The Reaper Page 3
“I’ll take care of it before we board,” Dante responded and the elevator dinged another time, telling her he’d left.
Who the hell was this woman?
Morana turned on her side, looking out the smaller glass windows in her room, watching the rain, and marveled at how drastically her life had changed since the last time she’d been in the same bed in the rain like this. She’d been contemplating jumping beyond those windows then, even hypothetically. Now, she couldn’t fathom letting go of something so precious inside her - something that made her feel everything so acutely, something she’d begun to fight for.
Life.
She was alive and she’d never felt it more viscerally as she’d done over the last day. She absorbed the new facts she’d learned about him since the cemetery - that he had a pendant of his sister’s still hanging in his car after twenty years, that he’d gone to her father’s mansion for some reason alone and beat up someone and still made it out to tell the tale, which told her how utterly feared he was. She didn’t know many men, hell any man, who could claim to walk into the enemy’s house alone, have a fistfight, and come out breathing.
A shiver rent her spine, and she closed her eyes as the newest fact lingered - that he was willing to take her with him, away from this place that held nothing for her anymore, away from this hell, testing the wrath of not only her father but Lorenzo Maroni. And that he was certain she would be unharmed. She knew it in her bones she would be unharmed. Because even though he’d always talked about killing her, in hindsight she realized he’d not reacted well to her being harmed - both when she’d come to him after her father let her fall down the stairs, and when he’d shot her in the arm to save her. Or when he’d thought her gone and stroked her beloved car.
Her heart clenched at the memory.
Before she could let herself drown, she heard a soft swoosh as the air in the room changed.
The door opened.
Surprise filled her as some instinct, some deep-rooted voice, told her not to move a muscle or open her eyes lest he left without doing what he came to do. What had he come to do? Watch her sleep, as he had once before? Or to talk, which she didn’t think was plausible quite yet?
She suddenly became acutely aware of her arms exposed out in the air, of her breasts barely concealed by the blankets, of the one bare leg she’d forgotten to cover, bare to the hip. She felt something electric thrum through her body, her arms breaking out into goosebumps, her toes tingling, making heat travel up that exposed leg, her nipples pebbling hard, one of them almost peeking out over the covers.
Despite that, she didn’t move, didn’t do a thing to cover herself better, didn’t make a motion to indicate she was anything but sleeping peacefully, her breathing even as she regulated them through sheer will, keeping her body deliberately lax.
She didn’t know if he still stood by the door or if he’d stepped into the room or if he’d come closer to the bed. She didn’t know if he had a better view of her leg or her breast. She didn’t even know if the heavy gaze she felt on herself was real or just a figment of her imagination. What she did know, however, was that he’d watched her sleep once before, for how long, from how far, she didn’t know. She’d been asleep then. This time, she wasn’t. And she wanted to see what he would do if he would reveal something else about himself when he thought no one was watching.
Keeping her inhale soft, her heart thundering in her chest as a clap of thunder sounded outside, Morana kept herself from curling her fingers into her palms, from biting down on her tender lips, from keeping her tremors contained. Her lips felt on fire, the weight of his gaze resting upon them, stroking them with his eyes, opening them in his mind. It could all have been fanciful on her part, but somehow, someway, that same deep-rooted voice told her he was watching her, and that same deep-rooted instinct made her want to arch her back wantonly and let the blankets fall away.
She didn’t.
She let her lips feel the singe of those eyes, felt the hunger deep inside her gut, felt the memory of his mouth right upon hers.
Something feral, fervent invaded her belly.
Her heart slammed, pulse throbbing in her ears, an ache blooming in her core, right between her legs, making her skin prickle, making her feel unduly warm under the covers that she wanted to kick off, sizzling her blood with rapture without him even laying a finger on her.
But she stayed still through it all - through that fire coursing through her body, through the lump on her chest, through the emotions in her heart. She stayed still and relaxed on the outside, with the perfection of the mask she’d donned with ease over the years.
Moments passed.
Long, loaded moments.
Short, sinful moments.
With the ease of sand slipping through the fingers.
With the difficulty of a broken clock.
Moments passed.
With heartbeats.
With breaths.
And the air changed again.
He was there.
She knew, with sudden clarity, she knew - he was right before her.
He stood between her and the window from what she could feel, her body turned towards him, her face breaths away from his thighs. She could feel the nearness of that gaze, the proximity of his heat, the musky scent that wafted off his body, that scent - magnified by his wet clothes - that was all him.
The curve of her stomach trembled, hidden beneath the layers, her heart thumping in the anticipation that hung between them, her palms becoming sweaty as she drew all her strength to keep herself relaxed, to see what he would do.
A part of her was disturbed by how deeply he affected her, over the power he had over her body. The other part, however, reveled and gloried in the sensations, on feeling so alive, in a way she’d never thought herself capable.
She didn’t understand this. And at the moment, she didn’t want to.
She just lay breathing softly.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In–
A finger.
His finger, ghosting over her wound.
It wasn’t a light touch. It wasn’t a touch at all. It just was.
Hovering right over her skin, on the precipice of a cliff but never truly falling, a ghost touch, almost tentative, tracing the butterfly bandages with a butterfly stroke she would never have detected had she been anything but intensely conscious of his every move.
Her heart almost stopped, the skin of her entire arm cackling, perspiring, straining.
The ghost touch disappeared, and Morana almost opened her eyes to call it back, when it reappeared over her jaw, light as the air. That ghost finger, never really touching her, pushed back a strand of her hair and exposed the entire line of her throat and naked shoulder to his perusal. She could feel the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck, a drop of sweat beading on her upper lip as that finger ghosted over the line of her jaw, like the way his gun had traced it hours ago.
The memory of that solid, insistent, cold metal, and the reality of the light, barely-there, soft digit sent a bolt of electricity straight to her core. Her entire being strained towards that almost touch. Her entire body was famished to feel it on her flesh. Her brain was tripping slowly, her control over her faculties getting dazed, her lungs starving for a gulp of air she refused to take.
Only instinct, that bothersome thing, told her that he would vanish if she showed any indication of being conscious. And she didn’t want that. Not yet.
This… this was… enlivening her.
The ghost finger traced the shell of her ear.
Her toes almost curled.
It traveled over the terrain of her heated skin, going over the line of her jaw again - and she both cursed and blessed the fact that he didn’t touch her, or her skin would have betrayed her charade. It was like eavesdropping on the most private, most intimate of conversations. Her heart thudding, beating almost too fast for her to keep up with it, she pr
essed her thighs together to find some purchase.
And then, the ghost touch stopped at her lips.
Fragile purchase lost.
Those sensitive, swollen lips, that still bore the mark of his mouth, trembled.
Just minutely, but they did.
Her heart stopped.
Did he feel it?
Still.
Everything inside her stayed still - like a prey scenting a predator.
Everything about him stayed still - like a predator scenting a prey.
But who had been who in the past few minutes?
And had he felt it?
She had her answer within a split second.
The finger withdrew.
He left as quietly as he’d come.
She heard the swoosh of the door. And then it shut again.
She let go.
A huge shudder wracked her entire frame, her chest heaving with pants as though she’d run a marathon, her hands shaking as she threw the covers away from herself, her entire body lit from within with a blaze she couldn’t control.
She felt ravaged. On the inside. On the outside.
And he’d not even touched her.
Digging her head back into the pillow behind her, her nipples aching in the cool air, she took her breasts in her small hands and squeezed them, gasping as her nipples pebbled harder against her palm, shooting sparks down to the tips of her toes.
He’d never touched her breasts. But for that stolen moment, she imagined his hands - those big, rough hands, strong against her soft flesh, skilled against her nipples. She imagined the callouses on those fingers rub against her nipples when he tugged them, imagined his hands completely engulfing her sinuously, imagined him squeezing her breasts together as she did the same with her hands, her lips parting as little breaths left her.
Feeling liquid, limber, her muscles coiled on the threshold of an inferno ready so consume her, she let her trembling fingers travel down to between her thighs.
And she was soaked.
In a way, she’d never, ever been.
Completely, utterly soaking wet.
A little moan left her lips and she turned her face into the pillow beside her, so on the edge, she knew it wouldn’t take much to send her careening into that abyss of ecstasy.
She slipped a finger inside her, easily. Pushed another in.
The hunger in her walls gnawed at her, spinning out of control. She remembered how he felt inside her - big, heavy, powerful. She remembered how he speared her walls - with focus, ferocity, and fire that set her aflame. She remembered how every stroke hit that spot inside her, how every thrust made her spine curve, how every slap of flesh against flesh drenched her even more.
Panting, she rubbed her clit with her thumb, just once.
And exploded.
Gloriously.
Her back arching as she bit into the pillow to muffle her cries. Her entire body coming off the bed for a split second as fire raced through her veins and coiled in her core, blasting in the most dazzling of explosions, blinding her for a second.
It was rapture.
It was ecstasy.
It was delirium.
She fell back into the mattress, even more exhausted, limp, no strength in her body to move a single muscle, slight shivers running up and down her frame in the aftermath.
God, how had this even happened? He’d not even touched her, not made a sound, and yet she’d been dripping wet.
It frightened her. It thrilled her. It enlivened her.
He enlivened her.
Slowly calming herself down, her body much laxer, much more susceptible to sleep, with the tension in her body released, she flipped and pulled the blankets over her again, her eyes going one last time to the window to look at the rain.
And her heart stilled.
He was there.
In the darkness.
Leaning against the wall beside the window.
Hands in his trouser pockets.
Tie undone, hanging over his collar.
And those magnificent eyes blazing on her.
He was there.
He’d been there through it all.
Her heart stuck in her throat, she looked at that blaze for the first time since the cemetery and felt seared, her entire body flushing under that intensity, upon realizing what he’d seen.
He’d known she’d been playing him earlier, and he’d played her right back.
Blushing till her roots, she held his gaze, her eyes drifting down for a moment towards the big bulge tenting the front of his trousers, before coming back up to his, the knowledge of having aroused him while taking care of herself electrifying her, titillating something reckless inside her.
She knew he wouldn’t break that silence, not tonight.
But he was watching her again, despite himself.
That brought a small smile to her lips.
She saw as his gaze follow that smile before she flipped on her back again and cuddled into her covers, closing her eyes deliberately.
She felt his eyes on her for long minutes, but this time her heart didn’t pound harder. This time, her heart lay beating in her chest, nestled in an odd kind of comfort she couldn’t understand, only feel. She had made it through the day and seen right through him, and he’d made it slightly through his past and seen right through her. And that, for some bizarre reason, comforted her.
She felt him leave as softly as he’d entered, leaving her completely alone in the room this time, the knowledge of his interest, his desire within her.
Almost to the edge of sleep, Morana tried to get her mind to shut down and get as much rest as possible. Because anxiety and anticipation mated in her stomach.
In the morning, the start of something new would begin.
In the morning, her life was going to change.
In the morning, they were going to Tenebrae.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind clear blue skies and sunlight that spilled into the living room of the penthouse from the huge windows. Bathed in the bright early morning sunshine, the entire city was sprawled beyond the windows, looking fresh, clean, the smeared dirt collected over the days having been washed off from existence, the city having just woken up from its slumber. For that one moment in time, it almost looked pure.
She had lived there for too long to believe that mirage anymore.
Nonetheless, Morana enjoyed the breath-taking view, sitting on the stool beside the kitchen island, sipping freshly brewed coffee, enjoying the calm since the owner of the apartment was still upstairs in his room. It had been a trying day for them both yesterday and the night to match. She didn’t begrudge him the rest if that was what he was doing. Since she’d never ventured back into his room again, she could only assume.
Not that she hadn’t been tempted, especially after the show she’d unknowingly put on for him last night.
Morana exhaled softly as the elevator dinged, drawing her eyes to Dante as he walked in, looking as put together as she’d always seen him. Dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a darker gray tie that fit his enormous frame perfectly, his hair styled and pulled away from his handsome face, Morana watched him approach her, his dark brown eyes not as distant as they’d been to her, but still cautious.
She wondered if he was worried about her witnessing his momentary lapse of control the previous night after Amara had left. Deciding to be more forthcoming, because while he was trying to protect his own, he’d been nothing but good to her, Morana gave him a small nod.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked politely.
Dante declined just as politely, coming to the stool next to hers, leaning against it as he regarded her thoughtfully.
“Is Tristan up yet?”
Morana shrugged, keeping her face deliberately blank, ignoring the way her body reacted to the simple name of the man. “I haven’t seen him this morning if that’s what you’re asking.”
He nodded. “Good. I wanted to speak to you alone.”
So, he could try and persuade her to stay back.
“Okay,” she assented, feigning ignorance of what she’d heard last night between the two men.
The clear light glinted off his dark eyes as Morana regarded him over her rim.
“Tristan needs to return to Tenebrae,” he started without preamble, his voice strong and firm. “So do I. He wants to take you with us and while I have absolutely nothing against you, I need to explain some things first, without Tristan muddling the issue so that you can make an informed decision.”
Morana put the hot mug of coffee to her lips, taking a small sip as gratitude filled her, for this enemy’s son who’d shown her kindness when she’d been hurt and who was still giving her kindness, even if for his own reasons. The ability to make her own choices had been denied to her for so long, she treasured it now, and felt a flash of respect for Dante for giving her the tools in that moment.
“I’m listening,” she encouraged him to go on.
“Amara told you everything,” he stated coolly, even as a myriad of emotions flickered over his face before he reined them in.
Morana nodded, not mentioning anything more.
“And since you’re still here, I’m assuming you and Tristan have come to an understanding?” he asked.
“That’s really not your business,” Morana stated softly, putting a stop then and there to any questions about what had transpired last night between them.
Dante inclined his head. “What is my business, though, is the Outfit. I’ll be clear with you, Morana. Someone is setting Tristan up real bad. And it’s somehow connected to what’s been happening to the Outfit for the past few weeks, just like you found out.”
Morana gulped down some more of her beverage, keeping her eyes on the man a few feet from her.
“This is not the time for Tristan to be stubborn,” Dante continued, blowing out a breath. “His life is on the line and one wrong move could end it. And bringing you to Tenebrae with him? Wrong move. A few months ago, I would’ve been fine with it. Would it have been problematic? Hell yes. But we could’ve worked it out. But right now, with the way things are?” He shook his head, taking a breath before continuing.
“Not to mention, my father,” Dante sneered at the word. “You think your father’s the shit? Trust me when I tell you, he’s got nothing, absolutely nothing, on Lorenzo Maroni. My father would invite you into his home like a gracious host and slit your throat while you smiled back. He’s got no love, no affiliation for anything or anyone. Only power, power, and more power.”