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“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.
“He will never let you be, Morana. You both are bound together by things I don’t even think both of you understand. However, the question is do you want him to let you be?”
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,
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She felt something unfamiliar lodge itself in her chest. Except for the fact that this time, the unfamiliar wasn’t an ugly monster that left her cold. No. This time, it was beautiful, almost tentative, and it warmed her down to her bones.
“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 give you.”
“And if your demons take you like they did this morning?” he asked quietly. Morana swallowed. “Let’s hope his find mine, then.”
Her demons danced with his. She’d let his lead and follow accordingly.
It wasn’t lost on her what he was doing. It was a statement to all the men in the room, to the woman who had tried to claim him, and to Morana herself. It was a statement loud and clear. She was his.
Morana realized, watching that little building in the distance, that she'd been wrong. She wasn't alone. Not anymore.
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.
Morana: My vagina just became off-limits to you. His reply came almost immediately. Tristan: ?
“Look at all the dishes you want, wildcat,” whiskey and sin poured down her ear and dripped into her body, “but the only dish filling you up is right here.”
Morana fought back a moan at the way his teeth grazed her ear, his eyes hot on hers. “I don’t share.” His hand tugged her head a bit, his nose inhaling her. “Neither do I.”
“They can hear us,” she reminded him. “Let them,” he stated, his nose running along her neck. “Let them also listen to what I’m going to do to anyone who touches you.”
“And what if I want them to touch me?” she asked the same question she’d asked Maroni. His lips twitched, his hand pressing her closer to his body. “You won’t.” “How do you know?” “Because,” he leaned into her neck, his lips ghosting over her skin as he spoke, “you come alive only for me.”
And for the first time since she had known him, she saw a smile crack his face. It was small, just a little curve of lips, but it was genuine and it was there. And it tilted her world on its axis because he had a dimple.
He. Had. A. Fucking. Dimple.
Despite being in the enemy city in the enemy's house full of hostile strangers, a small bubble of happiness nestled its way inside her heart. Her life, in many ways, was better than what it had been weeks ago. She had found a true friend in Amara and a protector in Dante. And she had found, under all the madness and chaos, Tristan.
He was Tristan now. Her Tristan.
Every word of his hammered onto her heart, cracking it open slowly, until it split in two and let him in. She could not remember, not once in her life, anyone standing up for her.
She had lived alone, never, ever thinking someday, someone would storm into her father’s office, fearless, hurt him, threaten him, all for her. And he had.
Even before she had asked him to make a choice, he already had. Even before he knew that she knew, he had wanted to protect her. Even before she had exposed herself to him the way she had, he had wanted her.
“You,” she whispered to the space between them, “Tristan Caine, are a beautiful, beautiful man. And my heart beats for you.”
“Give them hell,” he whispered to her. She smiled. He stared at her smile for a long, long minute, his magnificent eyes glued to her mouth. And the most beautiful, precious thing happened. His cold, aloof eyes warmed.
She'd fallen asleep on him like the little koala she was becoming with him. She couldn't believe she actually fell asleep, not around him, but on him.
The man holding her was darkness. He was comfortable in the dark, one with the dark, owned the dark. And as long as he held her the way he did, safe in his arms, that dark was hers. It belonged to her. She was comfortable in it, safe in it, one with it.
"As much as I enjoy these animal noises, you can speak, you know."
And yet, in that moment, when he took care of her little cut like it was a long gash, something deep inside her, the part of her that she was still holding on to, was given, released, handed over, to him.
“They will die a thousand deaths,” he murmured, almost gently as his thumb traced the line of her jaw, “before they ever touch a single hair on your head again.”
Tristan. Who had been silent the entire night until his vow to her. She was in the inner lair of the biggest predator of them all, her jugular exposed to him as she breathed on his neck, in her most vulnerable state. She had bled and he had licked her wounds clean. She had almost tasted death and he had breathed life back into her. And she realized she’d never, not once in her life, felt safer. For the first time in her life, she felt home.
In the bed of Tristan Caine. In the arms of Tristan Caine. And yet, she couldn’t think of anywhere else to be.
In the arms of the most dangerous man she knew, she felt the safest she had ever been.
Tristan 'The Predator' Caine snored like a baby.
“You made me a promise last night in the dark,” she murmured softly, knowing she had his full attention. “I’m making you one now.” Brushing her thumb over the line of his jaw, feeling the scruff rasping against it, she vowed, repeating his own words. “Never again. You’ll never be alone again. No matter how bad the nightmare gets, I’m going to be right here.”
“I’ve tasted you now, Ms. Vitalio,” he whispered, his gaze locked on hers. “You can’t escape me now.” “You don’t scare me anymore, Mr. Caine,” she replied, her voice breathy.
“Calm down, caveman. You’re being an asshole.”
“What I feel isn’t jealousy, wildcat.” His lips slid down the side of her neck, kissing the skin like he never had before. “It’s knowing you’re mine and knowing I still have to share you with people. It’s a burn in my chest. It makes me want to put you over my shoulder, take you to a cave, and fuck you until you forget everything but how I feel inside you.”
“Because deep down, Mr. Predator, you’re a good man who has been waiting all his life to be able to share with someone. You just need to trust in this connection, trust in me enough.”
She was his Achilles’ heel. She was his kryptonite.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me, caveman?” Morana asked, calling him by the nickname she’d taken to using on him, one she knew he really liked in that lizard part of his brain.
Morana looked good. She knew she looked good. But the way his eyes roved over her with that territorial possession? It made her feel good.
“If you burned as I burn with the need to claim you. That I wasn’t alone in the fire.”
“I don’t just burn with you, Tristan,” she said, her voice shaking. “I burn for you. And I don’t know what I have to do to prove it.” He groaned, his eyes closing. “Fuck, Morana.”
“I just, I really like you Tristan Caine, as messed up as you are.” One of his hands settled on her hips, the other coming up to her neck. “My loyalty is not a luxury for you, Morana. It’s a gift and it’s yours. You never have to walk into a room and question that.”
He stared at her for a long moment, the admiration in his eyes unmistakable. “Fuck.” Morana stroked his head, running her nails over his scalp. “I know my smartness turns you on.” “It does.”
“I think about a lot of different things now but don’t mistake me for someone soft, Morana. Whispered words in the shadows aren’t who I am. I’m still a monster.”
“When I was young and alone in my room at night, with a father who didn’t like my existence and no mother and no friends, just my overactive imagination and my brain, you know what I used to think about?” she murmured, never breaking their locked gaze. “When one of my father’s guards sneaked into my room and I had to fight him off—” his hand tightened on her neck in reaction but she continued, “—wallowing in my loneliness and self-pity, you know what I would dream about?” He waited for her answer, never moving those intense blue eyes from hers. “A monster,” she whispered between their lips.
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Morana glanced up at him, her heart softening at how much respect he had for her intellect. It wasn’t something she’d expected but the more he told her little things like this, with no pretense or guile, the more she felt herself bloom on the inside.
