The Predator (Dark Verse #1)

by RuNyx

Morality is gray and humanity is questionable.

Tristan 'The Predator' Caine. They called him the predator. His reputation preceded him. He rarely went on the hunt but when he did, it was over. When he did, he went straight for the jugular. No distractions. No playing around. For all his unruffled attitude, the man was more lethal than the knife cutting into her thigh. He was also the reason she had come to the party. She was going to kill Tristan Caine.

He pinned her with the look for a long moment, before speaking. "You owe me." Morana blinked in surprise, not understanding. “Excuse me?” His gaze got even more intense, his blue eyes searing her. “You owe me,” he repeated. Her lips twisted. "What the hell for?" “For your life,” he stated. "Anyone but me and you would not have been breathing."

"Never make the mistake of thinking you scare me. It will be your last."

"We haven't killed you," Tristan Caine spoke softly, his eyes hard, dangerous, the look in them sending a shiver down her spine. She tried to think of him as just Tristan but couldn’t. He wasn’t Tristan to her; he was Tristan Caine and her brain had started to obsess about the name now.

She was almost to her car when suddenly, without any warning, she was pinned flat on the hood, the world tilting as the night sky came into view, and along with it, the face of Tristan Caine. His hand gripped both of hers, holding them above her head as his other one pushed on her stomach, keeping her flat in place. She bucked. He didn't budge. She squirmed. He didn't budge. She struggled. He didn't budge.

She could feel his hands keeping her captive in that gaze. She could feel his hard body pressing into hers in that gaze. She could feel the coldness of his deliberate threats in that gaze.

If voices could be drinks, his was a centuries-old vintage whiskey, rolling off the tongue, down the throat, leaving a trail of fire inside, making every cell in the body aware that it had been consumed.

"One day, I'm going to carve your heart out and keep it as a souvenir. I promise."

"I told you to never cut my calls," the whiskey voice rolled off, the tone harsh, intimidating.

hehehe

"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."

In that moment, the enemy had done what no one had ever even tried to do for her. He had made her feel a little less lonely.

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."

It was basic, primitive, carnal. It was heated, wild, insane. But it was making her scream against his hand and see stars behind her closed eyelids.

She saw the text, and her stomach dropped, her heart pounding. Tristan Caine: Apparently, you're not out of my system, Ms. Vitalio.

The unpredictable. And it scared her. Because she had no idea if he would kill her or protect her in his next breath.

"Don't you know not to run away from predators, sweetheart? We like the hunt."

“Next time, I’m going to see how loud you can scream, Ms. Vitalio. I’m going to make you so sore you won’t know if it’s from the screaming or the fucking.”

She was in awe because watching him, right at that moment, she understood exactly who he was. The Predator. Always the hunter, never the hunted. He could not be hunted. He could not be tamed. He could not be destroyed. That kind of unbreakable aura was so, so tempting to her.

“How do you like to be fucked, Ms. Summers?”

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

“Don’t. Ever. Try. To. Fucking. Control. Me.”

“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.”

“Tell me, damn you! Tell me why you want to kill me. Tell me why you didn’t when you could have. Tell me why you’re so bothered with hurting me when you promise me my death with every word that you speak. Tell me!”

Me: Yes, you did. It’s a good thing I’m not into gentlemen. Gentlemen can’t handle me. Tristan Caine: I don’t think anyone can handle you. Not if you don’t want to be handled.

As of tonight, her life was his. He’d given up everything so she could live. Her life was his.

“You hate me, loathe me, for something I never did. While I can understand that — I completely understand it — I cannot live with it. Not knowing that I was innocent,” she sucked in another breath. “But you did save me, and my conscience won’t allow me to move on without giving you a chance for closure.”

So, point that gun at me one more time and aim for my heart. Shoot me. Find your closure. Find what you’ve been looking for, for twenty years.”

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.