Blowing out a breath of air, she brushed a hand through her dark hair. “I told you all this because you needed to know the truth about yourself and about him. Do what you need to do, Morana. I won’t deny a part of me hopes it’s what he needs too, but just in case it isn’t, do what you have to do for yourself and please don’t hurt him.”
The lump in her throat grew until her vision blurred.
She closed her eyes and nodded. “I need to… process. It’s a lot.”
“I know. I’ll leave you be.”
“Just don’t… don’t tell anyone about this for a while, please.”
“Okay.”
With one softly murmured word, Morana heard Amara’s footsteps grow distant as she left her alone in the graveyard with the dead.
Morana closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the stone.
Death. So much death.
In her past. In her present. In her future too? Was that what she was moving towards? Did she want to go forward like this? Knowing she’d done nothing wrong? She’d just been a baby. She didn’t even remember a thing, for fuck’s sake!
And yet, a part of her, deep in her gut, heavy in her chest, rooted in her heart, was bathed in pain – pain for the boy he’d been, pain for the man he’d become, pain for everything he’d lost.
It had been twenty years.
How had he survived?
Her eyes opened.
She knew.
He’d survived through sheer will, for her.
She pictured all the scars she’d seen on his body, all the scars she had yet to see. She pictured him, the young boy who’d lost everything, getting nothing but pain, scar after scar, day after day, year after year. For twenty years, he’d had nothing, absolutely nothing, except what he believed she owed him.
Her life.
He’d lived for her life. He’d held on to his life for hers. And while her heart bled for him, while she understood him, was that what she deserved? Was it right for her to stay with a man who’d vowed to collect his debt one day? Could she live with a sword like that hanging over her head?
She couldn’t.
Morana looked down at her fingers, dirty fingers, and let herself be absolutely, utterly honest with herself. No more denial. She let herself reflect on every moment she’d spent with him – from that first moment of that knife against her neck to that last moment of his text message telling her he didn’t believe anyone could handle her if she didn’t want to be handled. In the short span of a few weeks, she had changed. She had rebelled against that change, feared that change, but it had been uncontrollable.
She had changed.
And she couldn’t believe, not after the honesty she had witnessed in his eyes, time after time – about his lust, his hatred, even his pain – that he hadn’t changed somewhere too. While the boy he’d been might want her life, might still want to hold on to the debt in his mind, the man he was only wanted her.
That was his weakness.
He wanted her and he’d made it obvious. He wanted her and that was the reason she was still alive. He wanted her and that was why he’d protected her, sheltered her, saved her, time after time, from her own father.
This want was his weakness.
And she had two choices before her – she could exploit that weakness and battle with him to turn him, or she could expose her own throat and put her faith in him, her trust in him, to not rip it out.
Every single survival instinct she’d honed for years protested just at the thought of the second option. Yet, there was this tiny voice deep inside her, telling her this was the only way forward. In the last few weeks, he’d always acted in reaction to her choices. She’d have to be the one to act first.
Everything else aside, the bottom line was she was alive today because he’d chosen to save her. And she couldn’t leave, not without giving him some closure. She owed him that much for her life. Running away wasn’t an option anymore. Her life mattered everything to him. He was making it matter to her again.
She had killed two of her father’s men. She’d killed in the rage and vengeance she’d felt for twenty minutes for her car.
He had harbored that rage inside him for twenty years.
God, this was a mess. And she wasn’t even allowing herself to think of her father or Lorenzo ‘Asshole’ Maroni and all the shitload of mess with the Alliance. Her brain couldn’t sustain so much together.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the now dark sky as another flight went overhead loudly, the clouds stark gray against the black backdrop of the night.
She needed something. If she was going to expose her own weakness, her own vulnerability, she needed something, anything at all to tell her it wasn’t the worst mistake of her life. Anything to tell her that everything she’d experienced so far wasn’t manipulative on his part and wasn’t construed by her in her head.
A noise from near the entrance gates suddenly slithered through the empty silence.
Morana stilled.
It was late, later than she’d realized.
Heart pounding, she palmed the gun beside her quietly, forcing her hands to stop trembling. She wouldn’t be able to make any decision if she ended up dead. And she couldn’t die like this – not after surviving her father’s attempt, not after learning the truth, not after the twenty years Tristan Caine had spent wanting closure.
Raindrops clung heavily to the clouds, the crackle of lightning loud in the wind. Morana could feel it in the air, the heavy rain that would drown her tonight. It was already dark, the sun strangled below the horizon by the night, and she realized how very secluded she was.
Standing up as quietly as she could, the wind chilly on her bare arms, Morana quickly moved out from behind the headstone and crouched, heading towards the blast site near the gates where the noise had come from. Staying in the shadows, grateful for the dirt that kept her shoes from making any noise, grateful for the clouds that hid the moon and provided cover, she crept ahead, her own eyes acclimated to the dark behind her glasses, letting her see mostly clearly.
Finally coming behind a tree with a clear view of the gates, Morana pressed herself against it, leaning outward slightly, just enough so she could see whatever was going on.
Two stocky men in suits were rummaging around the vehicle she’d blown up – clearly her father’s men. One had a phone pressed to his ear while the other was looking around, smoking a cigarette, the orange glow of the tip a burning point from her vantage.
Keeping the gun ready in her hand, Morana just stayed put and watched.
And then, her heart stopped.
He was there.
Somehow, someway, he’d found her place.
Her surprise lasted only a moment, her heart heavy with the knowledge she didn’t have before. Amara had been right. Knowing the truth would change things for her, but it wouldn’t change things for him – she would have to do that herself.
Heart racing, her body acutely aware in a way it was only in his presence, senses alert, Morana watched as he smoothly got out from the black SUV he usually drove, his body encased in a suit, his usual open collar closed with a dark tie. His clothing told her he’d been somewhere important, somewhere out, and he’d come straight here.
Why?
The two men raised their arms to point their guns at him.
He shot one in the knee before the vehicle door was even shut.