The Reaper Read online

  Morana already hated the man, only from everything she’d heard about him.

  Dante took a deep breath before speaking again. “Whatever history you share with Tristan is moot right now, Morana. You’re still your father’s daughter and still the enemy for Lorenzo Maroni. Tristan bringing you into his territory without permission, without any knowledge, especially after what he did to your father last night…” he stopped abruptly.

  Her heart started to pound.

  “What did he do last night?” she asked, half-afraid of the answer, pulse throbbing in her ears.

  Dante sighed wearily, running a hand over his face. “Doesn’t matter.”

  It did.

  It did matter. But she didn’t bit the question back, not say anything.

  Dante inhaled, his huge body becoming bigger for a split second. “What matters is what you want to do. Whatever you decide Morana, know that you’ll have my protection either way. If you wish to get away somewhere else, I can arrange that too. If you wish to come, we’ll work it out. And if you refuse to leave, Tristan won’t force you.”

  Morana raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Really?”

  Dante chuckled. “Oh, he’ll try to intimidate you into going his way. But he won’t force you.”

  “So, he’ll let me be if I choose to stay here?” Morana asked, completely serious, wanting to know his thoughts.

  Dante mulled over her question for a long moment, his eyes on the beautiful view outside, before turning back to face her, completely serious as well. “He will never let you be, Morana. You both are bound together by things I don’t even think both of you understand. However, the question is do you want him to let you be?”

  Hadn’t she already made that choice last night, standing in a cemetery? Hadn’t she already forced him to make his choice too, standing in the brutal rain?

  But last night, she’d only been concerned with how it affected them. She’d deliberately not given a thought to anything else.

  Morana felt the severity of the situation, of everything she hadn’t been thinking about last night, hit her like a truck. Last night, she had been focused solely on her own emotions, guided by instinct, thinking with her heart.

  It was time to get her brain out. It was time to see the picture as a whole instead of the tiny portion that concerned her. It was time to weigh these decisions. Because while she may have emotionally decided where she stood last night, in the light of the day, she couldn’t ignore how her decisions might affect everything else.

  Dante was right. If she went to Tenebrae, there was no saying what her father would do. Though he’d tried to kill her himself, she knew his pride would have taken a serious beating and he would retaliate. He would probably use her leaving as a reason to declare the war the two territories had danced around for over years, possibly accusing Tristan Caine of stealing his daughter.

  And that was only part of the equation. She didn’t even know how Maroni would react but from the sound of it, his would be worse than her father’s response. And with Tristan’s life on the line, with someone unknown but well-versed in computers framing him, sending her information about the Alliance and planning lord knew what else nefarious schemes, Morana could feel everything suddenly crash down over her.

  Her heart started to race along with her thoughts, flashing one after the other, switching, changing, transforming before she could grasp one completely.

  The burden of that responsibility started to suddenly choke her.

  She didn’t want to be responsible for these people. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone. For the first time in her life, she wanted to be utterly selfish. She wanted to be reckless. She wanted to get on the back of that bike and throw her hands to the wind. She wanted to sleep at night knowing she wouldn’t be harmed. She wanted to taste the life she’d whet on her tongue just days ago.

  Her heart thumped loudly in her ears, a drop of sweat rolling down the line of her spine, her palms became clammy. Morana turned to the windows, gazing out at the view as her breathing picked up speed, spinning beyond her control, the enormity of everything crashing all around her, pulling her under.

  The ability to make a choice that she’d treasured moments ago strangled her. She wanted to choose to get on the back of that bike, not in the driver’s seat. She didn’t know how to drive it, didn’t know how to control the beast, didn’t know where to guide it. And she could feel herself heading for the collision, feel the inevitability of breaking everything inside on the impact.

  Her breathing went choppy.

  She didn’t understand this reaction, didn’t understand her own body in that moment. It almost felt like she was outside her skin, watching it all in some sort of delayed reaction.

  Black slithered around the edges of her vision.

  A lead weight settled upon her chest, rendering her incapable of the simple act of breathing.

  She felt the half-full mug of coffee slip away from her suddenly nerveless fingers, heard the crash of the ceramic against the floor, even felt the hot drops splatter on her bare, dangling legs.

  Yet, she felt numb.

  Staring at a space she couldn’t even see anymore.

  Existing in a place she couldn’t feel anymore.

  Rushing with the blood she couldn’t hear anymore.

  Her body senseless, her mind blank, a dark, ugly feeling swallowed her whole as she thrashed against it on the inside, the outside world slipping away from her, the collision coming towards her at breakneck speed.

  She heard sounds, everything a buzz around her, tried to make sense of it, tried to place the noises but failed, going under whatever was engulfing her.

  Thoughts raced through her and she couldn’t catch a single one, spinning inside her own mind until she felt dizzy, her body swaying, the ugly monster trying to bite into her flesh, feed off her, make her go under.

  She tried to fight it.

  She thrashed.

  She gnawed.

  She clawed.

  It still sank its fangs into her, drawing from her until the pressure on her chest felt explosive, as though she was going to snap and shatter into a million pieces, never to be put together again, those pieces of her lost forever to the inside of her own mind, to the ugliness, the blackness, the void trying to consume her like a black hole.

  Physical fingers wrapped around her throat.

  The monster eating her reared its head.

  She lashed out against the hand holding her by the neck firmly, her nails clawing at whatever they could find, trying to escape from everything, deep, deep into herself.

  Her attacking wrists were swiftly gathered in one hand behind her back, the one on her neck giving her head a shake.

  “Look at me.”

  Three words penetrated her haze.

  That commanding timbre.

  That razor tone.

  Whiskey.

  Sin.

  Morana knew that voice. She knew the baritone of it, reacted to the ice of it. She latched on to that voice, gulping down the smoky whiskey of it, letting it trickle down her throat and into her body, warming her from the inside as tremors shook her frame.

  The blackness around her vision receded a bit, the ugly emotion holding her captive releasing its reins.

  “Breathe.”

  She blinked, trying to clear the black away.

  Once.

  Twice.

  The blackness withdrew, leaving behind…

  Blue.

  Clear blue.

  Magnificent blue.

  She tethered herself to it - to the brilliant blue that looked like burning sapphire, to the dark pupils enlarged in those pools of blue, to the intensity of them focused on her.

  She tethered herself to them, not daring to blink lest she drowned again, not daring to look elsewhere lest that anchor was gone.

  God, she was cold.

  She felt so cold. Down to her fingertips, down to her toes. She felt chills race over her spine yet, try as she mig
ht, the ice refused to leave.

  The pressure on her chest intensified.

  “Breathe.”

  She felt something strong, something hard, something warm pressed against her chest, moving in a rhythm that was dislodging the rock weighing her own chest down. Morana latched on to it, let herself focus on the rhythm as she felt it right against her chest, and tried to copy it.

  The thing pressed against her chest contracted.

  Morana contracted hers in sync.

  In.

  That first rush of air into her lungs nearly knocked her out.

  Greedily, without even realizing, she gulped down as much air as she could, never removing her eyes from those blazing blues. She didn’t recognize herself in that moment, but she recognized those.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  “Breathe.”

  Breathing.

  She was breathing.

  The blackness fogging her senses receded slowly, long fingers of the monster that had touched her curling away, withdrawing, disappearing as her physical and mental senses joined forces again. That shadows slinked away, retreated, allowing her the clarity that had been misted over.

  Slowly, eventually, she came back to herself.

  Slowly, eventually, she became aware of everything.

  Became aware of him.

  Restraining her.

  Tethering her.

  Surrounding her.

  She became aware of her body still on the stool, of her legs spread apart to accommodate his form between them. She became aware of his entire torso pressed deliberately to hers, so she could feel every single breath he took acutely against herself, so she could match his even rhythm and calm her thundering heart. She became aware of one of his big hands holding both of hers behind her back by the wrists, the grip tight but not painful, the angle pressing her chest deeper into his.

  A huge shiver wracked her frame.

  Fingers flexed on her neck.

  The awareness of that large, rough hand wrapped around her throat dawned upon her.

  And she didn’t feel threatened.

  For the first time, even though she’d seen him crush people with that hand at the same spot, as she looked up into those ardent eyes, she didn’t feel threatened.

  She felt protected.

  Safe.

  Untouchable.

  It was a novelty and for that one moment of weakness, she let herself revel in it.

  She had no memory of how he got there, or when he got there. The time between the mug spilling coffee on the floor and now was a complete blank.

  What the hell had happened to her? Had there been something in the coffee?

  She discarded that thought the moment it came. She’d made the beverage herself.

  It was something else.

  As she tried to make sense of the past few minutes and catch her breath, his hand started to withdraw from her throat.

  And the monster reared its ugly head.

  “No.”

  She didn’t recognize her voice, didn’t recognize the desperation in it, the guttural need in it.

  He stilled, his eyes flaring with something primal, and her heart started to pound, her chest heaving against his, their gazes locked.

  Without a word, he firmed his grip.

  Something inside her calmed.

  She knew she wasn’t this needy person. She never needed anybody. But in that second, something deep inside her recognized that she needed him to not move. Not from between her legs, not from against her, not from anywhere. Not until she completely came back to herself.

  And at that moment, she let the gratitude for what he was doing wash over her. He didn’t have to do a thing. Not a thing. He could’ve let her drown and let her fade for however long inside her head. She would have eventually clawed her way out, perhaps worse for the wear, perhaps with mental scars that would’ve lingered for a very long time. He could have let it happen. But he didn’t. He’d jumped right into her tempest, caught her, pulled her, and remained there, anchoring her. And for someone who’d never relied on anyone but herself, there was something so profoundly liberating about it, something so, so acute it made her heart squeeze in her chest.

  The sound of a throat clearing pulled her out of her thoughts.

  Morana turned her head to the side towards the sound, blinking as she found Dante standing there, a glass of water in his hand, his face completely neutral.

  Oh fuck.

  Flushing to the roots, Morana squirmed on the stool, her ass numb from sitting there too long, being in a position as she was before anyone else making her slightly uncomfortable. She tugged her hands out of the firm grasp, feeling the callouses slide against her softer skin, and reached for the water.

  Tristan Caine stepped away, his hands leaving her completely even as the warmth of his fingers lingered, imprinted around her throat in flesh memory. She focused on that imprint, focused on that warmth to keep her rooted.

  Gulping large sips of water down her suddenly parched throat, Morana finally took in a deep breath after finishing the glass and centered herself.

  “Thank you,” she murmured to Dante, returning the glass to him, wiping her palms on her shorts.

  He gave her a nod, his eyes slightly concerned. “Are you alright now?”

  Morana nodded back, touched by his concern. “I am now. What… what happened?” she asked, looking from one man to the other.

  Tristan Caine - wordlessly, as was his style these days - walked around the island into the kitchen, dressed in dark cargo pants that hugged his fine ass and a plain navy t-shirt that clung to his torso, emphasizing his large shoulders and biceps. He was dressed casually, not like he was planning on going out anywhere soon.

  And if she could notice all that, she was definitely feeling more like herself.

  She saw him move around in the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a small bar of something.

  “You had a panic attack,” Dante’s even voice made her swivel in her seat, surprise filling her.

  “I don’t get panic attacks!” she retorted, the idea completely foreign to her.

  Dante shrugged offhandedly. “There’s always a first time. Your mind’s been through a lot these last few days. It was only a matter of time.”

  Morana sputtered, blinking as she remembered the blackness, the weight on her chest, the inability to draw in a breath, and realized that she had, in fact, had a panic attack, a massive one at that. And that Tristan Caine had, in fact, saved her from her own head.

  Something slid along the countertop towards her, distracting her.

  Morana looked at the bar of chocolate, her eyes flying towards the man extending it towards her, stunned.

  He was giving her chocolate.

  Like it was nothing.

  Just sliding a bar of chocolate over to her before walking away.

  She remembered reading in some magazine about men giving women chocolates. Men who wanted to sleep with said women. He was doing it in reverse.

  The sudden urge to laugh overpowered her, a chuckle escaping her before she could stop it. She stared at that piece of chocolate, the sound of her laughter, unfamiliar even to her, ringing out in the large space, making her cheeks hurt, her stomach hurt, making her hurt. Laughing shouldn’t hurt. But it did.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed. She couldn’t remember what she even sounded like then. She did remember, though, being alone and scared as a child, remembered the days her chest would ache. No one had given her chocolates back then. No one had held her up. No one had done anything for her.

  And yet, now she’d had a panic attack, and this man, of all people, had given her chocolate.

  To comfort her.

  In his own way.

  Tears streaked down her face, mingling with her laughter as Morana realized she was losing it.

  She was truly losing it.

  She was breaking down.

  A
nd it felt fucking glorious.

  For a moment completely suspended in time, she floated, somewhere between agony and joy, somewhere between sensation and numbness, somewhere between caring too much and not giving a fuck, and it was utter beautiful perfection.

  For that moment.

  She felt free, not weighed down by demons, by responsibilities, by histories.

  One moment.

  And then that moment ended.

  With a large hand on her jaw and fearless blue eyes holding hers, again, that moment transcended, transformed.

  “You don’t owe these people a thing.”

  Low. Rough. Gritty.

  Tugging at something inside her.

  “And I sure as fuck don’t. Don’t let them control you.”

  Morana swallowed.

  A vein popped on the side of his thick neck.

  “You want to go to Tenebrae?” he asked softly, his whiskey voice deceptively quiet.

  ‘With me’, remained unsaid but not unheard.

  Morana inhaled deeply, her mind clear of everything but her own desires.

  She nodded.

  “Then that’s that.”

  He let her face go, leaning back, and looked over at Dante.

  Morana took in a shaky breath and glanced at the other man as well, who stood to the side, watching her with a slight smile on his face.

  Morana blinked in confusion at the smile, not understanding.

  Dante inclined his head, taking out his phone from his jacket pocket. “Then that’s that. Let me make some calls.”

  Without another word, he walked off towards the living room, leaving her alone with the man who’d gone back to being silent, who worked around the kitchen preparing breakfast. Morana watched him crack open eggs with one hand in a bowl while he fired up the pan with the other, every action smooth, every muscle prominent, every line of his body delineated in the sunlight. She watched him work around his space and looked down at that singular bar of chocolate that meant so much more to her than he could ever comprehend.