14. Elena
14
ELENA
L orne knocks on my door at 6:40, early instead of late for a change. When I open the door, he pushes his way into the room, his body tense with nervy energy. He seems irritated when he spots Ivy sitting Japanese-style on a cushion next to the low coffee table, testing out her new watercolors.
“What’s she doing here?”
Ivy stiffens and sets down her brush, biting the edge of her thumbnail instead. Her eyes dart between me and her father.
“I thought she could come eat with us.” I’m wondering why I feel so uncomfortable inviting my fiancé’s own daughter to dinner.
“Where’s Mrs. Cross?” Lorne snaps.
“I have no idea. I took Ivy shopping with me, and we’ve been together ever since. We checked out the shops, visited the park, walked down to the beach…”
I trail off, noting that Lorne doesn’t seem interested in our afternoon activities. He’s pacing the room, not looking at me, barely listening.
When I stop talking, he looks up. “You got new clothes?” He’s finally noticed the outfit I spent an hour putting together.
I had a lot more options than I expected once the rest of the clothes were delivered. My closet and drawers overflow with Atlas’s generosity. I might have tried to refuse, but everything was hung up when I got back to the room, tags already cut off.
“Do you like it?” I turn in a circle so Lorne can get the full effect. “I went to Dapper Dress.”
Lorne’s lips tighten. He barks, “Why did you go there? Did Atlas send you?”
My eyes dart to Ivy’s. Her eyes widen, and she gives the tiniest shake of her head.
I try to swallow through a bone-dry throat. “It’s…the only dress shop on Main Street.”
“Right.” Lorne relaxes slightly. “Atlas’s cousin owns it—that dumpy Vivian woman. Did you meet her?”
I’ve noticed that Lorne uses insulting labels that don’t quite match the person he’s describing. Vivian isn’t dumpy any more than Atlas is ogreish .
“I met her,” I say quietly. “I thought she was pretty.”
Lorne makes a dismissive sound that sets my teeth on edge. “She’s not pretty. You’re pretty.”
I don’t like being complimented at another woman’s expense. And I don’t understand why Lorne’s so wound up. There’s an aggressive edge to everything he says and to the way he strides over to me and picks at my clothes, rubbing the material between his fingers, testing the quality.
“Feels expensive.” He nods his approval. Then lets his hand slip from my shoulder to my left breast, groping a feel. With a smirk, he says, “ Very expensive.”
“Lorne…”
I try to move away from his hand. Ivy’s right there. But he pulls me closer instead, sliding his palm down to my ass and grabbing a rough handful of flesh that almost makes me cry out.
“He likes you, you know,” he hisses in my ear. “Atlas.”
My blood goes cold. Does he know Atlas came to the shop? Does he know about the extra clothes?
“Let go of me, please,” I murmur, hoping Ivy won’t hear.
Instead, Lorne’s other hand snakes up under my hair and grips the back of my neck. Fingers digging in painfully, he accuses, “Are you wearing this dress for him or for me?”
I try to pull away from him, but he only grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head back until tears spring into my eyes. It hurts, but what’s really disturbing me is the hardness of Lorne’s cock digging into my hip. He seems angry and jealous, but also…he’s enjoying this.
His nose nuzzles the side of my neck while the roots of my hair scream. “Answer me.”
“For you!” I gasp out. “Ivy and I dressed up for dinner.”
Ivy’s name seems to remind Lorne that his daughter is in the room, sitting just a few feet away, watching us. She also happens to be wearing a soft gray dress that matches mine, which should make it all the more apparent that neither one of us is trying to lure Atlas.
Lorne straightens, letting go of his handful of ass and loosening his grip on my hair. But he doesn’t release me entirely; his hand falls to the back of my neck and rests there.
“Cute,” he says. “I like when my girls dress up for me.”
That explains why Ivy’s closet is full of a bunch of itchy dresses that are too fancy to play in. I get a bleak view of my own future, closet stuffed with clothes I don’t even like, purchased to please my husband.
But I do like the clothes Atlas sent me. Especially the teal silk gown.
“Don’t you dare wear that for anyone but me…”
A sick mixture of guilt and pleasure squirms in my gut.
Lorne’s right to be jealous.
Atlas likes me.
And I’m afraid I might just feel the same.
Dinner is our first meal together as a family. Lorne spends most of the time talking about his new book, which sounds even creepier than the serial killer thriller I still haven’t finished. I tried to pick it up earlier in the evening while Ivy was sketching, but set it down again immediately, bothered by the interior monologue of the murderer, who sounds a little too much like Lorne.
But that’s probably true for all authors—I mean, they can only write what they know. Of course Lorne’s characters have…certain similarities to him.
I try to draw Ivy into the conversation by asking her yes or no questions, easy stuff like, “Wasn’t that black sand cool down on the beach?” but she won’t even nod, shrinking down in her seat until her pale green eyes barely peek out over the tablecloth.
Lorne acts like she doesn’t exist. Which is strange, considering how effusively he talked about her before. “ She’s my best little buddy, my treasure, my angel…”
The differences between the Lorne I met before and the Lorne I know now are starting to add up, increasing the uncomfortable sensation that I’m sitting across the table from a stranger. One I’m not sure I like nearly as much as the man I met at the café.
When Atlas enters the restaurant, Lorne puts his arm possessively around the back of my chair. A glance passes between them that is much less than friendly.
I don’t dare look at Atlas myself, not with Lorne right here.
The way he behaved upstairs was upsetting. He didn’t hurt me—not in any serious way. But his grip on my ass and my hair was painful. And it made it so much worse that he would do that in front of Ivy.
On the other hand, I shouldn’t be flirting with Atlas. I shouldn’t be looking at him or even thinking about him. I’m engaged. Even if I still don’t have a ring.
And if some part of me wishes it was Atlas I met at that café instead of Lorne, that thought isn’t just disloyal. It’s stupid and dangerous.
The name on my fiancée’s visa is Lorne Ronson. If I don’t marry him, I’ll be sent right back home. Back to my problem. Which is going to become an even bigger problem any day now. So I can’t go back to Lviv. No matter what.
Besides, I like it here in Grimsone. I like Ivy and I like Lorne—when he’s not yanking on my hair or making me feel insecure about…pretty much everything.
Miserably, I stare down at my half-eaten dinner. The schnitzel is crispy and buttery, but I don’t have much appetite.
It’s my fault that things aren’t going well with Lorne. I need to focus on my fiancé and forget about Atlas.
That’s hard to do when he’s standing a few meters away, pretending to monitor the Reinstoff but really keeping watch over our table.
I refuse to look at him all through the rest of dinner, though I can feel his dark eyes burning on my skin.
Strangely, Atlas staring at me seems to have put Lorne in a better mood. Maybe it’s because I kept my eyes fixed demurely on my plate.
After we drop Ivy off at her room, Lorne walks me back to mine.
We pause outside the door with its shiny new lock.
“Atlas wouldn’t give me the key,” Lorne says sourly.
I would never admit the wisp of relief I feel knowing that Atlas and I have the only keys. Plus the maids, I suppose.
“He’s probably worried about liability,” I say vaguely.
Lorne scoffs. “I don’t think so.”
I don’t ask what he means because I really don’t want to talk about anything that has to do with Atlas. I turn the key in the lock. Lorne grabs my arm. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?”
“Of course,” I say, turning obediently and tilting up my lips.
Lorne grabs my chin between his thumb and index finger. He holds my face steady, pinching too hard, cool blue eyes boring into mine.
“Open your mouth.”
I blink in confusion. Then slowly, hesitantly, open my mouth.
Lorne spits in it.
It’s so sudden and shocking, the glob of spit hitting my tongue. It feels acidic, electric. I jerk back, but Lorne holds me pinned.
“Now swallow,” he orders, his eyes coldly opaque, reflecting nothing back at me, not even my own face.
The spit sits on my tongue. The idea of swallowing makes me want to vomit. But he’s obviously not going to let go until I do.
Fighting every reflex, I swallow his saliva. My stomach heaves, but I hold it down.
Lorne smiles. “Good girl.”
My skin is crawling, my stomach rolling. I want to flee into the safety of my room, shut and lock the door. I’m more grateful than ever that Lorne no longer has a key.
But my fiancé still hasn’t let go of my chin. He’s gripping it so tightly, I’m worried there will be twin bruises in the morning, like a pair of butterfly wings.
Softly, he says, “I like how you behaved yourself at dinner. I like how you’re dressed tonight. You look classy and expensive. You look like a real wife and mother.”
Those are all things I want to be—classy, fancy, a good wife, a good mom for Ivy. But somehow, Lorne’s compliments aren’t pleasing me. Actually, they make me feel a low, cold dread, a river running below my thoughts.
Still, I whisper, “Thank you.”
Now Lorne leans closer so his eyes stare into mine from only a few inches away. His handsome face is all I can see, leaner than ever against those soft, pale lips.
I want to feel that feeling I’ve read about so many times, like I’m falling into his eyes, like he’s looking into my soul. But I can’t see anything in Lorne’s eyes, and I can’t even begin to guess his thoughts.
Those blue eyes are flat as glass. With his hair combed smooth and his chin tilted down, he almost looks like a snake.
Especially when his voice hisses out, “My sweet, darling love, don’t forget who brought you here.” His fingers bite into my chin and his eyes hold me pinned, clear, cold, and piercing. “And you were keen to come, weren’t you, Elena? You were in a hurry.”
He knows! He knows! He knows!
Panic yaps in my brain, things that are impossible, things that cannot be.
No one knows. Not yet…
As always happens when I’m most afraid, I go completely still. It’s not really a choice, and thank god it cuts off the noise.
Everything goes quiet, and my perception slows. I see one thing and one thing only: Lorne’s face staring into mine. And in those bright, blue eyes, I notice something. A disturbing blankness. I don’t know how I didn’t see it there before. There’s no light, no warmth. Only the flat, cold gaze of a predator.
Then Lorne blinks and it’s gone, but I saw it there like the sheen of a wolf’s eyes by a campfire. Flickering in and out again like a ghost peeking through his eyes for a moment.
Lorne sees the change in my expression.
His face changes, too, hardening, becoming carved and masklike. In a flat, harsh tone, he says, “You already made your choice, Elena. There’s no going back, you know that.”
He lets go of my chin, but only to seize my left hand. He’s taken something out of his pocket, flipping open a box…
With strange, slow horror, I see the diamond, bigger and more dazzling than my wildest daydream. Nightmare. Daydream.
Lorne forces the ring onto my finger. He’s rougher than he needs to be; it should have slipped on easily.
There’s no speech and no proposal. He already did that weeks ago over the phone. A hundred years ago. Who was that girl who said yes? Who said it happily, eagerly, with excitement? She thought all her dreams were about to come true.
The stone is so heavy it twists the band until the ring hangs down on my hand. I turn it around, feeling nothing between my fingers.
I’m completely numb. I feel nothing, nothing at all.
Except a sensation rushing beneath my feet, down where nobody can see. A river, dark and endless. Whispering under the ground…
Get out, get out, get out.
Lorne hasn’t let go of my hand. His fingers clamp around my wrist like a manacle. I can still taste his spit in my mouth.
Carefully and quietly, I say, “I know who brought me here. I’m very sorry, Lorne, if I’ve done anything to offend you.”
His order is swift and immediate: “I don’t want you talking to Atlas anymore.”
The tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck, but I stand very still. l don’t blink, and I hold my face expressionless.
“No problem.” My lips are numb. Lorne doesn’t seem to notice. “I won’t.”
Lorne leans even closer.
My heart slows and slows.
He presses his lips against the center of my forehead. They’re soft as rotting fruit.
“Good night, my love,” he says, pulling back slowly. His eyes fix unblinkingly on my face.
I pray the tiny smile I force is convincing.
“Good night, my love.”