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One of whom had been Luna Caine. Dark red cap of hair, just a little older than her, rosy mouth, bright green eyes sparkling with tears of her own. There had been another toddler in the picture between them.
Three girls in the picture.
Twenty-five girls gone missing.
And Morana was the only one to have been found.
How? Why? Why only her and nobody else?
Legs shaking, Morana collapsed onto the stool in the kitchen, staring out the window, trying to remember something, anything from years ago.
She couldn’t.
She’d tried for hours to think back, to recall even the tiniest detail of being abducted, but she’d come up absolutely empty with only a mild headache to answer for it. Was it because she’d been barely three years old at the time, or because she’d buried the memory like people did sometimes? Could she even do that?
And was that why Tristan Caine hated her so much? Because she’d come back while his sister hadn’t? She’d lived life while his sister probably hadn’t? Was that why?
Her hands were trembling. They’d been trembling all night and no matter what she tried, it just wouldn’t stop.
God, she was breaking down.
Why had her father never told her about it? When it had been a part of serial disappearances? Why hadn’t anyone told her? The Alliance had mysteriously ended around the same time and someone had sent her this?
Her head hurt.
The sudden sound of a throat clearing made her jump in her seat. She turned around quickly to see Tristan Caine standing at the foot of the stairs, without a shirt but in unbuttoned jeans, his hair sticking up like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly, his eyes slightly red.
Either he’d been crying or he hadn’t slept either.
She’d bet her degree it wasn’t the former.
His face was his usual neutral, controlled mask as he took her in, his eyes lingering for a split second on her shaking hands before coming back to hers.
God, she couldn’t do this. This intense eye contact game they played. She just couldn’t do it right now, not with the way she was barely keeping down the scream that had been building in her throat. It wasn’t a scream of fear, or devastation, or desperation. Not even frustration, truly. It was trapped somewhere between them all, bouncing from one to the other while they laughed in her face.
She turned back to face the window.
“Did I hurt you?”
The question, asked in that low, rough tone, caught her off guard.
Keeping her back towards him, her hands knotted together in her lap, Morana scoffed deliberately. “Why do you care?”
Silence.
He still stood exactly where he’d been. She was so completely attuned to his movements that her body tensed with awareness, spine straightening and shoulders rolling back even as she kept her gaze at the skyline.
“Did I hurt you?”
Low. Rough. Again.
“You did shoot me,” Morana pointed out with a lightness she didn’t feel.
Before she could take another breath, he was suddenly beside her, his fingers on her chin, the calloused edges pressing into her, his hold firm but gentle as he turned her to face him.
Morana blinked up at his sleep-deprived, yet magnificent blue eyes boring down into her, his warm musky scent even more prominent, not a hint of his cologne anywhere, his Adam’s apple bobbing once as he swallowed in her peripheral vision.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked again, his voice barely a whisper, his breath warm on her face as his eyes scanned hers.
