And the monster reared its ugly head.
“No.”
She didn’t recognize her voice, didn’t recognize the desperation in it, the guttural need 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.
The sound of a throat clearing pulled her out of her thoughts.
Morana turned her head to the side towards the sound, blinking as she found Dante standing there, a glass of water in his hand, his face completely neutral.
Oh fuck.
Flushing to the roots, Morana squirmed on the stool, her ass numb from sitting there too long, being in a position as she was before anyone else making her slightly uncomfortable. She tugged her hands out of the firm grasp, feeling the callouses slide against her softer skin, and reached for the water.
Tristan Caine stepped away, his hands leaving her completely even as the warmth of his fingers lingered, imprinted around her throat in flesh memory. She focused on that imprint, focused on that warmth to keep her rooted.
Gulping large sips of water down her suddenly parched throat, Morana finally took in a deep breath after finishing the glass and centered herself.
“Thank you,” she murmured to Dante, returning the glass to him, wiping her palms on her shorts.
He gave her a nod, his eyes slightly concerned. “Are you alright now?”
Morana nodded back, touched by his concern. “I am now. What… what happened?” she asked, looking from one man to the other.
Tristan Caine - wordlessly, as was his style these days - walked around the island into the kitchen, dressed in dark cargo pants that hugged his fine ass and a plain navy t-shirt that clung to his torso, emphasizing his large shoulders and biceps. He was dressed casually, not like he was planning on going out anywhere soon.
And if she could notice all that, she was definitely feeling more like herself.
She saw him move around in the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a small bar of something.
“You had a panic attack,” Dante’s even voice made her swivel in her seat, surprise filling her.
“I don’t get panic attacks!” she retorted, the idea completely foreign to her.
Dante shrugged offhandedly. “There’s always a first time. Your mind’s been through a lot these last few days. It was only a matter of time.”
Morana sputtered, blinking as she remembered the blackness, the weight on her chest, the inability to draw in a breath, and realized that she had, in fact, had a panic attack, a massive one at that. And that Tristan Caine had, in fact, saved her from her own head.
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.