"Give me your car keys," he growled.
Morana blinked, her hand automatically going to her clutch before she stopped. "Why?" she asked, slightly suspicious.
"Because your car has a fucking tracker and your father is tracking it here as we speak."
Morana felt her jaw drop, before she got down from the bed, his clothes hanging loosely on her. His eyes never took in the clothes or any other part of her body. He just stood there, all harsh lines and hard angles of a man, his hand held out as he waited for the keys.
Keys to her car.
Swallowing, Morana turned the keys over, her stomach tying i
tself up in knots, biting the urge to ask him what he intended to do with it. Tristan Caine turned away without a word and handed the keys over to Dante.
The other man looked at Morana, his face hard as well, before he nodded at her and left. Morana stood in the doorway, lingering, with no clue of what to do or say as she watched Tristan Caine, in a sharp dark suit that hugged his body, making calls on his phone. He didn't look at her again, not once, just like last night.
She stayed silent for five minutes, a million thoughts running through her head. Could the Outfit be installing a tracker in her car instead? Could they be exploiting this as an opportunity? Could they be using her too?
She shook her head. If the Outfit had wanted to do it, it could have been done while they had gotten her car fixed. And Dante, or he for that matter, had not faked that outrage last night at the sight of her injuries. She could still feel her tender, bruised skin, and pain in her body. It would be a long time before she healed completely.
But why wasn't Tristan Caine in Tenebrae? Last she'd heard, he had to be there.
And she had to get out of there – of the apartment, of the life. She'd had enough. Codes be damned, she had to leave and go someplace far, far away.
But she needed her car. Damn it.
The sound of his phone ringing made her clear her thoughts.
"Yes?" he spoke, crisp, cold, completely unlike the man who'd pinned her against the door and propositioned her.
Morana took a deep breath, realizing that she was sore between the legs too.
"Fuck! Stop him. I'm on my way."
He was out before she could utter a word.
Morana blinked and went to stand beside the window, looking down. She could see tiny, little cars at the end of the road. She could see three other vehicles leave from the building and reach them.
"Morana," Amara's voice came from beside her as the other woman joined her. Morana looked up, surprised she'd missed the woman coming in.
"Amara," she nodded, watching as the woman took note of her injuries, her eyes compassionate.
"I'm sorry."
Morana swallowed, looking back out the window.
"What's happening?" she asked, curious and worried.
Amara took a deep breath. "Your father came looking for you. He tracked your car here."
It hit her at that moment, watching it from the glass wall.
It had been a setup.
She had been a pawn and she'd fallen exactly with the plan.
Her father had been testing her, seeing where she would go. That was why he'd insisted she leave her car behind for dinner, why nobody had been tailing her. She should have suspected something, but her own grief had blinded her. And she had come straight here. To Tristan Caine. To the biker. Fuck.
It hit her at that moment, watching the two sides stop at the road, that she belonged on no side of the line. She belonged nowhere, not with her father and certainly not with the other man who was reputed in the mob for being the predator.