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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.
