Morana
“Morana? Morana?”
She could hear Anton hollering, his footsteps echoing through the foyer and up the stairs. “God damn it, woman, where are you?”
There was no reply given. She waited patiently in the bedroom for him to find her. Only a foolish woman rushed after a man. She lifted her arms in a casual stretch, her fingers drifting lazily through her hair. She was so relaxed, so beautifully spent. It was a wonderful, lazy feeling.
She watched Anton appear at the door in a heated, angry rush; first passing it and then spinning on his heel when he saw her sitting there. “Damn you, Morana, could you not hear me calling you?”
She raised her eyebrow. “Do I look like a puppy?”
He stalked into the room and then froze when he saw the young man on her bed. He grimaced. “Dead?”
She shrug
