The Reaper (Dark Verse 2)

His jaw trembled again, everything he was feeling in his heart naked in his eyes, and Morana softly pressed her lips to his, accepting every word that hovered on them but couldn’t make it out. He wasn’t there yet. She didn’t know if he would ever be there. But she knew. And that was enough for her.

“Have you ever been made love to, Mr. Caine?” she asked him softly, knowing she would have to lead him. He wasn’t strong at processing emotions, never had to be, and her mere existence in his life was forcing him to slowly confront so much he had buried for so long. Expecting him to understand emotional nuances and express them would be wrong. The damage to his psyche might be something he never recovered from. Morana knew that. And she would be there for him, every step of the way like he was for her with his little touches that anchored her in moments of doubt, with his little chocolates she found throughout the day that warmed her heart, with his little looks at her when he thought she wasn’t aware.

“No,” he answered, swallowing.

“Then, allow me,” she whispered, slowly pressing her mouth against his, taking a hold of his lower lip between her teeth and tugging at it. His hands speared into her hair, holding her face in place as he kissed her, pouring everything he felt into that one kiss. Their lips met, tongues tangled and parted. Her oiled hands slid down his chest to rest on his racing heart, feeling the strong beat under her palm.

She pulled back, looking him right in those blue eyes and telling him the words he should have been told a long time ago.

“I’m in so love with you, caveman.”

She saw his eyes flare slightly, his hand coming to rest around her neck, gripping her firmly. “You can’t take that back,” he warned her fiercely.

Morana shook her head, not breaking their gaze. Taking out his cock from his boxers, she pushed her panties to the side and rose on her knees, letting his tip enter her folds. Even though she wasn’t as wet as she should’ve been, this moment wasn’t about the sex. It was about more. It was about acceptance.

She took him inside her, her mouth opening slightly as her walls clenched and unclenched to accommodate him, burning slightly, her eyes never once moving from his. His hand squeezed her neck slightly, holding her even as he held on to her.

“I’m not going to take it back,” she told him, her bre

athing heavy as he seated himself inside her completely.

“I mean it, Morana,” he threatened her, his eyes so alive she felt buzzed. “You cannot take it back. Do you understand me?”

“I won’t,” she reassured him.

He moved her ass, the position placing him so deep inside her she couldn’t stop her breath from rushing out. Hip to hip, chest to chest, heart to heart. The hand on her neck never moved. Neither did his eyes.

“Tell me again,” he demanded, jerking her again.

Morana looked into his gaze, seeing the lost boy and the lovable man, both of whom he kept hidden from the world, and told him. “I’m in love with you, Tristan Caine. I don’t expect you to say it back. I don’t need you to. I just need you to keep on loving me.”

He pressed his forehead to hers as she rotated her hips slowly over him, their bodies, their beings, their minds so connected in that moment they were the same.

The night continued, and he showed her everything he felt that he couldn’t say.

Morana looked at the man sleeping beside her in the hotel bed in the soft morning light, soft snores coming out of his mouth, his entire frame so relaxed no one could imagine the turmoil that lived under his skin. She knew their journey forward wasn’t going to be easy. He was never going to be completely emotionally okay. The trauma he had gone through, most of which she didn’t even know about, would manifest itself in different ways through their lives.

But she also knew he loved her.

He wouldn’t have come to her last night otherwise. He wouldn’t have sought her out over and over as he had. He wouldn’t have felt the need to keep her safe with himself as he did.

He loved her, and he would probably never be able to tell her so.

And she was surprisingly okay with that.

She’d rather he look at her the way he did for the rest of their lives. She’d rather he cook for her the way he did every morning. She’d rather he hold her neck like he did when she was old and grey.

He had given her a home, somewhere she belonged, just as she was. Be it his penthouse or the cottage or this hotel room, he was her anchor. She was never going to be alone again.

Dropping a little kiss on his bicep, she frowned at the tattoo, seeing the skull closely. It was the exact same skull, with the same design, as she’d seen on Maroni’s ring.

“Tristan,” she mumbled, patting his abs absently.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his voice roughened from sleep.

“What does this skull mean?” she asked, pointing to his arm.

She saw him blink his blue eyes open, slowly getting alert. “It’s an Outfit thing. Most soldiers get this when they’re taken into the fold. Why?”