05
My sister had five years to come to terms with her situation. I’m stealing one day.
“It’s a bad idea,” Sergei says, “To play with the Costas’ time.”
“I’ll die before I listen to their every whim,” I reply.
If they could be stubborn, then so could I. But I have a hunch that if I actually did die, Torren would step over my fresh, dead body and reclaim my sister as his wife. I doubt the devil has any moral reservations.
We draw to a slow stop at the rink parking. My hand reaches to open the door, but the lock clicks in again.
Drawing an annoyed breath, I glance to the front seat. “Yes?”
Sergei’s eyes catch mine in the rear-view mirror. “You will call if something goes wrong.”
I exhale an agitated breath. “Nothing will go wrong.”
Sergei swivels in his seat, light eyes ablaze. “That was before the Costas knew who you were, devochka. Your father allowed you to come today with little security. He is trusting you to inform us if something happens. Do you understand?”
I clench and unclench my jaw, not used to the restrictions. Is this how Ana felt all these years? “Yes, Sergei. Now can you open the door, please?”
He listens. Finally. I huff as I step out the car, shutting the door behind me. With my bag slung across my shoulder, I walk towards the rink doors. Only once I’m inside does Sergei switch the engine on and drive away.
I hate when they get like this — all clingy and overprotective. And I try not to think about how it’ll be if I actually do get married into that wretched family.
Sal, Pippa, and Ben are sitting on the benches, lacing up their skates. The girls were my roommates for four years while we studied at NYU, and we’ve seen each other though everything.
I was there, comforting Sal when her boyfriend of ten years cheated on her, and I walked Pippa into the store for a Plan B after a one-night stand, so drunk she couldn’t remember whether the guy used protection. Or whether he was even a he.
“Freya!”
I nearly collapse when Pippa bolts into me. With pink streaks in her short, strawberry blonde hair, she’s pretty in a manic dream-girl pixie kind of way.
Pippa may act like a klutz, but she always scored the highest of all three of us in exams. Everything I learned about sex, I learned from her — which is a frightening amount.
Ben and Sal wade over.
“Where have you been, girl?” Sal says. Her tan is deeper than the last time I saw her, and her shoulder-length hair is trimmed to perfection.
And while Pippa is laid back and easy-going, Sal is fiery and straightforward.
“I sent like two hundred texts on the group chat, and you didn’t reply to any of them. ”
After her asshole boyfriend left her, she flung herself into the casual sex life and never looked back since.
When we finally graduated, our apartment became a rotating fuck fest for Sal and Pippa with the occasional visit to the club for me.
I was greeting two fresh faces, sometimes three, every morning over my bowl of Cinnamon Crunch, and honestly, I needed a breather, so I left early.
“Hello.” Sal’s voice brings me back to reality. “Freya?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, lifting a hand. “I’ve just been out of it a little.”
“Oh my god.” Pippa’s eyes are wide as they fall on my hand. “Is that a ring?!”
My heart drops to the depths of my ribcage. Even though they’re my best friends, they don’t know the truth about my family. I can’t endanger them like that — even being with them, now, amidst all the chaos, is pushing it. I pull up my long sleeves to cover the ring. “It’s fake.”
Sal doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, Frey, it looks pretty real to me.”
“Well it’s fake, okay?” Lie. I wish it was fake. I wish none of it was real. “Why would I wear a real diamond ring to skate?”
Because it’s still stuck on my damn finger.
“I won it at an arcade,” I add, even though I can’t remember the last time I went to an arcade.
Ben’s gaze lingers on me for a while, but I ignore it.
After pushing Pippa towards Sal, I finally get time to put my skates on and hit the ice. “Can we skate now?”
They let it go, even though I know they?re not entirely convinced.
My hair flies behind in the wind as the frosty air hits my cheeks. And just like that, yesterday’s incident dissipates. I push it to the furthest part of my mind as my blades swivel, carving patterns into the ice.
I fell in love with ice skating when I was seven. There was an empty lake that froze up every winter behind our old house, and it became my second home. The lake always accepted me, even when others hadn’t. Gifted me with an icy sense of freedom I couldn’t get anywhere else.
“You came,” Ben says, gliding up next to me.
I tug on my sleeve to make sure the ring stays covered, offering him a small smile. “I said I would.”
His cheeks flush as he sends a hand through his brown curls. “Yeah. I mean—”
“Frey,” Pippa shouts across the empty rink. Another reason why Monday skating is great—the rink’s empty. It’s the quietest you’ll ever see the place. “Do that spinning thing!”
I roll my eyes with a smile. “A Lutz, Pips. And I haven’t aced that yet. Might break a leg.”
“Oh please,” Sal mutters, “I saw you do it perfectly about a hundred times.”
“Okay fine,” I say, “Fine. I’ll try.”
Sal hoots from the corner, and I hold onto the rails as I position myself. I’ve only tried this a handful of times. My legs move backward, skates gliding smoothly on the ice. As my blades push off the ice, I start to twist my shoulders and arms swiftly.
“Don’t open your hips,” Ben shouts.
A blush touches my cheeks as I push my hips up slightly, perfecting my form. But then the hardest part comes — landing.
A dark gaze singes me as my foot lands on back outside edge of my skate. I tremble slightly before quickly regaining my balance, drawing to a stop. Tendrils of hair escape my braid as I catch my breath.
My friends cheer, moving towards me, as I take a bow with a smile as large as Jupiter.
But my happiness is short-lived as the same searing feeling washes over me, pickling the back of my neck.
I turn. And then I see him. The heat of his gaze scorches my skin, sending my heart racing.
Torren.
He’s really here, across the rink, wearing black suit pants and a white dress shirt, rolled up his forearms. Crisp. Precise. Lethal.
Pippa’s eyes are wide. “Is that . . . Torren Costa?”
For a moment, it jars me that they know him. But like Mama said, the Costas don’t conduct their business in private or keep things as hushed as we do. They thrive off their public image, hiding their illegitimate business through the squeaky clean guise of their legitimate one.
And after a paparazzi picture of him went viral, Torren became New York’s most eligible bachelor.
He was caught in the street in a slate grey suit, on his phone, looking at the camera like he wanted to kill whoever was behind it.
I still remember wanting to throw my phone into the pool the day that picture was trending a few months ago.
“Holy shit, he’s hotter in real life,” Sal breathes. “The things I’d do to that man.”
Pippa laughs. “I’d suck the soul out of that man.”
I don’t tell her that he’d suck the soul out of her. And not in the way she’d like. I take a deep breath. Why is he even here? And how am I supposed to explain this to my friends?
I swallow. “I have to go.”
Ben reaches for my arm, his brows furrowing. “Freya, wait.”
The weight of the dark gaze on my skin intensifies, and I tug out of Ben’s touch, holding his concerned stare. “I’ll text you, alright? I’ll be fine.”
I glance back to where the devil stands with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bannister. He knows I’m not a maid, but he still looks at me as though I am. Condescendingly.
I’m by no means considered short, but this man makes me feel small. He has to be at least 6’4. It’s like there’s a live wire under my skin, and it’s lit up, sending energy coursing through my veins.
As soon as I get off the ice, I find my bag and switch my skates for black Converse. Frantic, I pull out my phone, calling Sergei. “Hello?”
There’s a deep, knowing sigh on the other end. “Go with him.”
My mouth drops. “What? You know?”
Another deep sigh. “I tried, girl. But there is nothing I can do. You come back with him or walk home.”
The line cuts. What the hell? It’s a forty-five-minute drive from the rink to home. It’ll take forever for me to walk back.
Gritting my teeth, I chuck my phone in my bag before zipping it up.
The heat from his gaze is gone, and so is he, apparently, so I swing my bag on my shoulder as I walk to the exit of the rink.
And there he is, a few feet away from a black Audi.
There’s no one in the car, which means he drove here himself.
There’s a silence as we stare at each other — a challenge to see who breaks the silence first. A few agonizing seconds pass, but he still doesn’t say a word, his gaze growing more heated as it scours every pore on my face, dragging down to my chest, where the Morozov necklace is tucked under my shirt, always hidden in public.
But my silver heart locket is always on display, and his eyes latch on to it, black pupils dilating with something unrecognisable.
Frustration and impatience rushing up my chest, I mutter, “Why are you here?”
There’s a long pause and something ticks in his jaw. He glances past me towards the rink. “Wanted to see what was so important that you couldn’t do lunch today.”
His voice, after the extended silence jars me. It’s deep — lilted and sensual, washing over my skin with a heated awareness. So much for stealing one day and not letting the Costas get their own way.
His eyes narrow. “I’m not impressed.”
Is he referring to my skating? I roll my eyes, not deigning to reply. It’s not like I was seeking his approval in the first place.
He takes a step closer, and I suck in a breath, backing away. The rough timbre of his voice skitters down my spine. “Who’s the boy?”
My heart rises to the top of my throat. He saw me with Ben.
“None of your business,” I bite back.
There’s a lethal glint to his gaze.
“Pity,” he hums, “I had so many plans in mind for him.”
I clench my fists at my side to hide the tremble in my hands. He can’t hurt Ben. Not when he did nothing wrong. Acid drips from my voice. “You won’t touch him.”
He’s deadly calm as his eyes fall to my hand where his ring lies, exposed. “And neither will you, if you know what’s good for you.”
I clench and unclench my jaw, anger dotting my vision. “I’m not engaged to you yet.”
Then to prove my point, I make a violent attempt to pull the ring off my finger. But the thing won’t budge. It just feels like my skin’s being chafed to shreds.
My cheeks heat up. I feel like the ugly stepsister when she tried to shove her foot into Cinderella’s shoe. This ring was made for Ana, and of course my fingers aren’t as slender as hers. I give up, ducking my head slightly so he doesn’t see the embarrassment staining my cheeks.
Before I can anticipate it, Torren reaches for my hand. His touch is pure fire, and I’m too shocked by the sudden rough touch to pull away.
Slowly, he lifts my hand to his mouth, and I suck in a breath. Somehow, I’m rooted to the spot. Paralyzed by his touch. I’d tried to wrench out of his hold at the engagement, but now I can’t do anything but stare, wide-eyed and confounded.
But when he opens his mouth, the heat of his breath searing my palm, I jerk back to life. I try twisting my hand out of his touch, but his hold turns from soft to steel. I hiss, “What are you—”
“Don’t move,” he snarls.
And then he takes my ring finger into his mouth.
My eyes widen. I’m paralyzed again.
His mouth is soft, wet, and hot around my ring finger, his tongue velvet as it swirls around the ring, once, twice, before his teeth close down on it.
A white hot pulse shoots to my core. And just like that, he coaxes the metal off my finger, like the gentle lick of a lion before it devours its prey.
His other hand comes up to collect the ring before he pockets it. He steps out of my space, drawing all his suffocating heat back with him, and I avert my gaze and steady my breathing.
I can’t think straight. Blood rushes to my head, my cheeks, the surface of my skin. The breeze is cold on my wet ring finger. Wet from his mouth.
I let loose of a shuddered breath, wiping my hand on my tights. His dark eyes don’t miss the action, igniting like coal.
“I won’t force you into the engagement,” he says, “I have a contract with a Morozov daughter. If you want to take your sister’s place, it’ll be your choice.”
There’s that word again. Choice. I had no choice when I was born into this world. And now, any semblance of choice is just smoke and mirrors.
I steady my voice. “I’m taking her place.”
And then I’m going to figure out a way to free my family from yours. For good. I cement the promise as I meet his dark gaze.
Torren’s jaw is tight, eyes glinting like he knew that would be my answer. “Get in the car.”
I shake my head. Walk home? Sergei was born in the middle ages. “I can get a cab.”
Something twitches in his jaw. “Get. In. The fucking car. Now.”
The crude order, and the sensual insinuation of it sends a sharp zing to my core. I scoff to conceal it, walking up to the black Audi. And then, just because I can, even though it makes my heart thud with apprehension, I quip, “Aren’t you going to open the door for me?”
There’s a brief pause, like he’s wondering if he heard right, and I almost regret opening my mouth. Silently, he rounds the car to the driver’s seat, looking up at me. “After I cut those pretty little hands of yours off, maybe I’ll consider it.”
It’s an empty threat, and a part of me wants to call him out on his lie, but then I remember how he put a bullet in my father like it was nothing, and a lash of fear welts my stomach. I open my own door, getting in.
Torreon slips into the driver’s seat, and my skin prickles from being cooped up in the confined space of the car with him.
Just as he starts the car, his cologne hits me — fresh soap, white musk, laundry detergent, vague aquatic notes, and intermittent flashes of citrus.
His presence is all consuming. It’s like he radiates heat, and it’s suddenly too hot, too hard for me to breathe.
I reach forward and turn up the AC. His gaze burns my hand.
So he doesn’t like me touching around . .
. Interesting. And I know that I’m tiptoeing the line between peace and punishment, toying with fire, but defying him brings another level of satisfaction — one where I’m not afraid of getting burned.
With a small smile, I reach for the music dial this time. His hand dashes out to touch mine, swatting it away with little power. My hand burns from the contact with his skin.
“No music,” he growls.
I clench my jaw, glaring at him. He doesn’t listen to music? What a fucking loser. I bet he murders puppies in his spare time.
Tired of staring at his hideously perfect side profile, I glance outside the window. Only to find that he’s not taking the turn to our house.
Anxiety bubbles up my throat. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t even bother to reply. Go figure. I grit my teeth, sinking into my seat. I wish Sergei would’ve told me more instead of leaving me in the lurch with this psychopath.
Finally, the car slows outside what looks like a Tiffany’s.
A frown finds my lips. I’m not dressed for this shop.
I don’t usually care what I wear to practice, because it gets all sweaty and wet eventually.
Audrey Hepburn would take one glance at my beaten down Converse and ratty long sleeve and cringe.
But Torren is already opening his door, and since I don’t really want to be stuck in the car waiting for however long, I open my door and get out, too.
I follow behind his tall frame as he walks into the store. When the guard recognizes the devil, his eyes go wide, and he steps out of the way. His eyes fall to me as he takes in my messy appearance.
“She’s with me,” Torren says.
The guard’s eyes flit back and forth nervously before allowing me through. I roll my eyes. This place is so classist it makes me want to hurl.
Torren nears the front desk, exchanging a few words with a lady before she skitters to the back. As we wait, I glance around at the shiny jewellery behind crystal clear cases.
An old man, Italian by the looks of it, appears from where the lady had gone. His eyes land on Torren. “Costa, my boy!”
Torren blinks slow in greeting. “Vincenzo.”
“How can I help, how can I help?” The man, Vincenzo, says. “What are you here for?”
Finally, he notices me behind Torren. “Ah, you have company.”
Torren angles vaguely in my direction, and he tilts his chin toward the desk. “Pick a ring.”
Is that why we’re here? He wants me to pick a new ring and not just recycle Ana’s? I’m hardly touched. It probably has something to do with his ego. He just wants to prove that he can get another ring at the snap of his finger.
I remember the time Mama dumped a bunch of Ana’s pink and yellow clothes — the one’s she’d grown out of, on my bed. I deposited them all into the bathtub and dyed them black before I wore them.
I’m used to getting second-hand things. I always find my own way somehow.
So I shake my head, not meeting Torren’s gaze. “I’ll just use the ring my sister picked out.”
Deep irritation flickers in his dark eyes. “Pick a new one.”
I swallow my annoyance, because Vincenzo looks at me with hopeful eyes, and I don’t want Torren to do anything to destroy his shop.
I wonder what I would choose if I wasn’t so opposed to getting married.
I point out a ring. It’s much simpler than the one in Torren’s pocket — just a band with the tiniest gem in the center.
I’d be lying if I said it was what I want.
I just do it because the sooner this is over, the sooner I can get home.
“And one for the groom?”
“Oh, uh—” I turn back to see whether the devil wants me to pick out one for him, too, but he’s on the phone. “Okay.” I point at the plain silver band. “That one.”
“Would you like to engrave your name into the groom’s ring, signorina? We offer a special service—”
And then it hits me. How real this is. How real this all is. I promised myself I’d never marry. But if this goes through, I will take on the Costa name. I will be forced to play his loving bride till death do us part. What little freedom my father had extended to me will cease to exist.
Behind me, Torren speaks in rushed Italian on the phone. I don’t understand a word of it. I don’t understand him. I don’t know him. Only his cruelty. And if my plan backfires, I might end up married to him. The violent revelation hits me, and tears burn the back of my eyes.
A gaze burns into my back and Torren ends the call.
He strides over to me, and I blink back the tears, averting my gaze as I focus on the plush carpet instead.
He zones in on my lashes, and his eyes narrow.
For a second, I think he might actually have the tiniest seed of decency in the pits of his blackened soul.
That he might free my family from the contract—
“Signorina?” Vincenzo’s interrupts, “Engraving?”
Torren turns. “Did she choose?”
Vincenzo nods, nervousness flickering in his brown eyes. “Yes. I just need to know if you opt for an engraving?”
Torren waves a noncommittal hand. “Just get them to me as soon as possible.”
My heart sinks.
He won’t change his mind.
Of course he won’t. My hope was futile. Childish. Laughable.
I follow him out the store and back to the car numbly, getting in. When he gets into the driver’s seat, I open my mouth. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe expecting an apology of some sort. “You shot my Papa.”
He doesn’t even reply, like it’s too much of an effort for him.
Asshole. I take a deep breath, staring out the window. “If you hate me so much, why do you want to marry me?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s going to ignore me again. But then he speaks, and I turn to meet his gaze.
“Figured daddy’s favorite was better surety. It’s only business, and you—” His gaze drops to my messy braid and ratty shirt, lingering a bit too long on my chest. His gaze flares. “—are far from my type.”
Anger flares down my spine, lining my jaw as I curl my lip. “What about my sister? She spent her years trying to shape herself into something you want.”
But the devil is unbothered, his eyes on the road ahead. “Anastasia would enter my house as the perfect wife, yes, but also a trained spy. You, on the other hand . . .” He gives me a quick, scathing perusal. “I doubt you know much about that. Wiretapping? Hacking? Translating?”
I always rolled my eyes at Ana’s private lessons, but she’s fluent and literate in Russian, German, Spanish and Italian, and even knows some Portuguese and Mandarin.
My English may be fine, but for a supposed Russian, my knowledge of the language is appalling.
My skills prepared me for a normal life, not one in the underworld.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and he notices.
He shakes his head, the corners of his lips lifting the slightest degree. “Don’t waste your time trying to change my mind, little Morozov. It changes for no-one.” The car draws to a stop outside our place. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Biting down hard, I open the car door with more force than necessary, stepping out. I’m about to slam the door shut when he speaks.
“Freya.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard him say my name, and it skitters down my spine, setting a fire under my skin. Clamping down on my jaw, I turn to find the corner of his cruel mouth tipped up.
“Tell your Papa I said get well soon.”