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Seeing a shadow move slightly, Morana squinted through her glasses, barely able to make out his figure. There was no way he could ever come out of the shadows on the property. From her vantage point, she could see the guards patrolling at the far end, the security extra tight, especially with her father gone. They would turn and head towards her wing within two minutes.
Tristan Caine was toast.
But he was one smooth toast.
She saw the smoothness in his movements as he slinked away from the shadows, merging with new ones, barely visible even from her vantage. There was no way he was going to make it past the front door undetected. No way.
Except he didn't seem to be heading towards the front door to his left. With lithe grace she couldn't help but admire, even as she chided herself for it, Morana watched, confused, as he headed straight for the wall. What was he going to do - hulk his way through them?
He stopped towards the right, still in the shadows, but visible enough that she could roughly make out the black ensemble he was wearing. Puzzled, and more than curious to see what he would do next, Morana felt her jaw drop when he jumped on the windowsill of the ground floor study, taking a hold of the metal pipes that ran beside it, heaving his body up.
He was going to climb up.
He was going to climb up?
He was dying tonight, she was certain of it. Tristan Caine, the blood of the Outfit, was going to splat down on the ground beneath her window and die on her property and start a fucking war. Was he insane? She didn't give a fuck if he wanted to break his thick neck but couldn't he do it away from her city under someone else's window? It would be better if the guards caught him alive.
Even as her mind told her to alert the guards, her tongue stayed stuck to the roof of her mouth, her eyes transfixed on his form. For a big guy, he was very, very athletic. She didn't want to appreciate anything about him but watching him move, there was no way she could deny it. She was a bitch to him, not blind.
His hand grabbed the metal rail of the first-floor balcony, and he let go of his footing, hanging in the air by the strength of one arm. Then, he gripped the railing with the other hand and swung his feet up, jumping on the balcony with a grace he should not have been capable of, not with those many muscles on that body, muscles she knew were very hard and very much real from being pressed against them, repeatedly.
The timing of his jump coincided perfectly with the patrolling guards, who made their rounds, completely unaware of the intruder on the property. Tristan Caine stayed crouched on the balcony, silently observing the guards below as they walked away. That was supposed to be the best muscle in the city. Clearly, she needed to get them fired.
Shaking her head, she looked down the window, unable to see how he would reach her window from the balcony below since there were no pipes, no rails, nothing. Just wall. The area was clear again.
Just when she thought she couldn't be any more surprised, she saw him jump on the railing, his balance perfect. He didn't even take a breath before walking towards the side of the balcony, on the railing, on agile feet, coming to a stop as he faced the wall.
Now what, hotshot?
He looked around carefully, before taking something out from the pocket of his black cargo pants, and before Morana could even think 'bomb', he was swinging it up and hooking it on the sill of her window. And the next thing she knew, his hands were on her windowsill and he was heaving his entire body up, ready to get in the second window she was standing behind. A walking, talking Mission Impossible, that's what he was. And Morana's stomach was in knots, exactly as it had been every time she had watched the movies, her heart pounding in her ears like she had been the one to scale two floors of her building.
At least her undercover had been more covert, less show-off.
The moment he heaved his body inside, Morana stepped back, holding her knife beside her head, her stance combative just like her instructor had taught her.
He landed on the carpeted floor, rolling off his back in the same motion, and standing up on his feet, his black full-sleeved muscle shirt hugging every sinew and muscle of his torso, the loose cargo pants tucked into black army boots, a com attached to his ear. He looked ready to infiltrate a fortress. She should be flattered, she supposed.
Except she realized, in that precise moment that her own inventory was complete and his began, that she was dressed for the night, in her bunny shorts and loose university t-shirt that almost hung off one shoulder, and no bra.
Even as heat rushed to her face at her realization, she stayed in the same stance, threatening, keeping her face completely blank, watching him. His sharp blue eyes locked with hers, sending a frisson of tingles down her body before she tamped it down, her fingers flexing on the knife. He touched his earpiece, never removing his gaze from hers, and spoke quietly.
"I'm in. Muting."
How eloquent.
His eyes drifted to her knife, before coming back to hers, his scruffy jaw relaxed, his entire posture non-threatening. But she knew better. She'd learned how quickly he switched first-hand, and she had no intention of even breathing easy as long as he stood within five feet of her.
He didn't speak a word, just looking at her with those unnerving eyes. She knew what he was trying to do. Shake her. And even though it worked, she didn't let it show.
"The way you scaled the walls," she began, in a conversational tone that was so fake she could roll her eyes at it, "you just confirmed what I always knew you were."
He just raised a lone eyebrow.
"A reptile," she provided, smiling forcefully at him.
The side of his lip with the damn scar twitched, his eyes never losing the hardness. "Predator."
"Delusions of grandeur," she nodded, ignoring the way the intensity in the gaze made her want to stop breathing. Had she been a dog, this was the kind of gaze that would have made her want to roll over on her back and offer her warm belly up. She wasn't a dog, just a proverbial female equivalent to him. She had to keep it that way. Focus. "Does your psychiatrist know you suffer from them?"
