was she really going to do this again? Let him do this again? That time in the restaurant had been to get them out of their systems. It had failed spectacularly. Would this time get him out? And just in case it didn’t, would she let him fuck her again? At what cost? She wasn’t foolish enough to delude herself into thinking it won’t deepen whatever connection they already had. Could she risk it? Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe they’d get themselves out of their systems, and Morana would develop the counter codes and leave everything peacefully with closure.

Another incoming text interrupted her thoughts.

Tristan Caine: If you’re scared…

He was baiting her. Why?

Me: Of what?

Tristan Caine: Come and see for yourself.

What, was he parading around naked in the lot with whipped cream smeared over his man parts?

Me: You use ‘come’ a lot, you know that?

Tristan Caine: Women are usually grateful in all sorts of ways.

Morana scoffed, trying not to let the image of him tangled with some gorgeous woman, multiple women, get to her. It didn’t bother her. Not. At. All.

Standing up and straightening her clothes, she slipped her feet into her flats and headed for the elevator, typing all the while.

Me: You actually let them speak during sex? Outside of a restroom? How classy.

The elevator doors slid open and she got inside, looking back at herself in the mirror, at her tousled hair and the tank top that tended to slip her shoulders. The jeans Amara had loaned her was slightly loose on her, the hem folded back to accommodate her shorter height. She looked like a little hipster who’d burst into a song and dance at the drop of a hat, like in a music video.

Scoffing, she pushed her phone inside her pocket, straightening the strap of her top, and walked out when the doors opened. Dante and Tristan Caine stood together, talking in quiet tones beside his bike. It was her first proper glimpse of him since the afternoon, and she was surprised to replace him wearing not the suit he’d been wearing during the day, but well-worn jeans that hugged his ass in ways she could envy, and that black leather jacket of his. She was surprised because it meant he’d been in the apartment longer than she’d realized. It meant he’d let her sleep without disturbing her, and she didn’t know what to make of that.

Dante looked at her, gave her a small nod and headed to his car, dialing someone on his phone.

And then, Tristan Caine took one handle of that beast of a bike, swung one leg over it, the muscles of his thighs flexing under that jeans in a way that made her insides roar with feminine appreciation. He settled his ass back on the seat, picking up a helmet from behind him and finally looking at her with those piercing blue eyes. It was only then that she noticed a second helmet on the seat. A smaller, more feminine helmet.

Fuck.

He was taking her out on his bike? His bike? The sacred, holy bike? The bike he actually enjoyed riding?

“If you’re done gaping, Ms. Vitalio, we’re on a clock,” his rough, low voice rasped over her, breaking her out of her stupor, his eyes locked on her.

Morana gulped and walked forward, apprehension curling in her stomach along with excitement, eyeing the beautiful black and red chrome monster, the seat higher than her waist. How in the world was she going to climb onto it?

She picked up the smaller helmet, aware of his gaze on her. It wasn’t new and it was clearly feminine. Who did it belong to? Or was it like the common helmet for any and all females climbing the back? For some reason, the idea did not sit well with her.

“Who’s is this?” she blurted out before she could stop herself, berating herself the moment the words left her lips.

Tristan Caine raised an eyebrow at her but stayed silent, and suddenly, a horrible, horrible thought occurred to her. Was there someone he was supposed to be with back in…? She shook the thought off even before it could complete. No. What little she knew of him, from what she’d seen and heard, Tristan Caine did not mistreat women. She was the only exception and even with his hatred, he’d given her sanctuary when she’d needed it to lick her wounds and heal.

Had there been someone else, he wouldn’t have pursued her as sexually as he had.

Morana was certain of that.

This was exactly why she took a deep breath and put on the helmet, looking up at him, to replace him staring back at her with an inscrutable look.

“You might want to remove those glasses,” he commented, his lips in a completely straight line.

Pulling them off wordlessly, she floundered for a second, wondering where to put it to keep it safe, before tucking one ear-handle into her cleavage, letting the glasses hang off her tank top. She looked up to replace those blue, blue eyes watching her exposed skin unabashedly, before leisurely stroking over her neck, her mouth, and halting at her eyes.

They stayed that way for a moment before he turned back to face the front, his lithe, graceful body moving as he kicked the bike off the stand. He started it with a powerful thrust, waiting.

Morana felt an odd kind of excitement filling her.

She’d never been on a bike. Only ever in her car and her father’s.

Her first time on the back of a bike, with Tristan Caine.

Morana took in a deep breath, putting her feet on the stand and her hands on those broad, muscular shoulders for support, swinging her leg over. She settled onto the seat, her legs spread wide and held that way by his hips in between them. The beast of a bike rumbled underneath her, sending vibrations up and down her spine, vibrations into her core, making her bite back on a gasp.

“You’ll need to hold more than my shoulder if you don’t want to fall,” his voice rumbled over the noise of the engine.

She didn’t want to.

But she did too.

Morana hesitated, but slowly placed her hands on the sides of his jacket, feeling nothing but tight, packed muscles beneath the leather, her fingers flexing against the warmth of his flesh.

“And keep your leg off that big rod on the right.”

She’d already figured that one out for herself.

After a second, the bike rumbled under her as he pulled out of the spot, the vibrations quickening against her flesh as the bike picked up speed, pressing her flush against his massive back.

Dear Lord, how was she supposed to survive an entire ride like this?

He pulled down his visor and throttled the engine once before pulling out of the lot, exiting into the quiet street in front of the building, turning left once on the bridge, flying across it.

The world sped by faster and faster, becoming a blur she could not see without her glasses, the motion of the bike smoother than she’d thought it would be. The wind whipped through her free locks, sending them careening wildly into different directions as her breasts flattened completely against him, her body plastered to his as she gripped him around the stomach, his abs rock hard against her palms. The bike purred under her like a content beast being stroked seductively by his lover.

And she had to admit it, Tristan Caine rode the bike well. Really well. He maneuvered around crowded areas expertly, gave it free rein in the open road, all the while in complete control of the monster. Not for one second did she feel worried about breaking her neck, and she should have as they raced across the almost empty freeway way beyond the speed limit. She should have worried when she felt the gun he’d tucked into the back of his jeans press against her stomach. But she didn’t.

All she felt was free.

Wild.

Exhilarated in a way she’d never been before.

Was this the high he got every time he climbed his bike? Was this the freedom he tasted that was so elusive in their lives? Was this the wildness he felt beat like a pulse through his blood?

Morana tilted her head back, feeling every caress of the wind over her skin, feeling a rush so profound she couldn’t even explain it to herself. So she didn’t. She let herself go, let herself have this, let herself be free in a way she had never believed was possible.

Removing her arms from around him, she tightened her grip on his hips with her thighs and raised her hands above her head. Some switch inside her had flipped. She knew he wouldn’t let her fall, or he already would have, on the many chances he’d had to destroy her. She knew he would destroy her, but not today. Today, for the first time, she got to be no one but a girl on the back of a man’s motorcycle, if even for a moment. Today, for the first time, she was just a woman with no past and no future, just this endless road with this man, this freedom, and this life.

She couldn’t contain the loud shout of pure exhilaration rushing through her lips, the loud scream announcing to the world of her joy, letting the man controlling this bike know she was enjoying it. She was not inhibited about it.

Morana spread her arms, closing her eyes, feeling the wind rub against her, feeling him rub against her, feeling the bike rub against her.

She yelled even louder – unashamed, unbound, unchained.

She let herself feel deeper – uncaring, unhinged, unabashed.

It was just a bike. It was just a ride. It was just a man.

It just was.

It was almost an hour later that reality intruded.

Tristan Caine turned from the main road onto a dirt lane she’d known all her life, and for the first time in an hour of bliss, her heart started pounding again. Her fingers flexed against his abs as she saw the massive structure of the Vitalio mansion loom behind the wrought iron gates.

What the hell?

He stopped the bike on the side of the property, nearer to her wing than the gates. He parked behind thick bushes that were tall enough to hide them from the view.

The sudden quiet under her thighs contrasted starkly with the buzz that coursed through her body, setting her senses on high alert, only the sound of nocturnal creatures penetrating the area around them along with her own blood pounding in her ears.

Slowly, she removed her fingers from his stomach and her arms from around him. She pulled back enough to give him the space to get down. He did one of those leg-over-the-handle moves that she’d only seen on Sons of Anarchy, and was standing on solid ground within minutes, waiting for her to disembark.

Morana removed her helmet and handed it over to him, pulling her glasses from between her breasts and putting them on her nose, blinking at the world suddenly coming into focus. She found his intense blue eyes on her, just watching her as she threw her leg around the bike and hopped down.

Big mistake.

The sudden standing position made her knees crumple beneath her just as hands gripped her low on her hips and pulled her upright, her hands landing on his hard chest for support as blood rushed to her legs.

“You enjoy riding,” he said softly into the space between their faces.

Morana watched the moonlight play with the shadows on his face. His scruff hid his cheeks while his eyes seemed even bluer, focused on her with the same expression she could feel pulsing inside herself – sheer, undiluted exhilaration.

“You enjoy making me ride,” Morana shot back just as quietly.

His lips twitched for a second, his eyes drifting to her mouth for a long, heady moment, before the veil came back over his face and he took a step back, leaving her standing on thankfully steady legs.

Taking out his phone, he pressed it to his ear and spoke, “Now,” before hanging up.

Morana raised her eyebrows. How eloquent.

A moment later, a chunk of the wall of the property came away. A man with a thick beard stood on the other side in a guard’s uniform, nodding respectfully at Tristan Caine.

He had spies in her father’s house?

Of course, he did.

That was how he’d gotten inside and climbed her wall so easily all those weeks ago. God, that was so long ago. She’d been so different then, in so many ways.

Morana looked at him, taking him in, and realized how much she’d changed since then, and how much he had to do with it.

“Clear?” Tristan Caine asked the guard, his voice cold, lethal.

The man nodded. “Yes, sir. You can go straight to the wing. Nobody will bother you.”

Holy… okay. That was a first. Another first.

Morana watched, stunned, as Tristan Caine entered the premises, telling her with his eyes to follow him.

He was breaking into her father’s house.

She was breaking into her father’s house.

Her father – the most dangerous man on this side of the country.

Not right now, a voice whispered inside her head as she watched the man beside her. He moved with that stealthy grace of his as the guard disappeared somewhere in the shrubbery, the moonlight their only guide across the trees that lined the property.

Morana’s heart thudded erratically in her chest. This was beyond anything she’d ever imagined she would do. Yet, there she was, following the enemy’s footsteps as he wove his way in and out of the green, intruding on her father’s property to retrieve something of hers.

Watching him weave his way over that made Morana realize just how well he knew this property. Better than any enemy should know. She wondered if her father had any idea at all.

Morana saw the window of her bedroom come into view minutes later. Were they going to do the crazy climbing thing he’d done the last time? Because she couldn’t fly, and she sure as hell did not have those biceps to hold her while she dangled fifteen feet off the ground. She wasn’t the biggest fan of heights either, something she could not let him discover or he’d probably kill her by throwing her off a high cliff. She’d rather die by a plain gunshot to the head. Vertigo sucked.

Shaking off her gloomy thoughts, Morana swallowed, her palms sweating, heart racing. Without thinking, she placed her hand on his back.

He stilled completely, turning around to pin her to the spot with those magnificent eyes shining in the moonlight.

She blanked.

Tristan Caine, in motion, was beautiful. But Tristan Caine, in utter stillness, could not be described.

She didn’t even try.

“How are we getting inside?” she whispered, keeping her voice as low as she could, the fear of discovery, of execution, not just hers but his making her antsy.

“Through the door.”

Before Morana could utter a word, he wrapped his long, rough fingers around her wrist. Pulling her behind him, they across the empty patch of grass on quiet feet, his longer strides making her work double to catch up. They ran across the clearing, in clear view of anyone who happened to look their way.

Her heart in her throat the entire time, fear and thrill fighting for dominance in her body, Morana ran faster than she’d ever run, still so much slower than him, his hand pulling her along the only thing to keep her from stumbling at the speed.

They reached the side door to her wing, the one beside the stairs, and he clicked it open. Slipping inside, he pulled her along in one smooth move. In silence, awed by the fact that they’d made it without discovery, they walked in the dark hallway that opened up to the staircase.

The same dreaded staircase her father had all but pushed her down from.

Morana came to an abrupt halt at the foot of the stairs, the memory of her disillusionment crashing through her body, the same bruised body that had only just healed at the hands of the enemy. Her father had not known whether she would live or break her neck in the fall. He’d just let her go, and lay a trap that she had fallen for hook, line, and sinker in her emotional state.

She wasn’t emotional now. No. She was logical, calm, and rational where he was concerned.

For some reason, the emotions inspired by the man beside her were much greater in intensity than the one inspired by these stairs, affording her that calm. And for the first time, she was grateful for it. She didn’t want him to witness that, to witness her being any more vulnerable than she had already been when it came to her father.

Without another word, constantly aware of his scrutiny of her, she quickly climbed up the stairs, knowing he was right behind her even though she could not hear him. She’d never thought she’d walk these steps again, and it seemed surreal to be doing so not only stealthily in the dead of the night but also with the man who’d vowed to kill her. She needed to keep reminding herself of that, even as she felt things change inside her. There was a reason he hated her enough to take that vow, and until she discovered it, she could not, would not let all her guards down.

She made her way hastily to her suite, unlocking the door and heading towards the study where she kept her equipment, ignoring any nostalgia inspired by her small haven. Opening the door, she stood for a moment on the threshold, looking around the little heaven she had created for herself in this strange place. She remembered every countless night she’d spent working here, remembered the dreams she’d had of getting away from it all in here.

That girl seemed so different from who she had become. That girl with hope and dreams and the fire to make it.

She didn’t even know who she was any more in so many ways. Had she lost the fire somewhere along the way?

“Get what you need.”

Whiskey and sin. Molten lava and dancing flames.

No, she hadn’t lost the fire. It just lay dormant inside her most days. And what she couldn’t figure out was why him. Why not Jackson, or any of her father’s men, or even Dante for that matter? Why this man with the voice of sin and the body of a sinner? He called her fire forth like a mage and she did not understand it.

Morana nodded to acknowledge his words and quickly hurried about, picking up her laptop from where it still lay on the desk. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out her hard drives, dumping them all in a small backpack from the desk. Taking a quick inventory, realizing she had everything she needed, Morana looked about the room one last time, memorizing it, and swallowed down the lump in her throat.

He was watching her, and she needed to be cool.

Inhaling deeply, she turned to him, only to replace him leaning against the door casually, like he owned the place. Those focused blue eyes observed everything that crossed her face while his own remained carefully blank. Morana felt her heart start to stutter in that familiar way it did with him, the fire flooding her bloodstream, igniting every cell it touched.

This was not the place for this. If there was ever not a place for this, it was her father’s house.

“All done?” he asked quietly, his voice even but tone heated with something her body recognized and called back to.

She nodded.

He let her take the bag and moved out of the suite as she followed, her warm body not giving her the luxury of emotions at that moment. They went down the stairs, the house dark and quiet, and she didn’t know whether her father was in or not. Nor did she care.

Opening the side door, he escaped out first, pulling her behind him as they stayed in the shadows, walking towards the tree line.

Suddenly, a group of guards came around the corner, talking among themselves, their guns relaxed on their shoulders.

Morana halted in her tracks, her mind blanking as fear filled her veins, and she turned around to run for cover the exact moment a hand pulled her roughly and pushed her face-first against an alcove in the wall at the side of the house. Heart hammering in her ears, blood rushing around in her body with a vengeance, Morana stayed completely still, overwhelming sensations crashing over her as the scent of leather and musk permeating all around her as she took in a few deep breaths, becoming aware of many things all at once.

His arms trapped her against the wall, hands flat beside her head as his body completely covered hers from view, his large form curled over her in a way that was not protective but something else entirely, something she could not define. His breaths brushed over her ear, his scruff rasping against the skin of her neck as he tucked his head in to make them merge even deeper into the shadows.

But it was his body against her back, his tall, hard, lethal body against her small back that made her knees shake.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He did not move.

His erection pushed into her back.

He did not move.

The guards’ voices faded away.

He did not move.

The fire pooled in her belly, low between her legs, making her instinctively arch against him.

Then, he moved.

He pushed the bag off her shoulder to the ground, the strap of her top falling down to her elbow with it. His hand traced her bare skin with a rough finger. Breaths hitched, Morana closed her eyes, feeling the calluses on his hand rub deliciously against her soft skin, the goosebumps scattering all over her arms, making her nipples pebble, making her breasts hurt as heat licked between her legs.

He hadn’t touched her like this the last time. He hadn’t breathed against her neck like this and rubbed his jaw over the spot against her shoulder, all the while keeping his mouth away from her. His hand slowly moved around her neck, leaving her breasts untouched, unattended like last time. She wanted – no, needed – him to touch them. She needed him to tug on her nipples, and give her that sweet pleasure she knew her body was capable of. She needed to rub them against his thumb, and create that delicious friction she could feel pulse inside her core.

She needed his hands on her breasts.

But his hand closed around her neck, in that hold she’d come to recognize, firm but not tight, as his lips moved right next to her ear.

“Did you feel me inside you the next day?” he whispered against the soft skin of her shell, the whiskey in his voice going straight to her head, his words going straight to her core. Her walls clenched in the memory of that hard, fast fuck on the restroom counter.

Morana bit her lip, not giving him her response verbally, even as her hips pushed back against his. She felt his cock slip against her ass as she stood on her toes, the erotic friction making her behave like a cat in heat rather than the smart, rational woman she’d been until moments ago.

Her anger at herself though, her regret for letting this happen again was much less than what it’d been a few days ago. She didn’t know what that spoke about her, or even what it meant, but for now, she embraced it, her head falling back against his shoulder as she ground herself on him, with her front pressed to the wall.

His hand tightened around her throat, his hips thrusting against her as his other hand slipped inside her jeans, her panties, homing in straight on her sweet spot. Her mouth fell open on a pant as he buried his digits knuckle deep inside her.

“So fucking wet for me,” he growled in her ear, his hips pushing forcefully against her ass. His fingers worked on her front, the hard brick wall rubbing against her breasts, scraping against her nipples, making her walls quiver every time his fingers slipped in and out. His thumb rubbed over her clit.

“Fuck if I’m not hard for you,” he spat, his hatred, his desire, his possession seeping from his voice into her body. Her heartbeats pulsed everywhere she felt him. His scent, his warmth, his touch surrounding her, imprisoning her, invading her in a way that made her blood so hot she felt like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

His hand moved against her, inside her, as he moved behind her. The dual assault coiled the heat tighter and tighter into her belly, her spine tingling, arching, and pulsing with electric sparks of pleasure as she bit her lip to keep her pants contained.

Before she could question it or stop herself, Morana slipped a hand behind her, cupping him through the fabric of his jeans. She squeezed him hard as he cursed into her ear, his fingers speeding up impossibly inside her.

“Not – fucking – here.”

He gave her clit one rub, then another right before he pinched it hard, and simultaneously covered her mouth with the other hand. Muffling her noises like before, he pushed her over the edge as she came all over his fingers, panting loudly, her breasts heaving. Every single beat of her heart throbbed everywhere in her body.

She throbbed. She pulsed. She clenched. She quivered.

His fingers remained inside her for a few moments, milking out her orgasm as much as they could before he pulled his fingers out of her pants, wiping them over his jeans and picked up the fallen bag while surveying the area.

And Morana just stood there – speechless, stunned – looking at the wall.

The wall of her father’s house. The wall of the same house where her father lived. The wall of the heart of his territory.

And Morana had let Tristan Caine make her come like a firecracker, against that very wall, out in the open while guards patrolled the area, while he remained completely under control.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him?

This was the restaurant all over again except much, much more twisted. No, this wasn’t a proper fuck, and yes, it had been the mother of quickies. Still.

The worst part though? She didn’t feel an ounce of remorse.

A hand closed around her arm and turned her around, making her face those blue eyes still heated with the lust of an animal who’d caught the scent of blood, the hunger in them so intense her still-hot body pooled with molten lava, ready again. Just with his eyes.

He leaned forward, his breath whispering across her cheek, his scent engulfing her as his lips lined against her ears.

“Next time, I’m going to see how loud you can scream, Ms. Vitalio. I’m going to make you so sore you won’t know if it’s from the screaming or the fucking.”

This man needed a leash for that dirty, explicit mouth.

Morana rolled her eyes even as her heart stuttered, his words settling into her inflamed body.

“You give yourself a little too much credit.”

“Say that when I can’t still smell you on my fingers.”

She could too. And the fact that this knowledge aroused her while it shouldn’t have made Morana purse her lips, the reminder of his control and the lack of hers like a slap to her senses.

She straightened herself, pulling the bag over her shoulder, and gave him an icy glare. “Can we leave?”

His eyes narrowed slightly at her tone and he considered her for a long moment, his fingers flexing on her arm before he nodded. Turning, he pulled her towards the tree line. They walked in silence for a few minutes, Morana contemplative.

They were almost at the property wall when her phone suddenly vibrated with an incoming message in her pocket.

Ignoring it, Morana focused on getting to the hole they had entered through, seeing the guard waiting for them there. Morana reached the opening and climbed out of it, walking towards the parked beast of a bike, not willing or ready to think about what had just transpired inside.

She focused instead on the smell of the earth, the light from the moon bathing the house of horrors in clean white while watching Tristan Caine speak quietly to the guard.

Remembering the earlier message while she waited beside the vehicle, she pulled out her phone and unlocked it.

Unknown number.

Frowning, Morana clicked open the message, to replace a multimedia image attached and no text. She clicked on the image, her brows furrowing as she made out the scanned picture of some old newspaper article.

Morana tapped on the picture and zoomed in, the words becoming clearer on the screen and read.

The Count of Missing Girls Shoots Up To 25

Tenebrae, July 8, 1989: In a ghastly turn of events that have shocked the city, 25 little girls between the ages of 4 and 10 have been gone missing in the 2 years. However, this is only the tip of the iceberg. Sources reveal that these are only the open and reported cases the police are working on.

The latest victim is the 6-year-old Stacy Hopkins (above), who went missing right from the sidewalk while her mother turned the corner at Madison Avenue. It is unclear as to who is to blame. While some believe this to be the work of organized crime groups, some have even talked of the occult. Most of the girls, from what our sources revealed, had gone missing from right under adult supervision…

Morana read the entire article describing the gruesome details, not understanding why someone had sent this to her. Who had sent it? And why? Had it been sent by mistake? It must have been.

Bothered about what she’d read but ready to put it out of her mind for the moment as Tristan Caine walked towards her, Morana almost locked her phone when something on the screen caught her eye. A tiny little note was handwritten in the corner with the headline.

Check the article from July 5, 1998.

An article dated twenty-two years ago.