"It is important we arrive together," he'd told her.
Morana had bitten her tongue and gotten in the car.
And now she sat, realizing why her father had wanted them to arrive together. It wasn't just dinner. It was a humiliating dinner.
One of the men, a handsome man in his early thirties, sat beside Morana, trying for the third time to get his hand under the split in her dress. The first time she'd thought it had been an accidental brush. The second time she'd brushed his hand aside with a stern look in his direction. This time, though, her temper spiked.
She took a hold of his hand in her grip and bent his fingers backward.
"Touch me again, and I will break your fingers."
Silence fell upon the table at her words. Her father glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. She waited for him to reprimand her or the man. He just turned away, engaging the others back into the conversation, like a guy ten years her senior hadn’t tried to molest her under the table.
Morana threw the man's hand away from herself in disgust. She leaned back in her chair, taking a deep, controlled breath, anger invading her bones.
"The Outfit is here."
The words of one of the middle-aged men at the table broke through her crimson haze.
Her father nodded. "I know. Security is in place."
On cue, for the first time, Morana looked around the restaurant to realize her father was right. The place, the entire place, was crawling with security. Both theirs and the Outfit's. Men in plainclothes sat alert at tables, weapons concealed but obvious against their clothes, the threat of an outburst hanging violently in the air. Civilians, seemingly aware of whatever was going down, were tensed and finishing their meals as quickly as they could. The staff walked around on eggshells and nervousness dripped from every tray.
Morana let her eyes wander and take in everything, trying to locate the table of the Outfit, but unable to see the two men she recognized anywhere in the restaurant.
But her nape prickled.
She could feel eyes on her.
His eyes.
Hungry eyes.
Her breath hitched. She didn't know how she knew it was him. She didn't want to think about how she knew it was him. But she knew. It was the same gaze she'd seen in his territory. The same gaze she could feel in hers.
Picking up her glass of wine, she let her eyes roam covertly over the space again, trying to pin where he sat. She couldn't, which only meant their table was behind her.
She didn't turn. Turning would mean acknowledging not just him, but the Outfit, and with her father behaving the way he was, she stayed in position.
But she felt those eyes caress every inch of her exposed back, felt her nape prickle in awareness as her body buzzed with sensation, imagining him, sitting somewhere, devouring her with those blue, blue eyes. He would be in a suit, like the ones she'd seen him in. A suit that would hide his scars and tattoos, and highlight his muscles. Morana swallowed, keeping her eyes down, her entire body rushing with heat just thinking about him.
She shouldn't be thinking about him.
But god help her, she couldn't stop.
Closing her eyes, inhaling softly, she quickly brought her phone on her lap and opened a window, typing a message, her hand hovering on the 'send' button.
He could see her. He was seeing her. And she was at a disadvantage. Nodding, on the tail of that thought, she hit 'send'.
Her heart started to pound, indecision warring with grit, unable to understand why she'd sent him that message.
Stop staring.
Her inbox glowed with a new message. Heart hammering, Morana pressed on it.
Tristan Caine: No.
No. Just no? How eloquent.
Me: Your funeral. My father might see and kill you.
A message came back almost immediately.
Tristan Caine: I highly doubt it.
Me: And why is that?
Tristan Caine: He barely raised a finger at the dick pawing you. He won't kill me for staring.
Morana felt her face flush, humiliated anger washing over her, anger that turned into fury as she realized the truth in that statement. She was just a piece of property that one man could touch and others could watch to her father. Her body almost trembled but she grit her teeth.
Me: He's a guest. You're not.
There was a pause before the reply came.
Tristan Caine: So he can touch you and I cannot?
Her heart stopped. Before pounding with a vengeance. He'd never spoken to her like that.
Me: This conversation is over.
She locked her phone. And unlocked it again.
New message. She swallowed.
Tristan Caine: Chicken.
Morana stopped, blinking at the screen for a second before anger infused her again. Chicken? Who the fuck did he think he was? He was clearly baiting her, and she’d be damned if she took it.
Before she could lock her phone, he was typing again.
Tristan Caine: I dare you.
Don’t. Don’t take the bait, Morana kept on repeating.
Me: To do what?
Long pause. Heart thundering, she waited, careful not to seem too engrossed.
Tristan Caine: To show him even half the wildcat you are.
Morana locked her phone away. She wouldn't rise to the bait. She absolutely was not going to fall for that. She was a grown woman and not a toddler. There were men with weapons ready to rain bullets on everyone and she could not trigger them.
But she could feel that stare on her back, zinging across her skin.
She wasn't going to rise to the bait. She wasn't going to rise to the bait. She wasn't going to rise to the bait.
And the asshole groped her thigh again.
Everything she'd been feeling all day, all the confusion, the anger, the frustration, the heat - everything mingled together. Her fingers were wrapped around the man's hand before she knew it, and she snapped his wrist back hard, not enough to break a bone but enough to give him a serious sprain.
"You bitch!"
He cried out loud, cradling the hand to his chest, his handsome face twisted in agony as the entire restaurant went silent. Morana felt multiple eyes on her, felt a few weapons pointed at her. She ignored them all, rising from the table.
"Morana," her father ground out, his voice hard.
"I warned him to keep his hands off," she told him aloud, every inch of her body aware of the climbing tension. "He refused."
The tension climbed. No one spoke.
"She's got fire, Gabriel," one of the men on the table hooted, his eyes crawling over her exposed skin. "I wouldn't mind getting burned."
"You're welcome to die," Morana spit back at him.
Her father didn't address the man, but her. "Go cool yourself down."
Disgust plastered all over her face, she picked up her clutch and turned towards the corridor that led to the washrooms, not sparing anyone a single glance, her body trembling with rage.
She'd almost turned the corridor when her eyes locked with his.
Her step slowed, as she took him in, that dark suit and open collar he always wore out before her disgust with the entire male population filled her. His eyes were watching her, completely blank of any look. The moment she let her disgust show, his eyes flared with something. She turned before she could linger and read what.