"Look," Dante's gentle tone broke through her spiraling thoughts. "Just let me call Amara. Stay over at her place if you're not comfortable at mine. You're hurt and Amara won't hurt you."
Morana was coming undone at his genuine concern. Unraveling bit by bit.
Her lips trembled but she shook her head. As tempting as the offer was, she couldn't drag Amara into this mess, not knowing that she couldn't protect herself, not knowing her history. Perhaps that's why she'd come here. Because she knew he could protect himself, that he had dragged himself into her mess. In a way.
"It's okay," she told him, opening her car door, ready to leave. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone" – him – "about this."
Dante stared at her for a long moment, before suddenly moving towards the private elevator with a loud "Fuck it!"
Morana watched, shocked, as he typed in the code and looked at her, tilting his head towards the open door.
"Go up."
Morana stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
"Morana, I don't have all night and I cannot leave you like this," Dante told her quietly, his eyes beseeching. "Please go up to the penthouse and rest."
She was the enemy. She was the woman his blood brother hated for a reason he knew of.
And yet...
Swallowing, she locked her car and moved towards the elevator on aching legs, her heart beating hard.
She looked up at Dante, her lips trembling. "Thank you," she whispered, meaning every single syllable from her heart.
Dante nodded.
She entered the familiar elevator and pressed the button. The doors closed on Dante's face. The mirrors stared back at her.
And Morana gasped.
Her dress hung off her shoulders, her hair a mess around her face, her cheeks cut and knees abraded, the skin of her hands and legs and shoulders turning bluer by the second, her lips swollen from her own bites and eyes puffed red from the tears.
She looked like a wreck. No wonder Dante had let her in.
And Tristan Caine was up there.
And she was going up.
What the hell was she doing?
Nerves attacked her, her chest constricting as panic hit.
No. No. No.
She couldn't let him see her like this. She couldn't enter his territory, not like this.
Heart hammering in her chest, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, keys digging into her palm, Morana raised her hand and let her finger hover over the button for the parking, ready to hit the moment the elevator stopped. She was going to turn her tail and go back to her car and go to some seedy motel if she had to. But she was going back. She was not letting him see her like –
The elevator stopped, the doors sliding open.
He stood right at the entrance, waiting.
Morana hit the button for down quickly, before he could see her.
The doors started to close.
Her heart thundered.
She hit the button again.
The doors kept sliding shut.
Almost there.
And just when they almost closed, his hand inserted itself in between.
Morana bit her tender lip, her heart pounding, pressing her back into the mirrored wall, her body aching, her lungs unable to draw in a deep breath. The long-forgotten ache between her legs throbbed at the proximity to its perpetrator, her eyes glued to the large hand that forced the doors apart again. She could see callouses on his long fingers, the ridges and hard lines. The hand was wrapped in a bandage from when he'd bled on her, from tonight when she'd made him bleed.
Her heart picked up pace seeing that hand.
And then the doors slid apart.
She straightened her back, her ribs hurting from the action, and stood as tall as she could, which didn’t amount to much on her bare feet.
He came into view. Shirtless.
She gulped.
Blue.
Blue eyes locking onto hers, making her breath catch, before moving down her cheeks, down her neck, to her breasts and hands and legs down to her bare feet. And standing there as his eyes took her in, Morana realized the utter difference between his perusal from earlier at the restaurant and the perusal right then. This perusal was heated but not with hatred. It was heated with fury. Sheer, utter rage that made his eyes blaze as they roved over every single inch of her skin, before coming back up to her eyes.
Morana didn't know how that made her feel. She was so used to the other kind of heat from him, this was putting her off-kilter, more than she already was. She let her eyes take in the bare muscles of his torso, the muscles she'd ogled the other day right in the apartment, the sight of his scars and tattoos as much a shock as it had been then, along with those magnificent muscles under it. But it was the still unbuttoned jeans that, combined with him waiting for her, made her realize he'd thrown clothes on quickly and woken up from rest in the buff.
The sight of his blue, angry eyes made her take a deep breath, her body sapped of energy even as she stood there.
His nostrils flared, lips pursing, and he took a step to the side while holding the elevator doors back, the silent invitation to enter clear.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Morana took a few steps into the dark living room illuminated by gorgeous moonlight, the stunning, clear view of the city and the sea making her breath catch for a moment.
She heard the elevator ding upon closing, and stilled, her heart stopping for a second as realization dawned upon her.
They were alone.
Completely alone.
And she stood in his living room, and he was somewhere behind her.
What was she supposed to do? She couldn't curse him, she couldn't thank him and the limbo between the two urges tired her.
Morana held her breath, waiting for him to move.
He did. Towards the guest room.
Morana tracked his movements with her eyes, watching his muscles flex as he moved his body, his frame tensed, coiled. She would have appreciated the raw beauty of him had her own body not been aching, had her own heart not been bleeding.
He disappeared into the room for long moments while she stood pinned to the spot, not knowing what to do. Then, he came out, keeping his eyes away from hers, heading towards the stairs that led up to his master bedroom.
And then, he vanished into his room.
Morana heard some sounds, angry sounds, of doors opening and slamming shut, and headed towards the guest bedroom on slow steps, sapped of all energy, her shoulders slumping.
So, he wasn't the most hospitable man. Nothing she didn't already know. But at least he hadn't turned her away. She wasn't sure if she would have been able to take that humiliation tonight, on top of everything else.
The moment she entered the bedroom, she blinked. The bathroom door was open, steam billowing out from a full tub while a large black t-shirt and drawstring pants lay draped over a chair, the sheets on the bed turned down.
Morana stood there in the doorway, blinking back the sudden tears welling up in her eyes, her heart unable to understand the man. He hated her, she had no doubts. He had claimed her death and he had tried to fuck her out of his system. He had not spoken a word to her, not even looked at her, and yet, there lay the evidence of a kindness that was completely at odds with everything she knew about him.
Pursing her lips, she picked up the clothes and headed to the inviting bathroom, closing the door behind her but finding no lock. Shaking her head, she looked around the large room, the brown and cream tiles a comforting sight for the sore eyes, the tub sunken in a block of deep mahogany granite, two towels on a stand beside it. Morana shoved her dress off her body and onto the floor along with her underwear, turning sideways to look into the mirror above the sink.