She sat there, hidden from view, behind two gravestones, wanting nothing more than to go to the penthouse and sleep. But she couldn’t go. Not without a car and not when her father’s other goons could very well be nearby.
With shaking hands, she put the gun down and pulled out her phone, tears streaming down her face again.
She knew she could call him. She somehow also knew that he would come.
She wouldn’t. She was a mess, again, and she couldn’t make it a habit to let him help her. But then, who could she call? She had no one.
Opening up her contacts, Morana stared at the third number right near the top, a number she’d acquired just recently, and swallowed, hitting call before she could think about it.
She pressed the phone to her ear, pulling her knees up towards her chest and stared unseeingly at the ground as it rang.
She bit her lip, deciding to hang up just as the call was answered and a soft, raspy voice came over.
“Morana?”
She could hear the surprise, the worry, the concern wrapped in that one little word, and it tipped her over.
“Amara,” Morana spoke, her voice quivering. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I’m glad you called but are you alright?” Amara’s soft tones were rife with concern.
“Not really.”
“Are you hurt? Tell me where you are, I’ll be right over.”
“I’m… I’m okay,” Morana hiccupped. “I need your help. And I’d really appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone about this, please.”
“Don’t worry about that,” came the immediate reply. “Just tell me what I can do.”
“I need you to pick me up.”
Morana told her the place, told her to be careful and make sure she wasn’t followed.
“I’m ten minutes away. Sit tight, okay?”
Morana nodded, her lips trembling. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Morana.”
She put the phone down and away beside the gun and leaned back against the gravestone. Her back hurt, her skin sensitive from the blast but thankfully not burned. She stared up at the sky.
So, that was that.
Her car was dead. And she’d murdered someone, two someones, for the first time.
She’d never thought she had it in her. Even though she’d never balked at hurting guys trying to hurt her. She’d never given much thought to if and when she would murder people, not in protection but in hatred, in vengeance. She had. She had retaliated, and she felt no remorse. She felt nothing. Not right now. Maybe she would later, but at the moment, she was nothing but one giant ball of empty.
At least the stack with her father had crashed and burned. She knew exactly what he wanted to do, knew he would try to do it by any means, and she needed to be prepared.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Morana tilted her neck to see it flash on the screen.
Tristan Caine: Tsk tsk, wildcat. You should have at least allowed me another punch at your father before you signed on my death warrant. Now I have to take the liberty myself. Where’s the fun in that?
Morana read the text, a laugh bubbling out of her as she hit reply. How did he even know? Had her father done something? Besides blowing a bomb with the intent of killing her, that is?
Me: Damn. I know right? I asked him how his nose was, though.
Tristan Caine: That must have been colorful.
Me: He used a lot of cuss words for you.
Tristan Caine: No gentleman, him.
Morana smiled, shaking her head.
Me: You’re one to talk, mister.
Tristan Caine: I told you I wasn’t a gentleman that very first night.
Morana remembered that conversation that first night in Tenebrae, at the mansion, with her knives at her throat and him pressed into her front.
Me: Yes, you did. It’s a good thing I’m not into gentlemen. Gentlemen can’t handle me.
Tristan Caine: I don’t think anyone can handle you. Not if you don’t want to be handled.
Morana read the message, her heart thundering. That was probably the nicest, most empowering thing anyone had ever said to her – that she was strong enough to handle herself, that she chose who she allowed to handle her. It was especially surprising, considering the kind of world she’d lived in.
Me: Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you.
Amara’s incoming call filled the screen. Morana picked up and quickly directed her towards her location. Another message waited for her, a message that sobered her up completely, bringing back what she’d managed to forget for a few blissful seconds.
Tristan Caine: I think my guards are afraid of you.
She read the message once. Twice. It was written in the same teasing tone that she couldn’t imagine talking to him blatantly in, but the answer in her heart was slowly eating at the emptiness.
Me: They should be. After all, I just blew up a car and killed two men in cold blood.
She put her phone away before he could respond and saw Amara emerge from behind the trees. The other woman, as gorgeous as she was, was dressed in a rumpled shirt, jeans, and a printed scarf around her neck, her hair tied in a lopsided ponytail, as though she’d dressed in a hurry. That fact warmed something inside Morana that someone had dropped whatever they’d been doing to come for her.
Something heavy lodged in her throat as she saw her come closer and raised a hand, waving her over.
She saw Amara’s step falter as the other woman took in Morana’s appearance. Between the dirt on her skin and her disheveled hair, the slightly torn and dirty clothes and the invisible neon sign that hung over her head screaming ‘she’s miserable’, she was pretty sure Amara knew something quite drastic had happened.
She finally stopped in front of Morana, and without a thought to dirt or grass or whatnot, dropped down on her ass, leaning back against the headstone opposite hers. Silently, without asking a word, the other woman rummaged through her handbag and brought out a sealed bottle of water, handing it to her.
Morana took the cap off, put the bottle to her mouth and chugged down the water with thirsty sips. The cool drink flowed down her throat, making her groan in bliss. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she’d been until she tasted the delicious water.
After she’d had her fill, Morana washed her hands and splashed some on her face, taking deep breaths, trying to clean herself as much as possible.
“This is quite pretty for a graveyard.”
Amara’s soft words made Morana look up at her. Seeing the concern in her dark green eyes, Morana took a deep breath.
“It is. The best view is on the other end of it, though. Near the gate.”
Amara’s eyebrows hiked up. “I don’t think you mean the burned vehicles.”
Morana chuckled. “No, I don’t mean the burned vehicles. But we have to talk about them, don’t we?”
“Only if you want to, Morana,” Amara’s rasp made the words even sweeter. Morana was pretty sure, by this point, she was more than half in love with Amara. It was impossible for her not to love her.