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Morana blinked, shaking herself mentally, clearing her head. Pulling her hands away from his arms, she brought out her phone from her pocket. His hand remained in place.
She looked down at the caller id and froze.
Her father.
Ice filled her, cooling her overheated systems her completely. The fracture in her control repaired as she straightened and pulled away from his grip. His fingers flexed once before he loosened his hold, the imprint of his touch searing her skin, the ghost of sensations assaulting her flesh. The nape of her neck burned.
Without a word, she turned away and hurried down the stairs, every response in her body back under her rigid control, like it always was except with him.
Exhaling deeply once she stood in the kitchen, Morana picked up the call and stayed silent.
"You slipped your detail," her father's cool voice came through her line, and Morana sat down on a stool rigidly, keeping her face clear of expression and voice even.
"I said I would," she responded without a flinch in her tone.
"Who was the biker?" her father asked, anger restrained in his voice.
Morana wasn't surprised his goons had reported the man who'd helped her escape. "What biker?" she asked.
There was a pause. "When are you returning?"
"I'm not," Morana informed him. "Not tonight." Maybe not ever.
Another pause. "Where are you?"
Morana took a deep breath. "Since you cannot seem to grasp it, I'll spell it out for you, father. I am not a dog you think you can leash. I'm an independent woman, and if I say I'm not returning tonight, that's it. I know it’s not out of care that you ask."
"Your independence is an illusion I've let you sustain, Morana," her father spoke in chilling tones. "I will find out who he is. And I will have him killed."
For the first time in the conversation, Morana felt a sliver of amusement. She hated Tristan Caine, but the thought of him facing off with her father somehow didn't seem like the best course for her father. And she should've felt bad about not rooting for her own flesh and blood. All she felt was cold.
"Good luck, father," Morana spoke and disconnected, putting her phone on the counter, her body slumping as soon as she took a breath.
She felt him behind her and turned.
He stood in loose sweatpants and a black t-shirt, watching her rather speculatively. Morana felt her hackles rise.
She raised her eyebrows. "What?"
He stayed silent for a beat before heading to the big refrigerator. "So, your father pimps you out to his friends and tries to leash you," he spoke, the heavy disgust in his voice clear. "What a man."
Morana grit her teeth. "Pots and kettles. Did you forget the number of times you tried to control me, Mr. Caine? I can remind you if you like," she spoke, her tone deliberately polite.
He stilled on his way to the refrigerator. "I'm nothing like your father, Ms. Vitalio."
"That's actually not true," Morana commented. "You both try to control
me and threaten to kill me. What's so different?"
"You don't want to know."
Morana tilted her head, her eyes narrowed. There was an undercurrent of something beneath the heat in that statement. She tried to put her finger on it, but it completely escaped her, much to her frustration.
"Actually, I think I do."
Tristan Caine turned back to the refrigerator and for some reason, she got the sense that he was biting his tongue to keep from speaking.
Okay.
