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y into a huge, and she meant huge, master of master bedrooms, almost like a hidden loft. What surprised her though were the colors.
While the living area was comfortable but icy, this was the exact opposite. There was not a splash of grey anywhere as far as she could see. Done in browns and tones of greens, the room boasted of wood-finished walls, oak-wood doors that she assumed led to a closet and the bathroom, and a King-sized bed that looked way too comfortable and inviting. That was what this room was – warm, inviting, inspiring thoughts of lazy mornings with tangled sheets.
Who the hell was this man?
Morana stood at the top of the stairs, her surprised eyes taking in the biggest bed she had ever seen in detail – brown sheets like her own, enough pillows to make a fort. Black marble flooring added to the den-like feel of the place, another wall of glass with the gorgeous view of the sea at the far end.
The room looked welcoming. Homey.
Morana felt a sad tug in her chest, and turned to leave, just as the door across her, in the corner of the room opened, steam blowing out.
Her heart stopped.
Tristan Caine walked out, with nothing but a towel hitched low on his hips, his back to her.
Morana blinked, gaped, then ogled.
She should have left while he was unaware. She should have quietly made her way down and pretended she'd never seen him walking out. She should have turned on her heels.
But she didn't.
She stood, frozen, her eyes mapping the multiple scars scattered over the tanned skin of his back, seeing the muscles actually ripple as he opened a cupboard and searched for something. She saw the raised, mottled flesh - wounds from knives and bullets and burns - and felt her heart start to clench just as he stilled.
He stilled.
She stilled.
And he turned his neck, his blue eyes locking with hers.
Her breath hitched.
She saw the extensive scars on his torso as he turned to face her, the flesh permanently bruised and tainted. What kind of hell had this man been through? She took in his tattoos, some of which she couldn't make out the shape of, took in the scars, took in the impeccable muscles, coiled, tensed under the skin, his chest rising and falling evenly as his eyes watched her. Morana held his gaze, trying to hide the odd sensation in her chest as she watched him, knowing she was failing from the shift in his gaze.
He took a slow step forward, deliberate, measured, his eyes studying her sharply. Morana held her place, not backing down an inch, holding his gaze. By now she knew these games of control, and though she shouldn't, she played them.
He took another step, the towel hanging on his hips by a knot, his abs completely bare to her eyes, a trail of hair disappearing into the edge of the fabric. Morana noticed it all without removing her eyes from his, her heart pounding, fists clenched as she stood at the top of the stairs.
Another step and he stood mere feet from her, the muscles in his body tight, tensed, controlled. His eyes were clear, his pupils slightly expanded. And seeing the pupils she realized this, whatever this was, was affecting him too. As much as he kept it under wraps, he couldn't control those physical reactions. For some reason, that made her feel better, knowing she wasn't the only one with a loss over her bodily responses.
It also made her pulse spike higher.
They stood in tensed silence, their gazes locked. The silence was rife with something, heavy with a kind of anticipation she could not understand, almost as if they were facing off at the edge of a cliff, a breath away from plunging down. Her stomach was in knots, a bead of sweat rolling down her cleavage to between her breasts, the conditioned air cool against her heated skin. The sound of rain splattering against the glass mingled with the blood in her ears, her own breathing seeming loud to her even as she tried to control it, to not let him see anything at all.
Another step.
She tilted her neck back, her back arching as her feet moved of their own accord backward, completely forgetting that she stood at top of the stairs. She felt her balance tip a second before gravity hit her, her hands reaching out to hold onto something and finding purchase against the warm, solid muscles of his arms. Even as she steadied herself, Morana felt his hand slip to the back of her neck, cupping her nape as he pulled her back from the edge and upright, with nothing but his hold on her neck.
Heart thudding, her hands full of muscles she'd never felt against her palms, Morana looked up at him, while he looked down, his hold on her neck firm but non-threatening, a sort of almost edge to the grip she couldn't place.
Inches.
Bare inches.
Blood rushed through her body, small currents running down her spine from where he held her neck, her breaths coming faster even as she tried to keep it under control.
His own chest rose and fell and little faster, his breaths washing over her face, the scent of musk and something woodsy wrapping around her in the close proximity.
The sudden ringing of her phone broke the daze.
