14
I can’t get used to it — to a girl trying so hardnotto be amenable. A girl so willing to defy me. A girl who gets under my fucking skin like a custom-made knife.
I can’tmakeher do anything.
The only thing she seems to care about is seeing her family. So even though I told her that she could see them whenever she wants, I don’t keep my word.
It’s the only thing I have against her. A single shred of power. There’s other shit too. Like keeping Rhaegar at the business condo. And making sure she can’t make friends with my cook.
I do it to punish her. She’s defiant. Impetuous. And frankly, too fucking stubborn for her own good.
I leave the apartment before she wakes up and get back after she goes to bed. All to avoid any sort of contact with her. I know exactly what she’ll do if she sees me. She’ll provoke me into some sort of response. And like a goddamn fool, I’ll take the bait. Every. Single. Time.
On the first night, I came back to the apartment to her sleeping on the couch in the faint glow of the flatscreen. And fuck. I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch.
She was so quiet in that moment. So soft. That fiery gaze gone, replaced by peacefully closed eyes, the darkest brown lashes spilling over blushed cheeks. Her long hair was loose, fanning her shoulders. And she was still wearing those fucking sleep shorts that exposed every inch of her legs.
Stunning.
So fucking stunning that it took effort to switch off the screen and walk away.
It’s time to admit it: I have a problem. A serious problem. And ignoring it won’t make it go away. If I were to ask my father for advice, I know exactly what he’ll say. What he’s been saying for five years.Kill the girl.
And he’s right. When I look at the little Morozov, I can’t deny that she’s a sharp thorn in my flesh. A colossal inconvenience. I should bleed her father dry and then kill her in front of him to really make it hurt. But somehow, the thought of her dead body makes my gut wrench.
I give it a week.
All that fiery defiance should be thoroughly doused by then. She’ll be quiet. Won’t talk back or look at me with that fucking annoying spark of hatred in her eyes. Gone. It will all be gone.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
When I get back home, the apartment’s empty. My room is a fucking mess. My closet doors open, countless shirts ripped up on the floor. I should have known. The whole time, instead of taming the brat, I was only pushing her to more extremes.
Like getting a hold of my gun.
Aiming it at me.
And fucking shooting.
I feel the bullet before I see it. A searing pain rips through my side, and I pause for a second.
The brat actually took the fucking shot.
And if she was a little more sober, maybe that bullet wouldn’t have just grazed me. Maybe it would have lodged itself into my fucking heart. Or my head. A visceral rage fills my veins.
Freya’s eyes go wide as she focuses on the blood blooming through my white shirt. Her lips part in shock, and her hands falls to her sides, her hold on the gun loose.
For the first time, I see it.
Fear.
She’s terrified.
But not of me. Of herself. Of what she’s capable of doing.
I lunge forward and snatch the gun from her hold, ignoring the hissing pain that shoots up my side. I aim the gun at her, but she’s too dazed to notice.
“I told you,” I say, my voice low, “to put the fucking gun down.”
Freya doesn’t even seem to register what I’m saying. She’s in a semi-drunk trance, her glossy eyes still fixed on my abdomen. “You’re bleeding.”
I grit my teeth. “Get on your knees.”
Her brows furrow as they fixate on the blood soaking my shirt.
“Get on your fucking knees!”
She swallows and obeys, slowly lowering to her knees. I stalk closer, hovering the gun just in front of her forehead as she kneels in front of me, looking up at me. Blood roars to the surface of my skin.
“Is this what you want?” I ask her. “You want to feel something?”
Her hazel eyes are big and soft as she stares up at me. “You’re bleeding.”
She could’ve killed me — should be scared that I could kill her now, and she’s worried that I’m bleeding? This fucking girl.
She blinks as I drag the gun from her forehead down the bridge of her nose, drawing a line with it straight down the center of her face. From her chin to the curve of her neck and throat, which bobs at the touch. From her collarbone down to the sweet dip of her breasts. Blood rushes to my groin.
I drag the gun all the way up, until I get back to her chin.
And then I pop her lip down with my thumb and slot the gun into her mouth.
Her pupils dilate. I can’t tell if she’s scared or aroused. The safety’s not on, and this is fucked. One slip of my hand and her head will be blown to bits.
But I can’t deny it — I like her this way. Kneeled in front of me with her hands behind her back, looking up at me with her pretty mouth stretched around the barrel of my gun.
I imagine her mouth filled with my cock, instead, and lust ricochets through my veins. She’s everything I should avoid. Temptation. Rebellion. Sin. But somehow, I can’t pull away.
My gaze falls to the Morozov necklace around her throat and the heart shaped locket.
I go to touch the locket with my free hand, but her brows cross, anger blazing through her hazel eyes as she makes a gargled growl of protest and wrenches away, not caring that the inside of her mouth bruises against the gun.
Pulling my hand away, I get the message. The locket is off bounds.
I settle my palm on the side of her throat instead. I can feel her heartbeat flutter inside the soft skin of her neck like a caged dove.
I want to kill it. Kill this morbid fascination I have with her. She’s only meant to be a vessel for my revenge. Nothing more.
I shove the barrel of the gun further down her throat. She takes it. Without protest.
Tears collect at the ends of her eyes as she stares up at me, before streaming down her cheeks. Not with fear -— never fear with her. Mostly frustration. Maybe pain.
And suddenly, the thought of her face being destroyed slams into my chest. Losing that violent fire in her eyes, the wrinkle of her nose, her full lips not contorting into some semblance of deep hatred.
I pull out the gun, disgusted at myself for not being able to do it.
The girl tried to kill me, but I can’t even stand the slightest look of pain in her eyes.
She clenches her jaw and looks away, but I grip her chin, forcing her to keep her gaze on me. “Neverdo that again, do you understand?”
Still now, with tears streaming down her face, her gaze is stubborn. “Fuck you.”
I scoff, letting go of her chin more roughly than necessary. It’s never simple with her. I can never just tell her what to do. There always has to be a threat attached, and even then, she’s only slightly governable.
Freya rises to her feet and crawls into my bed, tucking herself under the covers before turning her back to me.
I clamp down on my jaw. “If I die, and there will be a turf war. Your father’s hold on his territories has become weak. Tensions are high. They’ve been high for years.” I pause. “You kill me—”
I’m expecting some sort of reaction from her, at my acknowledgement that she was maddeningly close to actually killing me, but I don’t get anything. She doesn’t move a muscle. And her hands are above the blanket, like the pain is kicking in.
“And your entire family is dead.”
Her breathing stops for a second, and I know I’ve hit my mark. It’s not a threat. It’s a certainty. And she knows it.
Before I can do anything I’ll regret, I walk out of the room.
Downstairs, Luca is pacing back and forth like a fucking idiot. When he finally catches sight of me, his gaze rolls down to the blood soaking my shirt. “What the fuck?”
“It’s fine,” I mutter, “Just a scratch.”
His face twists. “That much blood? Don’t fuck around, man. You need stitches.”
I clench my jaw. “Get out.”
I walk to the kitchen, reaching for a bottle from the top shelf only to find an empty space. That little heathen took my favorite bottle of whiskey.
Gritting my teeth, I pull out a different bottle, not even bothering to take out a glass. I’m going to drink myself into a fucking stupor. If I bleed out, so fucking be it.
Across the room, Luca gives me a pointed look. “Do you even know whose blood you spilled down there?”
I don’t say anything, because yes. I do know. I just don’t care. A blinding red haze took over as soon as I saw him shove his hand up my fiancée’s skirt.
“Fucking hell,” Luca curses, “You don’t know, do you? Of course you don’t.I’mthe one who had to clean up. I’m always the one who has to—”
“Mancini’s son,” I cut him off. I recognised that little fucker the moment I set foot in the bar.
“Dante fucking Mancini, man,” Luca mutters, pacing the floor. “It’sfamigliafirst. Did you stop for a moment and think about what this might mean for us?”
Henry Mancini is one of my better allies. I’m not a fan of the man, but he has connections. Connections that make running this circus a little easier. And now I’ve killed his son.
“I knew the fucking risk,” I say.
“And you took it anyway. For her.”
Taking a swig from the bottle, I ignore the dig, glancing back at him. “Why was Dante here?”
He shrugs. “Waiting for you. Apparently he wanted in on the business.”
I swirl the whiskey on my tongue for a second longer. “He couldn’t wait and keep his hands to himself?”
Luca scoffs. “What do you care who touches the Morozov girl? No one hates her more than you.”
“She’s mine,” I say, slowly.
Mine to torture. To hurt. Tobreak.
Lucas gaze is flat. “We both know you aren’t punishing her. You’re punishing yourself. You couldn’t save Sof, Torren. None of us could.”
At the mention of her, anger licks the center of my mind.
“Get out.”
Luca must know he’s crossed a line, because he curses under his breath and stalks out of the apartment.
Fatigue seeping into my bones, I take a seat on my couch, but it smells like her. Sweet wine, black vanilla and raspberry. I don’t know what she’s doing upstairs, and I don’t want to fucking know.
I need a cigarette. No. I need to fuck. I haven’t been inside a woman in weeks.
A few minutes after Luca leaves, I curse and walk out the apartment, pulling on a blazer to hide the blood stain across my abdomen.
My driver doesn’t ask questions. None of the people I hire do. They know better. He pulls in to the club like I ask.
Inside, the heat of the strobe lights soaks into the material of my suit before zoning in on the stage where a few girls are working.
When I walk to my private office upstairs, I make eye contact with one of the girls. I know her name, but I can’t remember it for the life of me. Like always, she follows.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, her voice laced with sex.
I don’t reply. Just sit at my desk and open up my laptop, ignoring the pain that surges across my stomach when I do it.
The girl walks over and drops to her knees, her hands trailing up my legs as she moves to unzip my pants.
I send an errant hand through her hair and tug, but when I look down at my fingers, I frown. Her hair’s the wrong shade of brown. Too dark. She looks up at me with a slight frown. Blue eyes. Too light. No hatred, no defiance, just . . . nothing. Wrong. So fucking wrong.
The word spills from my mouth before I register it.
“Leave.”
Wordlessly, she stands and leaves.
Doesn’t even fight me on it.
Irritation coalesces in my gut. Ilikeobedience. Pliability. Submission. But apparently, it’s not what my dick wants.
No — it wants the one thing that will never want me. The one thing I’ll never allow myself to want. The one thing I can never have.
And with that, I’m thoroughly fucked.
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spoiler for chapter 15 on my instagram @rhianovakauthor and another spoiler on my twitter @rhianovakauthor
you can search “torren and freya” on spotify for the book playlist.
see you next chapter!