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"It is important we arrive together," he'd told her.
Morana had bitten her tongue and gotten in the car.
And now she sat, realizing why her father had wanted them to arrive together. It wasn't just dinner. It was a humiliating dinner.
One of the men, a handsome man in his early thirties, sat beside Morana, trying for the third time to get his hand under the split in her dress. The first time she'd thought it had been an accidental brush. The second time she'd brushed his hand aside with a stern look in his direction. This time, though, her temper spiked.
She took a hold of his hand in her grip and bent his fingers backward.
"Touch me again, and I will break your fingers."
Silence fell upon the table at her words. Her father glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. She waited for him to reprimand her or the man. He just turned away, engaging the others back into the conversation, like a guy ten years her senior hadn’t tried to molest her under the table.
Morana threw the man's hand away from herself in disgust. She leaned back in her chair, taking a deep, controlled breath, anger invading her bones.
"The Outfit is here."
The words of one of the middle-aged men at the table broke through her crimson haze.
Her father nodded. "I know. Security is in place."
On cue, for the first time, Morana looked around the restaurant to realize her father was right. The place, the entire place, was crawling with security. Both theirs and the Outfit's. Men in plainclothes sat alert at tables, weapons concealed but obvious against their clothes, the threat of an outburst hanging violently in the air. Civilians, seemingly aware of whatever was going down, were tensed and finishing their meals as quickly as they could. The staff walked around on eggshells and nervousness dripped from every tray.
Morana let her eyes wander and take in everything, trying to locate the table of the Outfit, but unable to see the two men she recognized anywhere in the restaurant.
But her nape prickled.
She could feel eyes on her.
His eyes.
Hungry eyes.
Her breath hitched. She didn't know how she knew it was him. She didn't want to think about how she knew it was him. But she knew. It was the same gaze she'd seen in his territory. The same gaze she could feel in hers.
Picking up her glass of wine, she let her eyes roam covertly over the space again, trying to pin where he sat. She couldn't, which only meant their table was behind her.
She didn't turn. Turning would mean acknowledging not just him, but the Outfit, and with her father behaving the way he was, she stayed in position.
But she felt those eyes caress every inch of her exposed back, felt her nape prickle in awareness as her body buzzed with sensation, imagining him, sitting somewhere, devouring her with those blue, blue eyes. He would be in a suit, like the ones she'd seen him in. A suit that would hide his scars and tattoos, and highlight his muscles. Morana swallowed, keeping her eyes down, her entire body rushing with heat just thinking about him.
She shouldn't be thinking about him.
But god help her, she couldn't stop.
Closing her eyes, inhaling softly, she quickly brought her phone on her lap and opened a window, typing a message, her hand hovering on the 'send' button.
He could see her. He was seeing her. And she was at a disadvantage. Nodding, on the tail of that thought, she hit 'send'.
Her heart started to pound, indecision warring with grit, unable to understand why she'd sent him that message.
Stop staring.
Her inbox glowed with a new message. Heart hammering, Morana pressed on it.
Tristan Caine: No.
No. Just no? How eloquent.
