38
He breaks the silence. "Is it your mother's?"
I frown. "What?"
"The locket," he says, his gaze rushing to my neck. "Is it your mother's?"
I clamp down on my jaw. He hasn't told me anything about Sof, but I'm meant to spill my guts about my mother?
"It's none of your business," I snap.
He's quiet, his jaw tight and his hands tight on the steering wheel, and I can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves. We don't speak a word, not even when we get to the penthouse.
I climb up the stairs, and then shed my dress and heels on his bedroom floor before slipping into his bed, feeling the cool silk of the sheets against my skin.
I'm no longer willing to fight him about where I sleep anymore. I sleep wherever he does.
Torren enters the room a few minutes later and undresses in silence. Then, he slides in under the sheets beside me but keeps a distance, like he knows I don't want to be touched.
And although I want the distance, it hurts. The nightmare last night was one of the worst in my life. In it, he was choking me to death. When I woke up, he was above me, holding me down. Instinctively, I pushed him away from me.
But really, I wanted him close.
How do I explain that my fear hasn't changed? That I'm not afraid of him - I'm afraid of the people I care about being hurt. Being hurt because of me.
That somehow, I care about hurting him.
The wedding is in two days.
He won't back out.
Marriage doesn't mean anything to me but . . . I want a claim on him too. I can't deny it.
The thought of another woman touching him makes me sick.
Makes me want to claw out her heart with my acrylic nails.
The girl from church - Valerie -is so pretty, and she's Italian. She belongs to his world. And when she started talking the things he did with her . . . I've never wanted to kill a girl more.
I hate being jealous.
When I chance a quick glance at Torren in the velvet darkness of the night, his eyes are closed, his breathing steady.
I slip out of the bed quietly, walking downstairs. In my room, I pull on one of my graphic tees. I need to clear my head, and I can't sneak off to the rink like I usually would, so this is the next best option.
I walk out the apartment, and into the elevator until it opens into the dimly lit garage.
My eyes adjust to the lack of light as I walk over to the Mustang, running my hand over the cold metal.
The smell of gasoline and motor oil hits my nose, filling my lungs with a familiar scent that I've grown to love.
I grab my tools and pop the bonnet, losing myself in the intricate mechanics of the car.
I'm almost done with it, and the engine's already purring like a baby.
It hums softly beneath my fingers as I adjust the spark plugs, my mind lost in the task at hand.
My hands are coated in grease, but I don't mind.
The sound of the metal parts clinking together is soothing, and for a moment, I can forget about everything else.
But as soon as the engine dies down, the guilt comes rushing back, a tidal wave of emotions that I can't seem to escape. I close my eyes, my head in my hands, and try to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over.
Truth is, I'm a liar. I lied to Torren, to my father and to myself. The locket I keep around my neck really is empty.
I say it belonged to my mother, but it didn't. It's just something I couldn't let go of.
My real mother had no possessions to her name. She was a prostitute diagnosed with bipolar disorder. She couldn't afford meds. Couldn't afford my formula milk, or my diapers. She bled out after she'd taken her own life, and I'd crawled through a pool of her blood to try to wake her up.
She never did.
Later, Sergei would tell me what he remembered of the day - the sight of the three-year-old baby covered in blood as she cried and cried and cried, and the young woman who came looking for Yuri Morozov with the baby in her hands.
She would explain how I wouldn't let anyone touch me - wouldn't let anyone wash the blood off without kicking and screaming, tears pouring down my cheeks.
And how my father didn't question when he heard. How he took me in and raised me.
It's her the locket belonged to. The woman who handed me over. I held on to it and didn't let go, so she unclipped it from her neck and let me keep it.
Sometimes I hear my mother's voice, but I don't know whether it's a memory or just a figment of my imagination.
Mama needs to do this. For you. So you can have a better life. Mama's so sorry, Freya. Mama loves you . . . Mama loves you, Freya . . .
I close my eyes, trying to will the thoughts away. But they're like a movie that's stuck on repeat, playing over and over again in my mind.
"Do you think she loved me, Papa?"
"She was crazy, lisenok. She would have killed you, too, if she could help it."
My mother must've been a liar. Because I do it so well.
Truth is, I'm a coward. If there was a painless way to end my life, I would have done it a long time ago.
I reach for a wrench, my eyes still fixed on the engine, when catch movement in my periphery.
Torren is standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. The metal of his gun flashes, holstered to the waistband of his slacks. His gaze is dark and brooding, and my heart stutters in my chest.
I swallow hard and force myself to focus on the engine once again, but I can feel his gaze burning into my back.
Gritting my teeth, I force myself to keep working on the engine, my fingers tightening around the wrench.
But every time I glance up, he's still there, his gaze dark and intense.
The tension in the garage is palpable, and I feel like I'm suffocating.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. I set the wrench down and stand, turning to face him with my eyes burning.
"What do you want?" I demand, my voice shaking with anger and frustration.
He steps towards me, and I can feel his breath on my face. His scent is overwhelming, and I feel myself getting lost in it.
"You," he says, his voice low and rough.
I feel a surge of desire flood through me, but I push it down. I can't give in to him again.
"You can't just have me whenever you want," I say, my voice shaking.
He steps even closer, his hands reaching out to grip my waist.
"Yes," he says, "I can."
I try to pull away, but he holds me tight, his gaze intense and unyielding.
"Torren, I'm covered in grease-"
He backs me into the bonnet of the car, his grip on my wrist punishing. "I don't care."
"Let me go," I say, my voice breaking. "Please."
I don't mean just for now, out of his hold. I mean let me go, out of your life, and we can pretend this never happened, we can pretend it was all just a bad dream.
He knows what I mean. But he holds me tighter, his grip unyielding. And a silent rage crosses his face as he says, "I won't let you go. Not now. Not ever."
My eyes brim with unshed tears. "What do you want from me?"
His haw is tight. Insistent.
"I want you to smile again," he says, "And mean it. I want to get in your head and burn whatever it is that's making you so sad."
"It's you," I say, weakly, "You make me sad."
His hold on me loosens, his features softening for the briefest moment.
"Then I'm burning," he says.
My heart falls through my chest.
"I love it when you look at me with hate," he says, "It makes my dick hard."
My brows pull together.
"I love it even more when I coax a smile out you," he says, "Because it's so fucking rare. And a laugh? Fucking hell. I knew I was a dead man when I first heard you laugh. Because there was no price I wouldn't pay to hear it again."
Tears cloud my vision, threatening to spill over my cheeks. I'm in so deep with this man, I don't think I'll be able to recover. He's a poison inked into my skin.
"You want to know what really pisses me off?" He snarls, baring his incisors. "When you ignore me. When you pull away into that head of yours, where I can't be with you. I can't fucking stand it."
A soft, tired sigh escapes my lips as I struggle to meet his gaze. "Why are you here?"
His features pull into displeasure. "You just disappeared.
I woke up and you were gone. For a second I thought - I thought you .
. . I thought. . . Fuck! It's not safe.
Mancini is out for blood. I can't trust anyone right now.
Do you have any idea -" He draws a harsh breath.
"What they'd to you if they got their hands on you? "
"Why does it matter?!" I cry. "Why would hurting me hurt you?"
"Because I care about you!" he yells. "I fucking care about you!"
Air rushes into my lungs as I draw a harsh breath. His voice echoes in the hollow space.
I care about you. I fucking care about you.
We're both breathing hard, chests rising and falling in synced tandem. As we stand there in the garage, the tension between us pulls taut. I'm pressed against the car by his hips. So much of him, so close. I know I should walk away, but I can't bring myself to do it.
My head is spinning, and I can't seem to resist his touch, even though every fiber of my being is screaming at me to stop. I know I should push him away, should fight against the hold he has on me. But his touch, his scent, his very presence is intoxicating, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
I don't know why I do it, but I go on my tiptoes and breathe the same air as him. And in the slightest, briefest graze, I place my lips to his.
I realize my mistake as soon as I make it. He goes rigid. So incredibly still. His pupils are dilated.
I don't say anything, but the action says enough. Yes, yes, yes. I care about you, too.
I pull away as quick as fire.
He growls, pulling me back to him as he crashes his mouth over mine, swallowing my gasp.
His hands come up to the sides of my face as his lips move against mine with a desperate, ravenous hunger, and my gasp for air parts my mouth enough for him to push in.
"Mmm," he groans, "Fuck."
He releases a contented sigh as be mauls me gently and thoroughly, and it's like he's fucking my mouth with his tongue.
He tastes like cinnamon and whiskey. Delicious. Bittersweet. Heaven. I swirl my tongue against his.
"Fuck," he groans into my mouth, "Freya."
He says my name like it's both a prayer and a curse.
I only manage a soft, stilted whimper.
The emotion I feel for him - it's pushing and shoving aside the other organs in my chest as it makes space for itself greedily, squeezing against my ribcage.
I can't move, can't breathe. I'm fighting every single one of my instincts as they come rising to the surface, pressing and pulsing and bleeding me dry.
I'm furious at myself for letting things get this far. I'm furious with him for putting me in this position. And yet, I'm so deeply, irrevocably attracted to him that I can barely breathe.
The feeling is foreign. My mind reacts to the emotion how a body reacts to an organ transplant - it rejects it.
He pulls back, and I gasp for air, my eyes filling with tears. There's a painful knot at my throat, and my body is still trembling with the aftershocks of his mouth, my heart aching with the weight of my confusion and guilt.
It's too much.
It's too much.
"I can't," I say, "I can't."
But what I mean is, I gave you everything. I can't give you my heart, too.
His dark eyes are locked on mine, and they're leaking with a black, inky obsession. He cups my jaw with his calloused hand and draws in closer.
Sucking in a breath, I lean down, snatching his gun from his holster and digging the barrel into his side, where I'd cut him open with a bullet once before.
"If you do it again," I say, my voice shaking, "I'll shoot."
He's violently calm.
Gently, Torren covers my hand with his own. He lifts the gun, pulling back the slide and releasing it, loading a round into the chamber. Then, he lifts my hand with the gun so that the barrel presses into the side of his head.
"Shoot," he says.
And then he kisses me again.
Even against death, he kisses me again.
My fingers are trembling as I grip the gun tightly, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it's about to burst out of my chest.
Truthfully, I do want to kill him, just so no one else can take him away from me.
Tears roll down my cheeks and my hold on the gun loosens before it falls to the ground, the sound echoing in the empty garage, empty except for our breathing, except for the wet sound of his mouth against mine.
He sucks on my tongue as he presses me up harder against the cold metal of the Mustang. His hands are everywhere, pulling at my shirt, tugging at my hair. "Freya," he groans against my mouth, his breath hot and heavy against my lips. "Freya. My little heathen. My hellfire."
I feel sick to my stomach at his possessiveness, but I can't deny the thrill that shoots through me. This is wrong. I betrayed him, and it's wrong - so wrong, but the moment his tongue flicks against my lips, I'm lost.
I can't help the way my body responds, the way my hands reach up to bury into his hair, pulling him closer. I can feel his arousal, thick and hard and insistent against me, and it only serves to make me more confused, more conflicted.
My mind is consumed by thoughts of him, by the way his body feels pressed against mine - by his hot, achy breath against my skin.
I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe I let it happen. How could I have been so weak? So stupid?
He tastes so good.
I need to stop. I have to stop.
I can't.
I try to pull away from him, but his grip on me tightens, his touch possessive and urgent as his big hand slide up my back, pulling me even closer to him.
And then he's pulling me away from the bonnet of the car, and he's opening the car door, pushing me into the flat against the backseat as his body comes up over mine.
He never takes his mouth off mine. Even as his zipper goes down his pants, and my legs come up around his waist. Sucking and biting and nibbling at my lips so furiously that I can feel them swell up.
This . . . this is exactly what I was afraid of. This is why I didn't let him kiss me. Because this feeling - it's everywhere. All consuming. And it sets me alight.
I give him my body.
And he steals my heart.
? ? ?
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