AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Leaning her neck inside, she looked around the semi-dark guest room of sorts.
It was empty.
Frowning, she stepped inside, shutting the door behind her quietly.
The door on the other side of the large room opened before she even had a chance to take in her surroundings. Heart hammering, she crouched in the corner, seeing Tristan Caine step back out of the bathroom, throwing his suit jacket on the bed. Morana observed the suspenders stark against his white shirt, the crisp fabric unbuttoned at the collar, stretched taut across the broad expanse of his chest. A very muscular chest. She bet he had abs too.
Although she hated herself for noticing, she couldn't deny the man was very, very attractive. Too bad he was a bastard to match.
She saw him take his phone out from the pocket of his slacks, scrolling through the screen, his concentration entirely on whatever he was seeing. Watching his muscular back towards her, she straightened from her crouch in the shadows.
It was now or never.
Walking behind him, her hand slightly trembling with the knife gripped in her paling knuckles, she inched forward, not even daring to breathe lest she alert him. Almost two steps behind him, she placed the knife on his back, right above where his heart was supposed to be, and uttered as coldly as she could.
"You twitch and you die."
She saw the muscles in his back stiffen, one by one, even before she had spoken. It would have fascinated her had she not been so shit scared and raving mad.
"Interesting," he remarked evenly, as though his life wasn't two inches of flesh away in her trembling hands. She steadied her grip.
"Drop the phone and raise your hands," she ordered, watching him comply without hesitation.
His voice broke the tense silence. "Since I'm not already dead, I assume you want something."
The completely unruffled tone of voice did nothing to soothe her nerves. Why wasn’t he even slightly bothered by this? She could carve him open. Was she missing something?
Sweat broke out over her back, her wig itching on her scalp, but she focused on his back. Pulling out a second knife from her other thigh, she shoved it against his side, right against his kidney. His back tensed slightly more but his hands didn't waver, staying completely upright.
"What do you want?" he asked, the tone unwavering like his hands.
Morana inhaled deeply, gulped, and spoke. "The thumb drive Jackson gave you."
“Jackson, who?”
Morana dug her blades a fraction deeper in warning. “Don’t pretend you don’t know shit, Mr. Caine. I know everything about your dealings with Jackson Miller.”
His back stayed rigid, her knives a second away from breaking skin. “Now, where is the drive?”
There was silence for a few beats before he tilted his head towards the left. “My jacket. Inner pocket."
Morana blinked in surprise. She hadn't expected him to give it up so easily. Maybe he was actually a wuss under all that macho crap. Maybe the rumors and stories were all fabricated.
She looked at the black jacket, and it happened in the split second of her distraction.
Her back slammed into the wall beside the door, her right hand holding the knife up the wall, restrained by a tight grip. Her left hand with the knife came against her own throat, controlled by a much stronger, and much angrier Tristan Caine.
Morana blinked up into his eyes – his very blue, very pissed off eyes – stunned at the turn of events. She wasn’t prepared for this. Shit, she was so not prepared for this.
Morana gulped. The blade of her own knife clutched in her own hand was gripped by his, right against her neck. She felt the cool metal threaten her tan skin. His second hand, large, rough, held her other hand above her head, his fingers wrapped like manacles around her wrist. She felt his much larger, muscular body press into hers, his chest warm against her heaving breasts, the musky scent of his cologne invading her senses, his legs retraining hers, rendering her completely immobile.
Swallowing, she looked up into his eyes, straightening her spine. If she had to die, she wasn't going to die like a coward, especially not at the hands of someone like him.
He leaned closer, his face just inches from hers, his eyes cold and voice brutal as he spoke. "This spot, right here," he spoke quietly, pressing the tip of the knife against a spot right under her jaw on her tilted neck. "It's an easy spot. I nick you here, and you die before you can blink."
Her stomach churned but she grit her teeth, refusing to show fear, silently listening as he moved the knife to her fluttering pulse near the center of her neck. "This spot. You die but it won't be clean."
Her heart thundered with vengeance in her chest, her palms sweating at the look in his eyes. He moved the knife again to a spot near the base of her neck. "And this… You know what happens if I cut you here?"
