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Morana bit her tender lip, her heart pounding, pressing her back into the mirrored wall, her body aching, her lungs unable to draw in a deep breath. The long-forgotten ache between her legs throbbed at the proximity to its perpetrator, her eyes glued to the large hand that forced the doors apart again. She could see callouses on his long fingers, the ridges and hard lines. The hand was wrapped in a bandage from when he'd bled on her, from tonight when she'd made him bleed.
Her heart picked up pace seeing that hand.
And then the doors slid apart.
She straightened her back, her ribs hurting from the action, and stood as tall as she could, which didn’t amount to much on her bare feet.
He came into view. Shirtless.
She gulped.
Blue.
Blue eyes locking onto hers, making her breath catch, before moving down her cheeks, down her neck, to her breasts and hands and legs down to her bare feet. And standing there as his eyes took her in, Morana realized the utter difference between his perusal from earlier at the restaurant and the perusal right then. This perusal was heated but not with hatred. It was heated with fury. Sheer, utter rage that made his eyes blaze as they roved over every single inch of her skin, before coming back up to her eyes.
Morana didn't know how that made her feel. She was so used to the other kind of heat from him, this was putting her off-kilter, more than she already was. She let her eyes take in the bare muscles of his torso, the muscles she'd ogled the other day right in the apartment, the sight of his scars and tattoos as much a shock as it had been then, along with those magnificent muscles under it. But it was the still unbuttoned jeans that, combined with him waiting for her, made her realize he'd thrown clothes on quickly and woken up from rest in the buff.
The sight of his blue, angry eyes made her take a deep breath, her body sapped of energy even as she stood there.
His nostrils flared, lips pursing, and he took a step to the side while holding the elevator doors back, the silent invitation to enter clear.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Morana took a few steps into the dark living room illuminated by gorgeous moonlight, the stunning, clear view of the city and the sea making her breath catch for a moment.
She heard the elevator ding upon closing, and stilled, her heart stopping for a second as realization dawned upon her.
They were alone.
Completely alone.
And she stood in his living room, and he was somewhere behind her.
What was she supposed to do? She couldn't curse him, she couldn't thank him and the limbo between the two urges tired her.
Morana held her breath, waiting for him to move.
He did. Towards the guest room.
Morana tracked his movements with her eyes, watching his muscles flex as he moved his body, his frame tensed, coiled. She would have appreciated the raw beauty of him had her own body not been aching, had her own heart not been bleeding.
He disappeared into the room for long moments while she stood pinned to the spot, not knowing what to do. Then, he came out, keeping his eyes away from hers, heading towards the stairs that led up to his master bedroom.
And then, he vanished into his room.
Morana heard some sounds, angry sounds, of doors opening and slamming shut, and headed towards the guest bedroom on slow steps, sapped of all energy, her shoulders slumping.
So, he wasn't the most hospitable man. Nothing she didn't already know. But at least he hadn't turned her away. She wasn't sure if she would have been able to take that humiliation tonight, on top of everything else.
The moment she entered the bedroom, she blinked. The bathroom door was open, steam billowing out from a full tub while a large black t-shirt and drawstring pants lay draped over a chair, the sheets on the bed turned down.
Morana stood there in the doorway, blinking back the sudden tears welling up in her eyes, her heart unable to understand the man. He hated her, she had no doubts. He had claimed her death and he had tried to fuck her out of his system. He had not spoken a word to her, not even looked at her, and yet, there lay the evidence of a kindness that was completely at odds with everything she knew about him.
Pursing her lips, she picked up the clothes and headed to the inviting bathroom, closing the door behind her but finding no lock. Shaking her head, she looked around the large room, the brown and cream tiles a comforting sight for the sore eyes, the tub sunken in a block of deep mahogany granite, two towels on a stand beside it. Morana shoved her dress off her body and onto the floor along with her underwear, turning sideways to look into the mirror above the sink.
Blue and purple crisscrossed all over her torso, the sides of her ribs tender.
Her father had done that. Without raising an arm, without actually abusing her, he had punished her. And she was seeking refuge with a man like Tristan Caine. How messed up was her life?
Closing her eyes, she dipped her toe in the warm, perfectly warm water, before slowly gripping the edges and sitting down in the tub.
