The Reaper Read online

  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.