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Distracted, she watched him approach her and pick her up again. Hands automatically going around him for support, Morana looked at his face, at the scruff littering his jaw, and then at the door.
He headed to it.
Her heart began to race again.
This was big. Big big. Huge. She knew it. He knew it. And he was still taking steps towards it.
Taking a deep breath in, Morana watched as he carried her over the threshold, stopping for a second inside to shut the door behind with his feet.
The lock clicked.
The alarm beeped.
She was inside.
Holy fuck.
Her eyes looked around the place, trying to take it in. They were in some kind of foyer, the door to her left was closed and one to her right led to a dimly lit living room, from what she could tell. Right before them was a corridor that they were going through, at the end of which were a wide set of stairs leading upstairs.
Morana unconsciously gripped his shoulder as he started the climb straight up, night lighting guiding him through. She could see the walls decorated with pictures of some kind but could barely make them out at his speed and the light. The architecture, she realized as they stopped at the top of the stairs, was similar to the penthouse. The stairs simply opened up into a ginormous master bedroom.
There was only a single bedside lamp turned on. Before she could take in any more details, they were headed to the door at the other corner of the room, the space huge. And after carrying her through from Dante’s house to his and up the stairs, he wasn’t even breathing heavy. Seriously, what did he eat? After the state of her body, she realized she needed to get on his diet. Stamina of the body would seriously help along with stamina of the brain.
They came through the door into a huge, dimly lit bathroom, much bigger than her own at her father’s house or the guest one at his penthouse. The man clearly liked his space.
Morana watched the water steaming in the tub and a groan of pleasure escaped her, just upon seeing it. He was psychic. The scent of lemon and cinnamon permeated the air.
Morana got down from his arms, his arms on her back again to steady her. She leaned into him, and the hands slowly pulled up her t-shirt and stripped her of it. Morana pushed down her destroyed shorts and let them join the floor in a heap.
He indicated the water and Morana, naked as a jaybird but comfortable in that nudity with him, walked to the tub. Careful of her aches and pains, Morana put one foot in, then the other, and lowered herself in. The water, blessed, hot water, wrapped her in the warmest of hugs.
A noise escaped her throat - some hybrid cross between a mewl and a moan. She closed her eyes, ducking her head under the water before coming up, feeling cleaner than she had all night. He had done this before when she’d come to him after her father let her fall down the stairs. He’d been silent but offered her his care, prepped a bath for her. Back then, it had touched her, moved her, surprised her - both his kindness and Dante’s. Now, leaning her head back on the edge, letting the water lap at her tired muscles, Morana was surprised to realize she wasn’t surprised at this kindness. Somehow, she’d grown comfortable enough to even expect it from him.
She didn’t know how to feel about that.
Wiping her face, Morana opened her eyes, expecting to find herself alone.
She wasn’t.
Tristan was near the sink, getting a washcloth and some bottles, and coming towards her.
She blinked up at him in surprise, not understanding.
"What are you doing?" she asked softly, watching him.
He simply kneeled on the floor behind her head in answer.
His big, rough hands more at ease with handling lethal weapons slowly wiped over her cheeks, gently, like he was afraid of applying too much pressure. She rubbed her skin more when she removed her makeup. His touch was light, but sure, wiping a soft cloth over both her cheeks, her chin, her forehead.
Morana leaned her head back, relaxing, letting her take care of him in a way she’d never been taken care of and in a manner she doubted he’d taken care of someone in a long time. They both deserved this. This was theirs.
Silently, he handed the washcloth over to her and Morana looked down, surprised to find the white fabric pale red. She stared at it, at the muddled shade, and remembered her assailant cutting himself and trying to grab her face. He’d smeared blood over her face.
And Tristan had wiped it.
Again.
Heart clenching, fingers squeezing the rag, she felt her lips tremble as his hands came to her wet hair. The smell of his masculine shampoo hit her nostrils and Morana forced herself to breathe easy. His fingers, his sure fingers, firmly massaged the shampoo over her scalp, lathering up her stands. Morana tilted her head back, groaning at the amazing sensation. His hands paused for a split second before he continued again. He could totally switch careers someday if he wanted. There was something so peaceful in that shared silence, something so reminiscent of the first night she'd spent in his territory.
