The Reaper (Dark Verse, #2)

by RuNyx

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” - Pablo Neruda

He would be her ruin. And she would ruin him right back.

I just blew up a car and killed two men in cold blood.

Where are you?

This is not amusing, Ms. Vitalio. Where are you?

I swear to god… WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

“She comes with me.”

She felt ravaged. On the inside. On the outside. And he’d not even touched her.

God, how had this even happened? He’d not even touched her, not made a sound, and yet she’d been dripping wet. It frightened her. It thrilled her. It enlivened her. He enlivened her.

She became aware of her body still on the stool, of her legs spread apart to accommodate his form between them. She became aware of his entire torso pressed deliberately to hers, so she could feel every single breath he took acutely against herself, so she could match his even rhythm and calm her thundering heart. She became aware of one of his big hands holding both of hers behind her back by the wrists, the grip tight but not painful, the angle pressing her chest deeper into his. A huge shiver wracked her frame. Fingers flexed on her neck. The awareness of that large, rough hand wrapped around her throat dawned upon her. And she didn’t feel threatened. For the first time, even though she’d seen him crush people with that hand at the same spot, as she looked up into those ardent eyes, she didn’t feel threatened. She felt protected. Safe. Untouchable. It was a novelty and for that one moment of weakness, she let herself revel in it.

He stilled, his eyes flaring with something primal, and her heart started to pound, her chest heaving against his, their gazes locked. Without a word, he firmed his grip. Something inside her calmed. She knew she wasn’t this needy person. She never needed anybody. But in that second, something deep inside her recognized that she needed him to not move. Not from between her legs, not from against her, not from anywhere. Not until she completely came back to herself. And at that moment, she let the gratitude for what he was doing wash over her. He didn’t have to do a thing. Not a thing. He could’ve let her drown and let her fade for however long inside her head. She would have eventually clawed her way out, perhaps worse for the wear, perhaps with mental scars that would’ve lingered for a very long time. He could have let it happen. But he didn’t. He’d jumped right into her tempest, caught her, pulled her, and remained there, anchoring her. And for someone who’d never relied on anyone but herself, there was something so profoundly liberating about it, something so, so acute it made her heart squeeze in her chest.

“You don’t owe these people a thing.”

“And I sure as fuck don’t. Don’t let them control you.”

And then he did the craziest thing. He took her hand and helped her up the first set of stairs. As though she was some medieval damsel in distress needing assistance to climb high stairs with a gazillion skirts and not a twenty-first-century woman wearing comfortable jeans and comfortable shoes, being very capable of climbing the low steps on her own. Morana felt her eyebrows hit her hairline. Tristan Caine did not open doors or help ladies up the stairs. At least, he never had until then. His hand—exactly as she’d known it would be, rough, big, consuming—held hers, as though replacing any other touch. Just for a second. The gesture was just a split second long before he snatched his hand back, shoving it into his trouser pockets. Morana didn’t say a word, just bit her lip and silently, quickly climbed up, finally entering the jet. A thrill went through her.

Any other woman would have been running for the hills by now. Honestly, I don’t know what I would have done had you run. Because he would have chased you, you know.”

“I will tell you this—I don’t want to fix him. I want to fix me. And he’s the only thing that seems to be working.”

“His demons dance with mine,”

she murmured softly, the truth of that statement seeping into her pores.

“That’s all I can g...

He wanted her alive. He wanted her with him. He wanted her. Period.

Her demons danced with his. She’d let his lead and follow accordingly.

His presence, hell the mere knowledge of his existence, gave her more comfort than anything in her life had.

It was a statement loud and clear. She was his.

She craved it. She craved those fingers inside her, moving as his lips kissed her neck and his scent filled her nose and his breaths deepened in her ears. She wanted her senses to be filled by him. She ached for it. And he read all that in her eyes, saw the naked desire painting her eyes. His fingers tightened infinitesimally on her skin. Just a few inches. Just a little. Her chest heaved. His hand flexed. She shivered. His jaw tightened.

Were you wet?

You'll never find out.

Yes, I will.

I can see the lake from my window.

I can see your window from mine.

Fuck yes, he was hers. For however long, damaged and asshole-d, and however he was, he was hers. And good luck to anyone who tried to come between that.

not looking back at the woman who had poured gasoline over what had only been a small spark. It was a blaze now, a blaze which wanted to destroy. Him. She would destroy him for anyone else.

My vagina just became off-limits to you.

?

Not that it matters. Your regular would be more than happy to welcome you in her bed, I’m sure.

Jealous?

God, he had to be the stupidest man on the face of the earth. One did not ask a woman who was jealous as hell if she was jealous. Just no.

I’ll ask you the same after I find myself a hot stud from the buffet in this mansion.

this wasn’t a big deal at all. Nope. No big deal. Tristan Caine changing years of seating arrangements and sitting beside her in front of everyone—no big deal.

she almost dropped her spoon when a hand went under the slit of her dress, holding her inner thigh like it had every right to. She knew what he was doing. He was testing her. Morana relaxed her body, closing her thighs hard, trapping his hand between them, just inches from her throbbing core. He flexed his fingers, the movement sending sensation coursing like an arrow to her center. She didn’t open her legs or give his hand room to move. He gripped one of her thighs hard, his fingers prying her legs loose enough to get his hand out. Morana felt the loss ghosting over her skin, knew from the warmth that the imprint of that hand would be darkening the flesh inside her leg. It thrilled her, the knowledge of his having been there, the proof of it marked on her skin, so close. She was wet.

Maroni looked around the table, his eyes coming to rest on Tristan Caine. “And nobody will touch her.” The hand on her thigh returned. This time, she let it stay.

Her blood boiled. She moved to get up when the hand on her thigh tightened, keeping her in place, telling her to be calm. For the first time through dinner, she looked at him, her anger at everything bubbling over. But the storm she saw in his eyes made her pause. His eyes, those magnificent blue eyes, were trained on Lorenzo Maroni and screamed so much death it sent chills down her spine. She realized she could never hate Maroni as much as this man hated him. And that soothed her.

Morana had never experienced it—the way a touch could anchor her.

his touch, not sexual, not sensual, simply a touch, was grounding. It made her realize how hungry she had been for this sensation all her life, how much her skin had craved contact with another and never had it, how much she had desired his normal touch. Just the weight of his hand on her flesh made her feel light, lighter than before.

Before she could blink, she was pressed against the mirror, her head pulled back with his hand in her hair. Their eyes collided in the mirror, his breath on her neck, warm, soft. His chest pressed against her back, expanding with every breath he took, syncing her own breathing to match. Her heart started to hammer, blood rushing under her skin, her entire being thrilled at making him snap, at making him react.

“Look at all the dishes you want, wildcat,”

whiskey and sin poured down her ear and drippe...

“but the only dish filling you up is...

Morana fought back a moan at the way his teeth grazed her ear, h...

“I don’t ...

His hand tugged her head a bit, his nose...