The voice of whiskey and sin carried over from her left. Morana swallowed, but she refused to turn, refused to acknowledge him, clenching her teeth, her hand gripping the clutch and the glass as her eyes stayed glued to the gyrating bodies
.
His eyes came to her. She was aware. But she didn't turn. Slowly sipping the leftover juice, she stood still, aware of his presence beside her, aware that he stood just inches away, all coiled muscles and strength, but not really acknowledging her. And that was absolutely fine.
She should have moved away. She should have put her glass on the counter and walked out the entrance, without a word, without a glance, without anything. But for some unfathomable reason, at that moment, it almost became as wrecking as a staring contest where neither of them blinked first. It became a collision of wills, where moving away, running away, at that moment would've been equivalent to blinking, and she'd be damned if she caved first.
The music wrapped around her, almost ensconcing her in a bubble where nothing but her pounding heart and her racing pulse existed. She kept standing there, mindlessly watching the dancers, her entire body just so aware of the presence beside her, a presence that neither left not moved nor did anything. He was just present and that, for some reason, was enough.
"Morana Vitalio?"
The moment was broken. Closing her eyes as the heaviness lifted, Morana turned to her other side at the feminine voice, to see the woman who'd been sitting next to Tristan Caine looking back at her with the oddest green eyes she had ever seen, the shade something close to a forest at midnight, her curvaceous body gorgeous in that sleek, little dress, her dark curls wild and free on her head. Amara.
"Yes," Morana said, cautious and confused as to why this woman wanted to talk to her.
Something akin to pity filled the woman's green eyes as she looked at her. Before she could utter a word though, her gaze flitted to where Morana knew Tristan Caine stood and she shook her head, pivoting on her heel. Completely confounded by the odd, abrupt meeting, Morana stood there, blinking at where the woman had been. What the hell had that been about?
Without turning around to face him, Morana finished her drink.
And swayed on her feet.
What the hell?
She looked down at her one empty glass of orange juice, frowning, as the lights before her eyes blurred a bit, the world spinning slightly.
Had someone spiked her drink? The weird bartender?
No. No. No. This could not be happening to her. Not here, and not now.
Shaking her head to clear the haze enough to walk, Morana turned towards the entrance. And tried to take a step.
She swayed hard, almost tipping over.
Hands on her arms steadied her from behind, rough hands on her soft skin.
Morana blinked, her tongue swollen, wool in her mouth as the world spun a little more, her knees turning to jelly. Tremors wracked her frame, the music pounding in her skull painfully. Her lids got heavier. Fear pooled in her stomach because if she fell over in this club, she would be dead if someone found her or when her father found out. That kind of cooled the wave of drowsiness sweeping over her, just as those hands turned her around.
Morana blinked up at the blue, blue eyes peering down into her face, the hands holding her arms rough and hard. Suddenly, one hand moved up to grip her chin as he leaned her against the counter of the bar, his eyes focused on hers, holding her focus for one clear second before her lashes drifted down.
"Fuck!"
The growled expletive made her open her eyes and look up at him again, only to stagger under the sheer force of the hatred she could see searing the blue, searing her skin. She had felt him watching her but she'd had no clue how he'd been watching her. Had his eyes been burning with this loathing the entire time? Was that why her skin had tingled?
Her breath hitched in her throat, the realization that nobody had ever hated her as he did dawning upon her. She tried to open her mouth, to ask him why he despised her, where it was rooted, but her lips refused to cooperate.
The hand on her chin jerked her head, bringing her focus back to those blazing eyes, her heart hammering in her chest as her skin turned hotter under his touch, drowsiness battling with unrelenting focus.
"I'm not saving you again," he muttered through clenched teeth, his gaze livid, his other hand pulling out his phone, the bandage wrapped around the palm where he had cut himself on her knife making her stomach twist.
"Dante," he spoke, his voice tight, controlled. "Someone spiked her drink."
Silence as Dante said something. And then. "I'm not going to stick around and play hero. Amara can babysit her while she recovers."
Before Morana could swallow the lump in her throat, hatred burned through her – at the fact that she was at his mercy and his blatant disregard, at the bastard who had spiked her drink, at the situation – he was roughly pushing her towards the VIP area, his hand gripping her arms. She could feel the rage contained in his body, feel herself tremble in the vicinity of that rage. He had never been like this, even the short time that she had known him.
What the hell had happened? What was happening? Her mind muddled even as the heat of his body pushed her forward.
The beautiful woman in the silver dress came forward, concern marring her brows. "What happened?"