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He was Tristan now.
Her Tristan.
The warmth expanded.
Morana sat on the edge of the window, looking out at the property. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, much as the moon had last night. The light shone brightly upon the lush green lawns, the shadows created by the woods at the edge dark. In the distance, the clear water of the lake shimmered, a lone little house standing on its edge, hidden behind the line of trees creating a visible divide between the in and the out. She understood what Dante had meant - Tristan had been on the inside for outsiders but on the outside for those on the inside, essentially belonging nowhere but with himself. She understood why he had that penthouse on top of a building now, where he could see everyone with those beautiful, giant windows but no one could see him, no one that he didn’t explicitly invite into his territory. Layered with that knowledge, their first night against the window became even more beautiful to her, the shift in their relationship even more pivotal.
Men patrolled the property, much like they did at her father’s house, but much less ostentatious. These men were skilled, sleek. It was evident simply from the way they moved, the ease with which they held their guns. Morana observed them for a long minute before movement drew her eyes to the house at the edge of the lake. She could make out the tiny form of Tristan walking out of the house to stand at the edge of the lake, his hands in his pockets as he stared into the distance. Fascinated by the chance to observe him without his knowledge, Morana simply watched, unable to remove her eyes from his form.
He stood still, almost unnaturally still, so much so he could have been a statue from such a distance and no one would have known. That stillness of his, even as he stood alone, made her realize how non-still he was with her. Since the beginning, there had been an energy about him, an energy that had wrapped itself around her time and again. Even when his physical form had been still, his energy had always been in motion - pushing, pulling, circling, holding, attaching itself to her. She didn’t know if that had been deliberate on his part or something he hadn’t been able to control (though she suspected the latter from his level of frustration with her in the beginning), but scrutinizing him at that moment contrasted.
She saw Dante’s huge form walk with agile grace towards Tristan’s still one from the trees. She wondered where his wing was as the man joined Tristan. They stood side by side, brothers, in a way their world couldn’t understand, and Dante bought out another cigarette from his pocket. She saw Tristan flick a glance at the cigarette before looking forward again. And then they talked about whatever they talked about. All sh
e could glean from their body language was a big, fat nothing. Tristan stayed the way he was, Dante relaxed in his form. The sun shone brightly on them for a long time in the early morning, the chill in the wind drifting inside the window to her arms.
Morana snuggled tighter into her blanket, shifting on the window seat.
The action seemed to distract the men because Tristan turned his head suddenly, looking straight at her window. She knew he couldn’t see her any better than she could see him but she felt the heat of that gaze warming her better than her blanket did. A shiver coiling down her spine, the muscles between her legs still throbbed with the ghost memory of last night, clenching with the memory of his flesh snug inside them.
Dante turned to look at her as well. He raised the hand not holding the cigarette in greeting to her. Morana grinned at the gesture, giving him a slight wave back.
Her phone vibrated.
Tristan: *sent an image*
Morana stared at the image of his card, his name, and details clearly visible to her. Confused, she typed out the reply.
Morana: ???
She looked up at his figure, seeing his face turned down to the phone in his hand, the other hand in his pocket as he typed out the response with one thumb. He must have hit ‘send’ because a second later, her phone vibrated again.
Tristan: Buy yourself whatever you need. You either don’t have your card or access to your account or you would’ve done it before Amara gave you clothes.
Morana stared at the message, emotions conflicting inside her. He wasn’t entirely wrong. She did have her cards but it had been the paranoid computer hacker inside her who hadn’t wanted to order anything from his penthouse while she had been there and risk alerting her father. Back then, she had still cared. Now, since Maroni had very kindly informed her father already, she didn’t have two shits to give.
Morana: Thank you. This is very thoughtful of you. But I’ll use my own card to buy myself what I need.
She saw him look down at the phone again and from what she could tell, he exhaled or sighed. Then he typed.
Tristan: Whichever suits you. Yours or mine, doesn’t matter. As long as no more clothes need to be destroyed.
Well, when he put it that way. Morana felt her lips tilting at the implication.
Morana: I might just have to accept more clothes from Maroni just to have you rip them off, in that case. I enjoyed that.
She looked up slowly to see his gaze back on the window, on her. Her heart started to pound, just seeing his reaction after that message, seeing the way his eyes didn’t move away for a long time. And then he turned to his phone again.
Morana let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding, feeling her phone vibrate in her hand again.
Tristan: Buy.
Morana sighed, slightly deflated by the anti-climactic response. She’d been expecting a text more along the lines of “Me, Tarzan; You, Jane”. Her phone vibrated again and she looked down quickly. Surprisingly, the text came from another man.
Dante: Dear Morana, whatever you just told Tristan, kindly don’t again. He is just itching to go punch my father in the face and that would be very inconvenient for our plans. I don’t want to get in between whatever you two have going on but please don’t egg him on right now. I need him focused. Thank you. Dante.
A huff of laughter left Morana at the way Dante had phrased the text, the amusement in his tone evident along with the exasperation she could just imagine in his expression. It also restored the warm wave she’d been riding to know that what Tristan wrote and what he felt were very, very different. She wondered how many times she’d “egged” him on, as Dante so eloquently put it. Well, since she was egging…
Morana: Dear Dante, of course. I completely understand. If he knew you were telling that to me, I imagine there’s another Maroni he would want to punch. But that’s not relevant. By the way, could you please forward me Amara’s number? I want to talk to her. Thank you. Morana.
