32
Even those close to me. There is very little worse than the feeling of someone watching you cry. It’s dehumanizing. Debasing.
And yet, when Torren started to clean me up, touching me like I was made of glass — like I was something soft and precious and fragile — I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my cheeks.
I’m never soft. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve like Ana does. I’m the strong one. The bold one. There’s no space for me to be weak. To be anything but bitter and angry and mistrusting.
As if I wasn’t naked enough, he had to strip me to the bone and watch me bleed out in front of him.
And then he left.
I should have known that the softness — the gentle reverence — was only brief and fleeting. It makes me despise it. Or at the very least, despise myself for wanting it from him.
Because even if it was only for a few seconds, I wanted him to stay.
No one has ever held me that way. Touched me that way.
Why did he have to be the first?
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. I wanted it hard and fast. I wanted his hate, and everything that came with it.
Torren Costa’s kindness is jarring enough to make you lose your balance.
I can’t lose my balance.
Because when you lose your balance, you fall.
And I can’t afford to fall.
The morning sun peaks through the tinted windows of his room, casting a soft glow on the sheets. I drag myself out of his bed, everything smelling like his cologne. Like him.
I hate how much I love the scent.
I manoeuvre my limbs off the edge of the bed, wincing. My muscles are used to wear and tear from skating, but there’s still a heavy ache between my legs that magnifies every time I put pressure on my quads.
If I fuck you, you’ll feel it the next day. And the day after that.
I hate to admit it, but the cocky asshole was right. It hurts to walk.
All my things are in the guest bathroom downstairs, so I pull out a shirt from his drawer and button it on before heading downstairs, taking each step one at a time.
When I get to the bathroom, I glance up at my reflection. My hair is tangled, my face is flushed, and my eyes are bright and alert, though puffy from tears.
I don’t recognise myself anymore.
Who am I, anyway?
The girl who dared him to sleep with me walked in with a purpose. She was daring. Brave. The girl who walked out, lost and confused — suspended in disbelief, like she barely made it out alive.
Another glance at the mirrors shows a bruise blooming on my throat.
I can’t believe I let him come inside me. Twice.
Agitated, I reach for my toothbrush, squeezing out a strip of toothpaste on the bristles.
I bite down as the memory of last night washes over me. His skin, his hands, his mouth. I can’t deny that it was good. It was more than good, it was—
Never happening again.
I was the one who initiated it, wanting him out of my system. It backfired. Instead of being flushed out, he’s infiltrated my mind, my bloodstream, every cell in my body.
But what scares me isn’t that it happened. What scares me is the fact that I want it to happen again.
And again.
Panic claws up my throat as I battle the intrusive thoughts. In an act of self-preservation, I shove them aside and focus on the task at hand — brushing my teeth.
When it’s done, I unbutton his shirt and step into shower. I squeeze out an extra dollop of vanilla body wash and spend extra time sponging every inch of my body, but even when I get out and towel myself dry, the scent of his cologne still lingers on my skin.
I grit my teeth, cursing him in my mind.
Stepping into my room, I pair a black Prada bandeau with dark wash jeans and dab concealer under my eyes, and then on my throat as I trying my best to cover up the hickey.
I line my eyes with black pencil and brush mascara on my lashes, ending with lip butter on my lips. My cheeks are so flushed that it looks like I used blush.
When I look in the mirror this time, I look more like myself and less like a fragmented, disarrayed version of me.
Unbidden, my father’s words ring in my mind.
There will be a closed-door meeting between Torren and his most important men.
I’m not included in it. They’re discussing an important deal.
Important enough to be held as leverage.
I have it on good word that it’s all kept in a blue flash drive in his private residence.
Torren’s not here.
And it’s now or never.
Taking a deep breath, I haul out my laptop. Then I walk out the room, grabbing a pool cue from the pool table.
I don’t know when he’ll be back, so I need to work fast.
I scale the stairs as fast as I can. When I enter his office, I stick to the wall. Using the pool cue, I prod the camera away just enough to create a tiny blind spot.
Whoever monitors his cameras won’t pick up the disturbance unless they’re ultra-observant, and if it ever comes down to it, I can just deny knowing anything about it.
I should be able to get away unseen if I stay low. Leaving the pool cue outside, I linger outside the room for a moment, hesitating.
Should I really do this?
Probably not.
But I have to try.
I lower to my hands and knees, ignoring the pain that shoots down my thighs at the position. Laptop cradled in my hold, I crawl over to his desk, slotting myself under it. If I dig around in the desk drawers, it won’t be caught from this angle. Or at least, I can safely presume it won’t.
I check the first drawer, and it’s neatly filled with stationery supplies, like fountain pens, a stapler, paper clips, and tabs. It’s neurotically neat, and I have to keep a mental catalogue of it all, because if I leave things out of place, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll know.
There’s no flash drive.
I check the second drawer. There are just files in color order, and nothing else.
With my heart beating fast, I open the last drawer. My heart sinks.
More files.
Half-relieved, I’m about to give up, when I decide to try again with the first drawer. There’s nothing out of place that’s clearly visible, but when I reach in, picking at the wooden backing at the bottom of the drawer with my fingers, it lifts slightly.
And when I tug it higher, careful not to upset the contents atop the backing, it comes away to reveal a whole new section.
My heart thuds violently in my chest.
Because at the very bottom of the Torren’s drawer lies my Morozov emblem and my lace black glove from all that time ago at the bistro.
Not haphazardly thrown, but neatly set, like he kept it there intentionally and on purpose.
There are two more items: A silver revolver, and a blue flash drive.
I don’t have time to dwell further. Moving fast, I snatch up the flash drive, my hands shaking as I stick it into my laptop.
It’s password protected.
By six numerical digits.
A tired sigh escapes my lips. I’m so close to giving up. In a last-ditch attempt to save the situation, I decide to take a guess.
I enter six numbers. 19 15 06.
The numerical substitution for SOF.
The folder opens.
Just then, there’s the sound of movement on the hardwood floor.
My heart flies out of my chest as I inhale sharply. Swallowing, I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut, mentally preparing some sort of spurious excuse for being caught hiding under his desk, trying to hack into highly confidential software.
There’s the sound of panting next to me, and then the soft, wet feel of a tongue against my cheek. My eyes crack open.
Rhaegar.
Torren keeps him at the business condo sometimes. A guard must have let him in, and he must have followed my scent all the way here.
Rhaegar barks and closes his jaw around my ankle before tugging, as if trying to pull me out of the office. It’s like he’s saying Daddy said we’re not allowed here.
I give him a soft smile, reaching up to scratch the spot behind his ear. “You’re such a good boy.”
Rhaegar preens under the praise, leaning into my touch.
“But I’ve come too far to go back,” I tell him.
He lets out a low grunt of warning but stays at my side. Petting him with my left hand, I place the blue flash drive back into the drawer and make sure nothing’s out of place.
My gaze lingers on my glove and the emblem necklace for a few seconds before I snap out of it and shut the drawer. Tapping my fingers on the empty space on my keyboard, I wait impatiently for the transfer to complete. Every second that passes is another layer of anxiety in my chest.
The progress bar reaches the end and I can feel blood rush to my ears. Making sure I’m entirely under the desk, I point toward the exit and speak to Rhaegar. “You have to leave, and I’ll follow you, okay?”
He turns his head, glancing curiously toward the doorway of the office.
“Yes,” I say softly, motioning with my hand. “Out.”
Listening, Rhaegar trots out the room, settling on his haunches at the doorway as he waits for me patiently. I shut my laptop and then start crawling my way out, elbows brushing against the smooth dark wood floor. Rhaegar tilts his head and barks, trying to figure out what drug I’m on, probably.
When I reach him, a smile touches my lips and I bury my fingers in the fur around his neck. “Well done, Rhaegar!”
He barks in approval, jumping up and attacking me with so much force that I almost fall back.
“Woah,” I laugh, “Watch it.”
Rhaegar gives me some space to stand, and once I?m up, I grab the pool cue. He follows me as I walk downstairs, paws padding rampently behind me.
I fish out a bunch of his dried meat snacks from the kitchen before feeding them to him. I doubt Torren will appreciate me fattening up his guard dog, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve done, considering that I’ve now stolen his confidential information.
Guilt chews at me as I take a seat on a barstool at the kitchen oasis, Rhaegar resting at my feet.
I wasn’t expecting to find the flash drive, forget being able to guess the password.
Who the fuck is Sof, anyway?
It’s not his mother, and he has no sister. Something fiery and green wraps its hands around my throat.
I scoff to myself. Why doesn’t he marry her, if she’s so important to him?
And why do I even care? It shouldn’t mean anything to me.
The guilt dissipates. I exhale, focusing on my laptop screen as I transfer the contents of the folder from my laptop to my own flash drive — a silver one.
And then I pocket it.
Before I can decide against it, I send a text to Ana.
I’m coming over. Need to talk.
It’s a short while before her reply comes.
Don’t, she says. Papa’s in a mood. Is it urgent?
Yes, I type back.
I wonder why Papa’s in a bad mood. Most of the time, when he’s stressed, it has something to do with the Costas. The alliance has been putting a strain on our own businesses for a while.
I focus my gaze back on my phone screen when it lights up. Ana sends me the location of a café in Manhattan and says she’ll meet me there in half an hour.
I pull on ankle socks and a pair of black Nikes. Torren’s suit jacket is hung neatly over one of the dining room chairs. I slip it off the chair and push my arms through the sleeves. The jacket is oversized on me, but paired with my black bandeau, it completes the outfit.
I lean down to pet a now sleepy Rhaegar, then walk out the apartment.
Outside the building, Angelo is stationed against the wall. When he notices me, he dips his head in greeting, opening the passenger door for me. “Morning, Miss Morozov.”
“Morning,” I reply, passing him a small smile.
I slip inside the SUV, and he rounds the vehicle before settling in the driver’s seat.
“Where to?” he asks.
I rattle off the address of the café to him, and he nods, getting the car into motion. We’re stuck in slow moving traffic when my phone rings. I answer, expecting to hear Ana’s voice at the other end, but it’s not her.
It’s my old boss, an older lady who’s perpetually exhausted. “Hello. Am I speaking to Freya?”
“Susan,” I say, “Hi.”
“Listen . . .” she says. “There’s no nice way to put this, but you’re banned from the rink.”
I frown. “What? Why?”
“We have security camera footage of you entering at four a.m. eight days ago without permission.”
Shit. “I didn’t steal anything,” I say, “You can check the inventory.”
“It doesn’t matter. Breaking and entering is still punishable by law. You could be behind bars right now, but they’re letting you off with a warning. I don’t have time for this.” She makes a disgruntled noise. “I have to look for another marshal because that Ben boy disappeared into thin air.”
I’m about to jump to my own defence, when the second part of what she said stops me. Ben. I wonder if he’s alright.
She keeps talking. “Just, don’t come back, okay? I’m not about to lose my job because of you.”
I sigh. “Yeah, sure, Susan. I won’t come back.”
She cuts the call. Great. As if my day wasn’t horrible enough, I had to get banned from the rink. I’ve never gotten caught before m. Why now? The closest one is more than an hour away. Just great.
Angelo clears his throat. “We’re here.”
I was so busy lamenting over my ice rink ban that I didn’t even notice that the car wasn’t moving anymore.
“Thanks, Angelo,” I mumble, getting out the car. I walk over to the entrance of the café, where Dimitri is stationed. He dips his head in greeting, and a scowl finds his lips as Angelo comes up behind me, joining him. The irony of a Costa guard protecting a Morozov girl isn’t lost on me.
I enter, searching the bustling space for my sister’s blonde hair, before I finally catch sight of her in a booth in the corner.
Her hair is in loose curls, and she’s wearing a white summer dress. Her perfectly manicured brows edge together when she notices me. I walk over, sliding into the seat opposite her.
“Frey,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, bristling. “Just wanted to talk. Why?”
She shifts in her seat. “You just look a bit . . . different.”
It’s my turn to frown. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “You look . . . brighter. Like you pulled an all-nighter and you’re about to write a test you didn’t study for.”
“Right. . .” I change the subject. “What’s wrong with Papa?”
Her gaze clouds, but she waves a dismissive hand. “You know how he gets sometimes, all—” Suddenly, she freezes. “What’s that?”
I pause. “What?”
Her bright green eyes are glued to my neck. “That.”
Oh, shit.
The concealer must have faded.
My hand instinctively goes to my neck. “It just . . . happened.”
Ana’s green eyes light up with anger. “Against your will?”
I shake my head slowly. “No.”
Her face dissolves into something calmer, but also deeply concerned. “Do you . . . Do you love him?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I find myself shaking my head. “I can’t.”
“I didn’t ask if you can,” she says, soft but resolute, “I asked if you do.”
It’s times like these that I’m reminded that she’s older than me.
I swallow. “I don’t believe in love.”
Ana blinks slowly. “Is this what you wanted to talk about?”
“Kind of,” I say, shrugging. “I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Or who else to talk to.” I glance up at her. “My friends won’t get it.”
She sighs, not meeting my gaze as she adds more cream to her coffee.
“You know, Frey, you try to act like you’re strong—” Her eyes are on me for a second — “And you are, don’t get me wrong.
But you’re also soft. Sometimes more than me.
I’ve known you your whole life. You act like you don’t want love when really . . . you crave it more than I do.”
I coil back. “That’s not true.”
She shakes her head, giving me a disbelieving smile. “I’m your sister, Freya Morozova,” she says, using the feminine form of our surname. “You can lie to everyone, including yourself, but you can’t lie to me.”
I don’t know how to reply.
“I won’t judge you if you do, you know,” she says, “Love him.”
I bite down on my molars. “I don’t.”
She’s about to reply, when Dimitri walks to our table, leaning down to talk to us, and Ana in particular. “Your mother wants you back home, now, Anastasia.”
My sister exhales, lifting her hand as she glances back at him. “Just one more minute, Dimitri.”
She turns back to me. “Listen to me, Freya. You don’t have to blindly follow whatever our father is demanding from you, if that’s not what you want. Just because he took you in, it doesn’t mean you owe him anything. That was his duty, as your father. To care for you. To raise you.”
I blink as her words settle in. She’s right. I can’t hand over the flash drive without at least seeing what’s on it, first. I lift my gaze to her.
“Why is he in a bad mood?” I ask her. “Why are you here with Dimitri, and why does Mama want you back home so soon?”
She’s silent.
“Ana,” I press.
She rises from her chair, giving me an empty smile. “He’s trying to marry me off to gain more power than Torren.”
I draw a harsh breath. I understand Mama pushing for Ana to get married. She’s been looking for suitors since Ana was in seventh grade. But Papa? How could he?
I’m still in daze and burning with disbelief when Ana hugs me and follows Dimitri out the café.
I can end it all right now. Hand over the flash drive to Ana and get Torren out of my life. With less pressure from the Costas, there would be less pressure for Ana to find a suitor.
I could buy her more time. Maybe a chance to find someone she actually wants to marry.
But in the end, I just watch my sister leave.
I become maddeningly aware of the small metal device in my pocket, and I’m paranoid.
Does he know?
As I walk deeper into the apartment, he’s still quiet. He knows I’m here, but makes little effort to acknowledge it.
After what seems like forever, he lifts the whiskey glass to his lips, meeting my gaze as he drinks. His eyes roam my body, lingering for longer at the bruise on my neck and then at the bare skin of my stomach. The edges of his eyes narrow when he notices that I’m wearing his suit jacket.
He sets the glass down, his gaze still on me.
I swallow in an attempt to moisten the dry knot at my throat.
I shrug off his suit jacket, leaving it back on the chair where I’d found it. His eyes track the movement.
We stare at each other, and a thick, almost suffocating tension fills the air.
“Where did you go?” he demands, his voice low and rough.
Irration blooms in my chest. “Where did you go?”
Something twitches in his jaw, and his inked hand curls into a fist. “Answer the fucking question.”
Ignoring his demanding tone, I walk over to the fridge, taking out a bottle of water and uncapping it before taking a long swig. “You could just get the answer from Angelo.”
His voice is rough, with a hint of possessiveness when he says, “I want to hear it from you.”
I scoff as I turn, rounding the granite oasis to take a seat on the barstool opposite him. “Sounds like an excuse to get me to talk to you.”
He’s eerily quiet. Slowly. his fingers flex out of the fists they’re in until his palms are flat on the granite. “Maybe it is.”
My heart skips a beat. His gaze is heavy on my face, and my mouth dries despite the fact that I just downed almost half a bottle of water. It’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes. Blood rises to the surface of my skin as my mind flashes to when I was spread out under him, his tongue inside me.
“Stop it,” I snap.
Dark amusement flickers in his eyes. “What?”
My voice is acid. “You know what.”
His amusement only grows.
Irritation flashes in my chest. I can’t allow him to distract me. I need concrete information. Just one more time, I need to try to understand something before I decide to give my father the flash drive.
I stop chewing on the inside of my cheek, meeting his gaze, “What are you trying to achieve by marrying me?”
He shrugs. “I need a wife.”
“You said it was revenge.”
“That, too.”
“Why?” I frown. “I did nothing to you. You have no reason to hate me. While I have tons to hate you.”
He tilts his head in the slightest degree. “You do?”
“Yes.” I clamp down on my jaw. “You took away everything from me. My freedom. My dignity. My choice.”
Torren sneers. “Dial down on the dramatics, little Morozov,” he says. “I gave you a choice.”
I scowl, my palms curling into fists. “I never had a choice. It would have been a choice if you said you wouldn’t marry my sister if I said no. You think this is what I want? You think I want to marry you and play the role of your obedient wife?”
He huffs a humorless laugh. “You?re the opposite of obedient.”
His eyes narrow, and he rounds the counter. “But here’s one thing you are, right now: Scared.”
I draw back, shifting in my seat.
“Hating me gave you a purpose,” he continues, walking closer. “And if you don’t hate me anymore...”
“I do hate you,” I snipe.
“No,” he says, so close that my knees are grazing the material of his slacks, so close I can feel the heat radiating from him in waves. “I don’t think you do.”
“I do.”
His hands come down on my knees, searing hot over the denim of my jeans. And without warning, he spreads my thighs, making space for himself between them. His gaze draws to my mouth, heated and hungry.
“Prove it,” he says.
A shiver runs down my spine, my traitorous body preening in anticipation. But still, I stand my ground. “I don’t have anything to prove to you. You?re the one who?s scared that you don’t hate me enough.”
“I hate what you stand for,” he says, “That counts for more, don’t you think?”
I meet his taunting stare evenly. “Well you definitely didn’t fuck me like you hate what I stand for.”
Molten rage rolls through him, but like gasoline, it only fuels me. “You said I was barely a lady,” I say, “but you fuck like you’re barely a man.”
Anger ripples over his features, washing over me like a fire. His fingers thread through my hair, and he tugs, the sensation spreading across my scalp. He bares his teeth. “You need a reminder of how last night really went?”
“I said just once,” I grit out.
His gaze narrows. “I never agreed to just once.”
His pupils are black and dilated as he stares down at me.
Dark strands of hair falls over his forehead carelessly, and I’m cursing the divine power that carved his face.
If you looked up the definition of sin, there would be a picture of his face.
High cheekbones, sharp jaw, and a perfect mouth.
“Tell me, little Morozov,” he breathes, “Was just once enough?”
My heart races, leaping our of my chest.
He tugs at my hair, forcing my gaze to meet his. “Speak.”
“No,” I whisper, truthfully.
His gaze turns starved. “So you want it again?”
The haze over my mind clears. “Not without rules.”
He curls his fist in my hair. “I only like rules when I’m the one making them.”
I offer him a stubborn glare. “Me too.”
His jaw is tight. “List them,” he orders, “Your rules.”
Almost immediately, I say, “No kissing.”
His features morph into displeasure. It’s clear that he’s unused to restrictions or boundaries.
Sex is an admission of attraction. Kissing, an admission of affection.
Affection for Torren means betraying my father, and his expectations of me. And who am I, if not his favorite, if not his loving daughter?
“You’ll wear protection,” I say.
His dissatisfaction deepens.
“And I won’t stay in your bed after.”
His gaze flares. “So as long as my dick is in you, you’re in my bed?”
“Yes.”
A sound of disapproval rumbles from his chest.
“And this is the only way I can have you?” He tilts his head. “This fucked up set of rules?”
“It’s not fucked up.” I blink, swallowing. “It’s actually pretty common — friends with benefits.”
“It sounds perfect,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Except for one little thing.”
He lowers until his lips are hovering over mine, so close I can almost taste the bitter whiskey on his mouth — so close that I almost want to give in.
And when he speaks, his voice is low and rough as sin, harsh enough for me to feel every word thrum against my skin. “I’m not your friend.”