The Predator (Dark Verse #1)

by RuNyx

Tristan 'The Predator' Caine.

Papi

"There are places on your body that I know," he spoke, his free hand wrapping around the back of her neck, his grip strong, just on the periphery of threatening, as the gun stayed right above her racing heart. "Places that you don't know. Places where I can shoot and harm and you won't die." He leaned even closer, his whisper just a ghost across her skin as her neck craned to keep their gazes locked, his hand cradling her nape, his height looming above her, his eyes never moving from hers. "Death isn't the main course, sweetheart. It's the dessert."

"You don't hate me," Morana pointed out. "No," he shook his head, his eyes hardening by the second, resolve entering them as she saw him inhale heavily. "I despise you."

One day, she vowed, she would kill Tristan Caine.

“Step back, or I’ll shoot you.” Tristan Caine raised one eyebrow at him, not even sparing the gun pointed at his heart a glance. Almost casually, he gripped her guard’s wrist. And then, in a move that almost had Morana's jaw dropping, he twisted the wrist, applying pressure and bending it back, making the man fall to his knees with a sharp cry, the gun now pointed back at him, like he'd pointed her own knives at her that first night, tables turned. All without blinking away from her.

This is so sexy

"One day, I'm going to carve your heart out and keep it as a souvenir. I promise." She'd thought he would respond with silence, or with a clenched jaw, or with another jab at her. He didn't. He chuckled. Seriously? "You assume I have a heart, wildcat."

He held the knife in his fist, his inflamed eyes on hers, his blood dripping on her skin, their faces inches away, eyes unwavering, blue on hazel.

The blood of her enemy. The blood of the one man she hated. His blood.

Walking forward, she dropped the bloody knife into the trash can, gazing as the red swirled and seeped into the white paper around it, seeping into it, scarring it, changing it.

She'd been raised around sharks. And she'd learned not to bleed.

"Courage takes only a second to become foolishness," he said quietly, his dark eyes alert. "Keep that in mind." Morana smiled. So, she'd found a nerve, had she? "Heed your own advice," she replied in the same tone, before turning on her heels and heading towards the bar, looking absolutely straight ahead, not sparing a glance on either side but aware of Tristan Caine's eyes on her.

Shes such a baddie

"No one else gets to kill you, Ms. Vitalio," he spoke quietly. "The last face you see before you die will be mine. When it comes to death, you're mine."

There was a brief pause before he came on again. "Pull over wherever you are. Don't disconnect." Heart picking up pace, Morana quietly pulled over, not knowing why she was even doing as he asked, and sat. She heard an engine thrum in the background and realized it was that damned bike. She did not need that right now. She could hear him on the bike and a knot settled in her gut. He was quiet. Not the waiting-for-her-to-crack quiet. Just quiet. She didn't like that she was observing anything. The sky rumbled loudly overhead, thunder crackling dangerously just as the engine's sound joined in the cacophony. "Drive," he ordered curtly, and Morana looked in the rear-view, to see the bike come closer and closer to her tail. She pulled back into the traffic, her heart hammering with the weirdest sense of deja-vu hitting her. His bike smoothly inserted itself between the two cars again. She saw him slow down, saw the tailing car brake to avoid a collision, and he ground out again in a rough tone. "Hit it."

I love this. Idek y

While the living area was comfortable but icy, this was the exact opposite. There was not a splash of gray anywhere as far as she could see. Done in browns and tones of greens, the room boasted of wood-finished walls, oak-wood doors that she assumed led to a closet and the bathroom, and a King-sized bed that looked way too comfortable and inviting. That was what this room was — warm, inviting, inspiring thoughts of lazy mornings with tangled sheets.

He has style.. My man, my man

She saw him pick up a chopping board and knife. He cooked.

Thats so sexy

Dante turned to her, his dark eyes genuinely concerned. "My apartment is two floors down. I know you said you didn't want to work with him, so if you'd like you can stay there for tonight. I won't be home and it will be empty." She saw Tristan Caine stop on the stairs before she could speak, his entire body tensing as he turned to face Dante, his eyes cool. "She stays here," he growled.

Okay then ;).....

"Stay."

Her lips trembled, her hands pressed against the glass, seeing the tears fall from the sky and slide down the walls in defeat, and felt one slip from the corner of her eye. And felt him in the room.

She caught sight of a small scar and felt her heart ache. She'd never really given a thought, in all the injustice that happened to women, to what happened to men in their world. She knew that power and survival were the two ultimates but never wondered about what the price of it was. Were the scars on him a norm or an anomaly like he was? Were they the price of being that anomaly in a family that valued blood? How many had been inflicted by enemies? How many had come at the hands of the family? Was this the cost of him coming to where he was in their world? What kind of a toll did it take on men? Was that why most of them were so detached? Because that became the only way to deal with the pain? Was that what had happened to her father? Was he detached because that was how he'd coped all his life, to keep his power?

Awh

And his body, she realized, was more than a weapon. It was a temple of strength. It was a keeper of tales — tales of his survival, of things she couldn't even fathom in this ugly, ugly world.

"My sister loved the rain."

She swallowed, her heart pounding. "I didn't know you had a sister," she spoke in the same soft tone, never looking away from the view. Silence. "I don't anymore."

Awww my poor baby

"My mother loved the rain."

"Dante was right. I could have been safe, comfortable there," she told him quietly. "You are safe and comfortable here," he told her in an equally quiet voice, the words heavy with meaning. "For tonight." "For tonight."

He looked at her. Her heart stuttered. He looked away. Her heart started.

"We've been honest so far, Ms. Vitalio," he murmured. "I'll be honest now. I despise you but I want you. Fuck it, I do. And I want you out of my system."

Her father was right outside. His men were right outside. The Outfit was right outside. Tristan Caine was inside. Behind her. She wanted him inside her. Morana closed her eyes, raising her free hand to the top corner of the wooden door. And she locked it. Decision made.

She saw the text, and her stomach dropped, her heart pounding. Tristan Caine: Apparently, you're not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio. Her father stopped her before she'd processed it, his dark eyes cold, icy on hers. Her stomach dropped again, for an entirely different reason. "What were you doing with Tristan Caine?"

SO MANY FEELINGS ALL AT ONCE

Tristan Caine: If you’re scared… He was baiting her. Why? Me: Of what? Tristan Caine: Come and see for yourself. What, was he parading around naked in the lot with whipped cream smeared over his man parts?

LOL

Morana spread her arms, closing her eyes, feeling the wind rub against her, feeling him rub against her, feeling the bike rub against her. She yelled even louder—unashamed, unbound, unchained. She let herself feel deeper—uncaring, unhinged, unabashed. It was just a bike. It was just a ride. It was just a man. It just was.

“I don’t know whether to snap your neck or fuck the life out of you,”

There was no way she was going to stand naked in front of him while he was still covered. No way. Before he could make a move, Morana put her hands on the damp collar and tugged at his shirt forcefully, ripping the buttons off, sending them scattering on the floor, a strip of flesh bared to her eyes just as his hands came up to grip her wrists, his eyes inflamed. All that cool control she’d witnessed five minutes ago… evaporated.

“This body belongs to me, Ms. Vitalio,” he murmured in a low voice, the whiskey and sin combining to make her head tip back over his broad shoulder as her stomach clenched. “This body is mine,” she retorted, unable to recognize her own voice dripping in sex. He continued, like she hadn’t spoken, cupping her ass. “I’m a territorial man. And this has been mine since the moment you locked that bathroom door.”

Seeing their hands together like that, watching the thick forearms alongside her delicate wrists, something fluttered in the pit of her stomach.

He turned. Lightning split the sky. And in that momentary light, his magnificent blue eyes found her, imprisoned her, burned her. Her throat locked, heart pounded, blood beat hard in her ears. Her breath started coming faster, until she was almost on the verge of panting, because he stood a few feet away from her, cutting a lethal form in the darkness that enclosed him, wrapped around him like a lover, wrapped around her like a foe. And he uttered not a word.

Silence. A change in the air around her. The scent of wood and musk. The warmth of a breath over her face. And then she felt it. Lips. Soft, tender lips settling upon hers. Her heart stopped.

He kissed her — softly, simply, expertly. He kissed her — until her knees turned to jelly and heat invaded her belly. He kissed her — without his tongue, without his hands, without his body. Just his lips — soft, firm, present — on hers. It was the most beautiful kiss she could have ever dreamed of, the most untainted she’d ever imagined from him, with a softness she’d not thought him capable of. With his intensity, with his blazing eyes, the silent promises had been of devouring. This wasn’t devouring. This was savoring.

And then, he devoured her. Fulfilling every promise his eyes had ever made to her. He devoured her in the rain, with his gun beneath her jaw. He devoured her while tasting like the whiskey and sin she heard in his voice. He devoured her without touching another inch of her body, stroking her tongue with his, tasting her so thoroughly her legs weakened, her hands catching onto the lapels of his jacket to keep herself upright, not touching his skin like he wasn’t touching hers, yet letting him support her.

Electric. There was no other word for it. It sizzled. It sparked. It consumed.