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

And along with the heaviness in her chest came another epiphany—the car was his territory too. Or else that pendant would never have hung there, so exposed, so pretty, so vulnerable. Its very existence in the car told her it was very, very private. And she realized – just like he’d done at his penthouse that first night of the rain when he’d decreed she would stay at his apartment rather than leave with Dante – he’d let her into his territory. Again. Even after making a choice she could not even begin to fathom.

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

Tristan Caine: Where are you? (Received 4.34 PM) Tristan Caine: This is not amusing, Ms. Vitalio. Where are you? (Received 5.00 PM) Tristan Caine: I swear to god… WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? (Received 5.28 PM)

“She comes with me.” Four words. Soft. Guttural. Irrefutable.

“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?”

It still sank its fangs into her, drawing from her until the pressure on her chest felt explosive, as though she was going to snap and shatter into a million pieces, never to be put together again, those pieces of her lost forever to the inside of her own mind, to the ugliness, the blackness, the void trying to consume her like a black hole.

Something slid along the countertop towards her, distracting her. Morana looked at the bar of chocolate, her eyes flying towards the man extending it towards her, stunned. He was giving her chocolate. Like it was nothing. Just sliding a bar of chocolate over to her before walking away. She remembered reading in some magazine about men giving women chocolates. Men who wanted to sleep with said women. He was doing it in reverse.

She did remember, though, being alone and scared as a child, remembered the days her chest would ache. No one had given her chocolates back then. No one had held her up. No one had done anything for her. And yet, now she’d had a panic attack, and this man, of all people, had given her chocolate. To comfort her. In his own way.

With a large hand on her jaw and fearless blue eyes holding hers, again, that moment transcended, transformed. “You don’t owe these people a thing.” Low. Rough. Gritty. Tugging at something inside her. “And I sure as fuck don’t. Don’t let them control you.” Morana swallowed. A vein popped on the side of his thick neck. “You want to go to Tenebrae?” he asked softly, his whiskey voice deceptively quiet. ‘With me’, remained unsaid but not unheard. Morana inhaled deeply, her mind clear of everything but her own desires. She nodded. “Then that’s that.” He let her face go, leaning back, and looked over at Dante. Morana took in a shaky breath and glanced at the other man as well, who stood to the side, watching her with a slight smile on his face. Morana blinked in confusion at the smile, not understanding. Dante inclined his head, taking out his phone from his jacket pocket. “Then that’s that. Let me make some calls.”

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.

“His demons dance with mine,” she murmured softly, the truth of that statement seeping into her pores. “That’s all I can give you.” She found the other man regarding her with a heavy gaze. “And if your demons take you like they did this morning?” he asked quietly. Morana swallowed. “Let’s hope his find mine, then.”

“He’s a lot more stubborn, Morana.” “So am I.” Dante smirked, sipping the whiskey. “This will be fun.”

“He fears Tristan because Tristan is a wild card. He does what he does, even living under the great Lorenzo Maroni’s eye. Every time Tristan disregards my father, it’s a very public slap on his face. And he fears what Tristan would do if he left his watch. He’s already an unknown. My father fears he’d become truly rogue if he left and took away what he prizes most.”

“What did you want to be?” the question slipped out of her before she could stop herself. She waited as Dante looked up at her, his tie loose around his neck, hair disheveled. He laughed, the sound not reaching his dark eyes. “Truly?” Morana nodded, curious. “A sculptor.”

“Touch her without permission again,” Tristan Caine stated so quietly the impact hit her harder, that voice of whiskey and sin sending shivers of a completely different kind over her spine, “and I will break you.”

Morana looked his scarred left hand and the knife that sat on it, stunned. Hesitant, not understanding what and why he was doing, she took the knife. “Why?” The man whispered. “You’re with vultures now. They feed off the dead.”

Years of practice coming in handy, Morana kept her composure, not even allowing her fingers to curl into her palms, and smiled at the other woman. “Fucked. Past tense, Mrs. Mancini. But I’m the present and the foreseeable future.” Chiara’s smile faltered. “He will come back to me.” “Maybe,” Morana shrugged. And then she leaned in closer. “Or maybe, I will destroy him for anyone else.”