The sound of his phone buzzing on the dash cracked through the tensed silence.
Morana glanced towards the phone reflexively.
‘Chiara calling’
A slight frown wrinkled her brows before she could stop it.
Chiara? Who the hell was Chiara? And why would she call at this time of the night?
Turning her head towards the window intently, Morana focused on the raindrops cascading down the glass, at the other vehicles on the mostly-empty road, aware of him rejecting the call. Whether he did that because he was driving or because of her presence or simply because he wasn’t in the mood, she didn’t know.
But a tiny knot in her stomach unfurled, worrying her by its very existence. There shouldn’t have been that knot at all. There shouldn’t have been any reaction to beautifully named women calling him in the dark of the night. She didn’t have the energy for this. This was bad.
Shaking off the thoughts crowding her head, she chose to study his large hand instead as he shifted the gears smoothly, in a way she’d never had the time or inclination to. She took in the huge metallic watch around his strong wrist with a navy dial that looked expensive, the veins that ran at the back of his hand, the sparse dusting of hair that curled right under his sleeve, the long, strong fingers she’d felt inside her intimately. Squirming just slightly, she let her gaze travel lower, looking again at the broken skin over his knuckles, the flesh still tumefied. Though he could’ve easily done that damage last night on the shower wall, it looked freshly bruised.
She opened her mouth to ask him about it, saw the corner of his lips pull down infinitesimally, and shut up.
Not the time. So not the time.
The miles flew by as he drove, weaving the car expertly through the light traffic, and after long, tensed minutes, she saw the familiar gates of his apartment complex, the building rising high into the tempestuous sky, the sea a vision on the far left of the structure.
The two guards at the gates with guns strapped to their hips nodded at him respectfully and he drove down the small driveway to the underground parking. White lights lit the entire space, gleaming on the metal of all the dark vehicles sleeping
there. Morana looked at all the cars and wondered for a moment who all lived in the building apart from him and Dante.
Before she could follow that train of thought, he maneuvered the car into his spot beside his beautiful bike. Morana looked at the dark muscle on it, a longing to ride the thing again echoing in her heart, coming from the treasured memory of that first bike ride, from that first memory of feeling truly free.
Her longing cracked open when she heard the door open and turned to watch him jump out of the car, slamming the door behind him, all before she could even undo her seat belt. She got the sense that he wanted to get away from her and again, while it made her a little mad, she understood. Had she been in his place, she would’ve probably ditched him in the cemetery itself and run away for her precious space. She’d honestly half-expected that from him as well.
And just like in the cemetery, though he reached the private elevators first, he didn’t go up but silently waited for her. Morana quietly opened her door and locked it behind her, letting her hand stroke the seat of the bike once, the cool air of the garage making her wet frame shiver as she made her way on brisk feet to where he stood inside the metal box with his foot beside the doors to keep them from closing.
Surprised by the gesture, she entered as he withdrew, and pressed the code for the penthouse. She watched as the doors slid shut, the mirrors on them reflecting both their drenched forms. Morana stared at the picture they made. While he looked put together, his tall, muscular frame encased in that drenched suit and dripping tie, those abs evident against the white shirt plastered to his torso, she looked like death warmed over. Her clothes were slightly torn from the blast, her light-colored top now an odd shade of brown, streaks of dirt and mud marring the fabric and in places, even her skin. Her hair was matted and tangled, half in the drooping ponytail and half out of it, her cheeks were the only spot of color on her face, her eyes huge and slightly red.
The contrast between their reflections at that moment - his darker skin to her pallor; his clean dark clothes to her dirty light; his tall, broad frame to her small, curvy one; the power radiating from his very being, even in a disheveled condition at a moment when he wasn’t even glancing at her, prickling against her skin - sent a shiver down her spine.
While the thought of having this man’s body against her had merely aroused her until a few days ago - although to a level she’d never understood - it was a chaotic frenzy inside her now. Fascination and lust, compassion and lust, anger and lust, mingled in an ardent concoction she could feel brewing in her stomach, knowing that while now wasn’t the time, she would have him again one day - this time as naked as she would be, this time with his flesh against her, his sweat, his scent, his scars rubbing on her as she marked him with hers.
He would be her ruin. And she would ruin him right back.
But now was not the time.
Taking a deep breath to center herself, to give both him and herself the time to process the events of the last twenty-four hours, she peeked at where he stood, remembering the first time she’d entered this elevator with him. He stood leaning against the back wall, mere feet away from her, scrolling through his phone, not once looking up or making eye contact with her. It was odd, this lack of eye contact between them. And now that he was denying her those magnificent eyes of his, she realized how much she’d come to rely upon them to read him.
She knew that he knew that she was watching him. Yet, he deliberately kept his gaze on his phone.
Blowing out a breath, she started rubbing her arms to warm herself, conscious of the slight pain on her wound, when the doors finally slid open, showing her the majestic view of rain and the city outside those windows she’d come to love so much, that always made her breath catch for a split second.
And, then, angry voices reached her.
One loud, masculine. One soft, feminine.
Reigning in her surprise - both at finding Amara there and hearing Dante sound so unlike himself, Morana stayed glued to the spot and looked at the silent man beside her, seeing him finally put his phone down and concentrate on the two people inside.
“You had no right!” Dante spoke, his voice higher than Morana had ever heard, his anger brimming in every word. “It wasn’t your story to tell.”
“I couldn’t just stand aside and let him destroy himself or her!” Amara retorted, her voice still low and raspy but firm enough to let Morana know she meant business. “I’ve seen him do that for years and I cannot stand it.”
“This isn’t about you, god damn it!” Dante yelled and Morana flinched. “You want to tell someone how you got that scar? Do it. Tell them all. But you don’t get to tell anyone how he got his, Amara! I told you all of that in strict confidence and you betrayed it. You betrayed him. How. The. Fuck. Could. You?”