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She felt him bend and pick her up. Morana, for some reason, didn’t cling to his giant form, even as she was afraid of letting go, the sounds from her chest finally permeating through all the noise of her blood. Dante carried her somewhere, she didn’t see. Her eyes were closed, trying to eradicate the sensations from the attack suddenly assaulting her all over again.
She felt Dante set her down somewhere gently, cushions sinking under her and he pulled back. Morana kept her eyes closed for a long minute, trying to get her breathing under control, aware of all the pain in her body.
“Tristan,” she heard Dante speak, her heartbeat spiking again at his name. “You need to get here. Now.”
There was silence for a second before Dante stated. “It’s Morana.”
More silence.
“Something happened… I don’t know… Okay.”
Morana lifted her eyelids, just in time to see Dante cut the call. He looked even bigger from her seated position and Morana noticed the multitude of tribal tattoos littering across his torso in random, odd patterns. She looked around, to see she was in the living room where she’d worked, her laptop still on the table.
Zia entered the room, coming to her with a glass of water. Morana, her throat tight, accepted the glass and gulped the chilling liquid down only to find both of them observing her. Zia, taking the glass away, stroked a wrinkled hand over her head in a gesture so maternal, Morana broke down again.
“Oh, child,” Zia muttered, stroking her hair again while Dante squatted down before her, taking both her trembling hands in his, his chocolate eyes staring into hers.
“What happened?” he asked again, almost gently, and Morana, at that moment, loved him for it. Just his big hands holding hers, his presence, his house - she wished she’d had him growing up. Tears escaped her even more, for everything, old and new, no words coming from her lips. Every time she opened her mouth, she felt the pillow trying to muffle her, her lips and nose crushing from the force.
The door to the room suddenly flew open and Morana flinched, her eyes going to it in fear.
And then the fear left her completely.
Tristan stood there, hair messy, in jeans and a t-shirt he’d put on inside out, his eyes frantically coming to her.
She saw him scan her entirely in two seconds, taking in every single detail, from her feet to her hair. And for the first time, Morana saw his magnificent blue eyes go wild.
He snapped.
Like a laser, he strode to where she lay, ignoring everyone else in the room. She couldn’t look away. Her heart, which had been exercised too much that night, finally slowed down a bit. She watched him, tears on her face, her entire being collapsing because he was there. He was there. And god, she hurt so much.
Just as she tried to move towards him, he reached her. Hands going around her, he plucked her up from the couch and sat down, keeping her sideways on his lap, one of his hands on the outside of her thigh, the other in her hair, holding her tight to him. Her ear pressed against his heart and she could hear how rapidly it was pounding. Listening to it, to the tension in his body personified by the rate of his beating heart, Morana felt her own clench in response to its call.
Relaxing for the first time that night, Morana found the spot between his shoulder and neck again, the one she’d discovered on that very couch hours ago, and pressed her nose, her mouth, her entire face into his warm skin. Her tears wet the spot, her breaths heated it. She felt his hands clench for a second before unclenching again. The hand on the outside of her thigh started to slowly rub the skin in a soothing motion, the hand in her hair pressing her face softly into that spot.
In her mind, Morana replaced the sensation of that cold pillow with the heat of his neck, replaced the smothering of her nose roughly with the smushing of her nose gently. She inhaled him in, letting that smell of him - just musk and him at this late hour - to seep into her bloodstream and replace the adrenaline. She wrapped her arms around his hard, solid body, her fingers holding on to the cotton for dear life as the shaking in her body intensified, the adrenaline finally dissipating.
He held her through it all.
And slowly, after minutes, as her tremors calmed down enough and her blood started to flow more naturally, she felt him press a soft, simple kiss to her ear.
Her lips trembled against the skin of his neck.
His arms tightened around her.
And there, she felt safe. Protected. Like all the assailants in the world couldn’t get to her. She knew he wouldn’t let them get to her.
“Morana,” she heard Dante speak again, softly. She turned her head slightly, looking at him through puffy eyes, her vision slightly blurred.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice urging her to talk.
She swallowed, her throat tight. Focusing on the pulse beating right next to her nose, on his chest expanding as he inhaled and deflating as he exhaled, Morana tried to match her own breaths in sync with his, just like she'd done at the penthouse when she'd had the panic attack. She focused on the life in him, and worked her mouth open, ungluing her tongue. It felt heavy. She felt heavy.
“There was…” she started, her voice a croak, “someone in my room.”
As she had at the party, she felt him go still, every muscle locking against hers. Chest, back, biceps, forearms, thighs. Even his neck. The muscles tensed in one moment of sudden stillness.
“What do you mean someone was in the room?” Dante asked, the anger in his voice breaking through her analysis of the man she was sitting on. Looking sideways at Dante, she spoke, her voice still not Jacksonating for some insane reason.
