Torment

13

He is my fiancé, after all. And sharing is caring.

By the time I make it downstairs, the devil is gone.

It’s a good thing, because I can’t take one more second of his insufferable presence. Seriously, how does he manage being such a gigantic asshole?

The smell of warm toast and coffee wafts from the kitchen, making my stomach rumble and effectively distracting me from my thoughts.

I pad over to the kitchen, finding Giulia busy at work, cooking enough breakfast to feed a smallvillage. When she spots me, her stout face spreads into a bright smile. “Good morning, Miss Freya,” she says, “Please, come eat.”

Sunlight pours through the large windows.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this apartment.

Our house back on Staten Island is huge — practically a mansion, but the building has an old fashioned, castle-like charm.

This apartment is sleek and modern. But even with its beauty, it isn’t warm.

It isn’t home. And with every moment I spend here, the glass windows feel less and less like freedom and more like prison walls.

I glance at the feast laid out on the kitchen oasis, taking a seat on one of the bar stools. There’s a stack of waffles doused in syrup, dusted in powdered sugar and topped with blueberries and strawberries. There’s also giant croissants, crispy bacon and a steaming hot heap of eggs.

My eyes widen. “Is this all for me? ”

“Yes,” Giulia says, “You must eat.”

I pass her a concerned look. “It’s too much.”

Her face crunches. “You model? You do…” She pauses to wave her hand as if trying to find the right word. “Come si dice…diet?”

“What? No. I’m not a model. This is way just too much for one person.” I pause, considering the amount of food laid out in front of me. “Haveyoueaten yet?”

She gives me a look like me simply suggesting it is preposterous. “No.”

Hopping off the barstool, I round the oasis to stand at her side before tugging at her arm. “Come eat with me, then.”

“Miss Freya!” Giulia yanks her arm away from me with wide eyes. “I cannot.”

“Why not?”

She gives me a pained look. “Please understand.”

I get it. She was obviously hired to do her job and stay out of the way, and it’s what she’s used to. It’s clear that my asshole fiancé isn’t the friendliest person in the world. So me talking to her must be awkward. I give up, sighing. “Okay… then what do you do with all the leftover food?”

Giulia shrugs. “Throw.”

My eyes go wide. “You throw it away?”

She nods.

At home, the house is always filled us and with Papa’s men, and food never goes to waste.

I guess when you cook for one person, it’s more likely that more food will have to be thrown out but…

I take a glance at the overflowing counter in front of me, and the thought of wasting all of it makes my stomach turn.

I sigh, shoving my face with as much food as I can and downing down coffee.

Afterward, I find my forgotten phone. It’s the first time I’m switching it on since the engagement. Immediately, it starts buzzing with unread notifications. Text messages, missed calls, mentions.

Pictures of the engagement went viral. It’s understandable, since no one knew I even existed, but I’m now engaged to one of New York’s most famous entrepreneurs.

The pictures itself are deceiving — in one, I’m looking up at Torren with what seems like a deep and devoted passion as he slides the ring on my finger. I scoff to myself as I open up my messages.

WTF???!!! YOU’RE ENHAGEHED TO TORREN COSTA?

CALL ME ASAP!!!

BITCH YOU’RE ENGAGED????

TO TORREN COSTA????

SINCE WHEN?????

WHY AM I ONLY FINDING THIS OUT NOW FROM TWITTER????

1 missed call fromSAL

ANSWER YOUR PHONE

9 missed calls fromSAL

BITCH ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE!!!!

Frey, is it true?

You’reokay, right?

Call me back as soon as you get this

Sighing, I swipe out of my messages. I can’t talk to my friends. I don’t know how to explain any of this to them. And I don’t want to risk telling them too much. The less they know, the better.

When I open Google, it’s just my luck that the first thing that pops up is a trending article about me.

Freya Morozov — illegitimate daughter of Russian American conglomerate Yuri Morozov — the truth the Morozov family don’t want you to know…

My heart drops to my stomach and a bitter taste fills my mouth. I swallow it down and ignore the article, switching my phone off. I glance up at Giulia, then motion to the untouched croissants, waffles and fruit. “Can you pack all of this up in boxes for me?”

A reluctant look fills her face, but after a while, she nods tightly.

When the boxes are ready, I gather them up, making my way down the elevator all the way to the exit at the bottom of the building, where men dressed in black suits with silver earpieces stand. The asshole wasn’t joking about the guards.

The guard on the right looks a tad nicer than the rest, and I’m about to walk towards him, when a very tall figure steps in my way. The man’s broad, bulky frame is dressed in a suit, and his hair is shorn off.

I glance up at him, lifting a brow.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’m afraid I can’t let you through,” he says, “You can’t leave building without Mr Costa’s permission.”

I grit my teeth.

Do they think I’m going to run away or something? I’m not that stupid. They would come looking for me, and frankly, I’m too lazy to be in a duck-goose chase all over New York.

For a second, I think of flipping the guard off and dashing right past him, but I don’t stand a chance, especially with three more guards further down the street. So in the end, I’m forced to swallow my pride and take a step back.

“Great.” I press my lips into a flat smile. “Well I just want to drop this off with you. And your buddies over there.”

The guard glances down at the boxes I hand him with a frown, like he’s going to say no, but when he looks down at me and realizes I’m not going to drop the topic, he nods briefly and takes the boxes.

When I get back to the apartment, Giulia’s gone, so I spend the rest of the day in a mild rage, waiting for Torren to return home so I can demand he let me visit home.

I decide to play with the different features in the apartment. There’s the remote that brings down pitch black blinds over the windows, transforming the apartment into completedarkness. There’s also a remote for what seems like a central music system, but the batteries have been removed.

I remember what Torren said about not liking music.

Scowling to myself, I do some more digging around the apartment and find some batteries.

It only takes a few minutes before I get the music system working, and it’s insane.

Black Sabbathroars throughout the apartment, pulsing under the floor beneath my feet and drilling through my ribcage.

It almost makes me forget how pathetic my situation is, for a short while.

I heat up the dinner Giulia prepared for me before deciding to watchThe Exorcistwith the blinds down and the whole space in darkness. And somewhere between it all, I fall asleep on the couch.

When I wake up, it’s seven a.m. I rub at my eyes before getting off the couch and walking to the stairs to listen for any movement upstairs, and there’s nothing. But there’s evidence of him being here — an empty glass in the sink.

The rest of the day passes. I eat and watch another movie —Texas Chainsaw Massacre— for the hundredth time.

That night, I sleep in my bed. Alone.

But I don’t get any sleep.

And it’s not because I watched a horror movie. They’re more entertaining than scary, to be honest. I just can’tsleep.

I wake up and walk to Rhaegar’s room, switching the lights on. But the room is empty. My favorite thing about this entire house — gone.

The next day, I try my luck with the guards again, taking more food to them. And even though they accept it and return the empty containers later, they still don’t allow me past them.

So much for bribery.

I make a little progress with Giulia, who finally gives in to my protests and joins me to eat breakfast on my fourth day. The next day, I convince her to stay a little while longer. Just so that I have someone to talk to.

On my sixthday, when I get downstairs, the apartment is clean, and breakfast is waiting for me. She’s nowhere to be found.

I don’t see Torren once. Ever. He leaves before I wake up and arrives after I go to sleep. I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, or who he’s seeing. I tell myself I don’t care.

I don’t move my things from his shower. I keep using it, and he doesn’t say a word to me about it or follow up on his threat. How can he, when he doesn’t even bother showing up?

Then, on the seventh morning, exactly one week later, something changes.

I wake up around nine as part of my new routine.

And he’s downstairs.

I catch a glimpse of him just as I’m hiking up the stairs to take a shower.

And just like that, I’m alive again, blood thrumming under my skin, lit with purpose. I set the music system to the loudest it can go, blastingMetallicathroughout the apartment.

Like every morning, I step into his bathroom to take a shower. But this time, I take it a step further. I waltz into his room after the shower with a towel wrapped around me, and open his closet.

It’s pristine and neat to a fault, filled with countless dress shirts, mostly white. Everything is well-pressed and organized, not a single thing out of place.

I pull out one of his white dress shirts, slipping it on. The shirt smells like him, and I can’t decide if I hate it or not. I take out a belt from one of the drawers, too, deciding to wear the shirt like a dress, with the belt around my waist to cinch it.

When I pad downstairs, barefoot, I find Giulia scrambling around the kitchen with panic in her every movement. Around us,Metallicais still blaring from the sound system.

The devil is sitting at the table, his posture calm and unaffected.

I don’t miss the tightness to his jaw as he lifts a glass of orange juice to his mouth.

He doesn’t look even slightly bothered that not only is there music playing, but it’s loud as fuck and heavy metal.

Clenching my teeth, I fish out the remote and switch the music off.

Giulia seems to visibly calm down as she hurries to pack her bags and scurry out of the apartment, giving me a fleeting look with a warning flashing in her brown eyes.

I walk past Torren’s chair, feeling the heavy weight of his gaze on me as I reach over to the basket in the centre if the table and grab a croissant.

For a second I think he’s going to ignore me, when finally, he speaks.

“Is that my shirt?”

Hearing his voice again after so many days brings out a visceral reaction in me. Some tiny part of me wants to reach out and bottle the deep, rough sound and clutch it to my chest. And another, bigger part, wants to slit his throat so I never have to hear him speak again.

His gaze flicks up and catches mine, heavy and emotionless, as if he’s looking straight through me.

“Yes,” I mutter, the word soaked with venom. Then, just to see his reaction, I place my croissant down and move to unbutton the shirt.

He lowers his gaze to his plate, back to ignoring me as he forks a piece of food into his mouth, his jaw clenched tight. Without sparing me a single glance, he says, “Leave it on.”

I pause, my lips parting in a slow inhale.

Still not looking my way, he mutters, “Just don’t make a mess.”

Confused, I pick up my croissant and scarf it down before pouring myself a glass of juice. I lift my glass, narrowing my eyes at him. “Where’s Rhaegar?”

He doesn’t reply.

Seeing as he’s not going to bother to grace me with a reply, I press forward with my demand. “Let me go home.”

Still no reply.

I bite down on my molars as a white-hot frustration dots my vision. “You can’t keep me in here forever.”

This time, he leisurely lifts his gaze to me, dry and caustic. When his eyes settle on me, they darken at the edges, narrowing like he’s considering something. Then, something flickers in his gaze as he straightens the watch on his wrist and stands.

I watch him do it, desperation leaking through the cracks in my chest.

And then I watch him walk up to the door of the apartment. I watch him open it, leaving without a single word.

And I break.

A scream rips out of my throat, leaving it raw. I swipe through the contents on the table, sending glasses and plates flying to the floor. Around me, glass shatters and liquid spills.

My hands are shaking as I take out my phone, switching it on.

My view of the screen is blurry as tears cloud my vision, but the messages from my friends are growing more and more worried, except I don’t have the energy to reply.

Somehow, I manage to ignore the notifications bursting though my screen and open up the phone app.

It only rings for a few seconds before she picks up.

“Ana,” I say, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Freya?” she says. “Oh my god, I’ve been calling you nonstop. Why haven’t you been answering? Are you okay?”

The lie bubbles up my throat almost as if on reflex. “I’m fine.”

I don’t know why I do it. Why I lie. My hands are trembling uncontrollably, and wet tears are still rolling down my cheeks. I’m about to spill the truth when she starts talking again.

“Frey,” she says, “You were right. About the whole freedom thing. Papa has never been this lenient with me in years. I went out yesterday by myself, do you know that? I can’t believe—”

And just like that, I press my lips together firmly. I can’t do this to her. I can’t do this to Ana. If I tell her the truth — tell her how miserable and alone I really am, she’ll do everything she can to get me out of here. I know it in my soul.

And now she’s finally been given a chance at a normal life.

At what I had my whole life. She doesn’t even have normal friends.

I mean, she has Nessa Morelli, but the girl’s father is so horrible that she’s never allowed to leave the house, security guards or not, so that friendship is dysfunctional at best.

“I’m happy for you,” I say, smiling through my tears.

I can almost hear her frown on the other side. “Freya, are you okay? You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat, “How’s Papa?”

She reluctantly drops it, answering me. “Not the same. He misses you.”

“And Mama?”

She’s quiet for a while. “You know how she is.” I don’t miss the way she changes the topic. “When will we see you?”

“Soon,” I say, struggling to keep my voice stable, “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Okay . . .” There’s clear worry in her voice. “Take care of yourself, Frey. And behave.” She lowers her voice. “Papa has . . . he has a plan. He wants to talk to you about it.”

I nod tightly. “I’ll be there.”

The call ends.

And I’m trapped again. There’s no one to talk to here. I can’t talk to my friends, or even my sister.

I stare at the door where the devil disappeared, then down at the diamond ring on my hand. It’s like a shackle on my finger, a burning reminder of how much I’ve lost. My agency, my privacy, and any sense of freedom.

And suddenly, I’m angry. It boils up from my stomach, reaching through my ribcage and blooming in my chest.

Just don’t make a mess.

I skirt the broken glass on the floor, striding to the kitchen and picking up a pair of scissors, along with a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf.

Popping open the cap, I take sips of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and it’s so fucking strong that it burns my throat and sends more hot tears to my eyes. I stride upstairs and into the devil’s room, the bottle and scissors still in my hands.

Opening his closet, I pause to take a long, appreciative look at it.

And then I empty it out. Countless shirts go flying in the air, falling haphazardly to the ground.

Then, cross legged on the floor, I start cutting.Bye bye, Tom Ford.

I take turns between sips of whiskey and shearing through material, and I’m halfway through chopping up his stupid shirts when my vision starts to get hazy thanks to the alcohol.

I need to get out of this fucking apartment or I’m going to go insane.

But I have a feeling I’m too far on the psycho train to go back.

Taking another long gulp from the whiskey, I quickly lose track of how much I’ve already downed. I chuck the scissors somewhere behind me, and my head pounds as I make my way out of his room and down the stairs. It’s a miracle I don’t trip and break my neck along the way.

I draw to a stop at the mess on the ground around the dining table. It probably won’t even affect him. He’ll just get some poor soul — probably Giulia — to clean it up. Guilt hits me like a freight train, and I stumble to the kitchen to get a trash bag.

But when I crouch in front of the mess, the sudden movement assaults me and I blink hard, trying to bring my vision back into focus.

I actually do pretty good, and I let out a little inebriated laugh in reaction. But then I stumble forward again, and when I brace my hands ahead of me, they land right into the shards of glass.

Pain tears through my hands as the raw pieces of glass cut through the flesh of my palms — but it suddenly dulls, like the alcohol won’t let me feel the full extent of it.

I wince as I pick out the shards from my flesh, throwing them away.

I pick up the rest of the stuff and then toss them into the trash bag.

Then, I stand shakily, still barefoot. My palms are bleeding now, but I don’t care. I don’t feel a damn thing. And I remember why I came downstairs in the first place.

I need to leave.

I walk to the door and stumble into the elevator, pressing the ground floor button. When I reach, there’s a blurry view of the guards at the entrance, but instead of turning that way, I turn left, to the bar.

When I enter, I can feel a few eyes on me, but no one makes an effort to stop me. I laugh to myself, walking up to the bar and taking a seat. I can already feel the high wearing off.

I glance up to the bartender, his face just a blurry blob with faint concern etched somewhere in it. My voice comes out slurred. “What’s the strongest thing you have?”

Reluctantly, he answers. “Russian vodka.”

“Great,” I say, grinning as I lift my hand with two fingers raised, “Give me three.”

When I look at my fingers, they’re bleeding. Wait. A nervous laugh bubbles up my throat. Why are they bleeding? A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I stagger backward, falling to the floor.

A figure draws up behind me, hands on either side of my shoulders, bracing my fall.

. He has light hair and stubble along his jaw, and there’s a faint smile on his lips, but the rest is blurry.

For a second, I think he might be one of Torren’s men, but I don’t catch any sign of the signature silver earpiece.

“Hi, beautiful.” The man presses harder onto my shoulders, eyeing my bare legs.“Maybe you should take a seat.”

He pulls me to a couch, and I land on top of him. I’m confused and everything is hazy, but the man pulls me into his lap, and for a second, I welcome the human contact.

“I like the outfit,” he says, his gaze coasting appreciatively down my makeshift dress.

“It’s my fiancé’s,” I mutter, “He’s such a dick. I just want to go home but he won’t let me. And he’s been ignoring me for a week—”

The man cuts me off, his expression sour. “I’m not your damn therapist.”

I frown down at him, moving my hips a little as I try to remember how I got in this position in the first place, and he groans as he lowers his gaze to me. “How about I make you forget about him?”

I throw back my head a little as I laugh. “Whoareyou?”

There’s a look of displeasure on his face.

“Whoever you are, you should leave. If he finds out,” I say, “He’ll kill you.”

I move to get off him, but he holds me back down firmly. “Whatever you say, babe.”

I lift a brow. “I’m not joking.”

“Sure.”

And then he shoves his hand under my makeshift dress.

“Wait.” Panic rises up my throat. “I didn’t say you could—”

But he keeps on going, his fingers tracing all the way up my thigh to my underwear. Fear rushes to the surface of my skin and I beg my mind to sober up, but it won’t listen. I can barely even speak properly. “Stop.”

He doesn’t listen, his fingers pushing my underwear aside. “C’monbabe, you came on to me. Now let me feel you up a little.”

A dark awareness tickles in the back of my mind. “I saidstop—”

Suddenly, I’m hauled away from him as strong arms come around my waist and I’m thrown over someone’s back. That scent — fresh soap, white musk, flashes of citrus — I could recognise it anywhere.

Torren.

“Don’t look,” he orders roughly.

Blood rushes to my ears, my hair falling as I get an upside-down view of everything. A gunshot rings in the air. The sound of curses and loud footsteps fill the air. Something slumps to the ground, blood pooling on the floor.

“Clean it up,” Torren grunts to someone.

“What the fuck, man?!”I recognise the voice. Luca.

I?m shifted in his arms as the world moves around me faster, and I feel his dress shirt being pulled further down my legs.

“Letgoof me!” I yell at him, struggling against his hold.

But he doesn’t.

My stomach churns, blood pounding in my headas he carries me into the elevator, and we move up back up to the apartment.I jostle against him as he climbs the stairs and I briefly recognize the flooring of his bedroom before I’m flung to the bed, my body bouncing on the mattress.

His room is a mess, his destroyed clothes covering the floor. My skin flares I receive the full weight of his stare. We glare at each other, and a thick, almost suffocating tension fills the air.

“What did I tell you, Freya?” he says, his voice low. Lethal. His chest rises and falls as he breathes hard. “I said take what you want, just don’t make a mess. And what did you do?”

I don’t say a word. I don’t even bother looking in his direction.

“And what did you fucking do, Freya?”

Suddenly he’s on me, threading his hand through my hair and tugging at the strands so that I’m forced to look up at him. My heart is racing, threatening to leap right out my chest.

“I made a mess,” I snap.

Torren leans forward, scenting the alcohol on my breath. His gaze flares with anger, pupils expanding with unspoken lust.

“Do it,” I dare him, “Fuck me.”

Disgust floods his gaze before he shoves me back to the bed.

“You’re acting like a child,” he says, “I don’t fuck children.”

I lift myself up, flipping him off with my right hand, and his dark eyes narrow. There’s a slow, dangerous pause before he speaks. “What happened to your hand?”

I scowl at him. “Nothing.”

“Show me your hand,” he orders, “Now.”

I flip him off with both hands this time.

There’s a sharp intake of his breath and he reaches for my wrists, gripping then with a heated, rough touch as he turns them around so he can look at my palms. They’re bleeding pretty bad now, and bits of glass are still embedded in my skin, still drawing blood.

His voice is low, almost murderous as he says, “Who did this to you?”

I keep my mouth shut.

“Answer me, Freya.” He grits his teeth. “Was it him? Did he do this to you?”

“No,” I snap, “I did it to myself.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, “What the fuck am I going to do with you?”

He lets go of my wrists, disappearing out of the room. I sigh, collapsing back into the soft bed and ignoring the dull ache of pain in my hands, wanting nothing but to go to sleep. There’s rustling in the background followed by rushed footsteps, and I know he’s back.

The harsh sound of his voice roars in my skull. “Get up.”

I let out a groan of protest as he tugs me up and out of the bed and onto my feet as he pulls me to the bathroom. I plop down on the ledge of the bathtub, letting out a strangled exclamation as I almost fall back into it, but he splays his big hand against my lower back, pushing me up.

The raw heat of his palm spreads through my skin, and it feel so good I let out a moan, but it comes out more like a groan of pain instead. Torrens’s brows furrow.

He supports my back with one hand, rifling through what looks like a first aid kit with the other, taking out a pair of surgical tweezers. Then, he repositions me so that I’m leaning back against the wall.

His closeness, and the absurdity of his actions confuse me. There’s a pulsing heat stirring low in my stomach, hollow and uncertain, and I hate it. I glare up at him. “Don’t help me.”

“Shut up.” He snarls. “Fuckin? brat.”

He pulls out a piece of glass from my hand, and a sharp pain shoots up my arm. I hiss, and my first instinct reach out to squeeze his shoulder with my other hand, but I can’t. Torren scoffs, pushing himself between my thighs. Warmth hums between my legs, pulsing and throbbing madly.

He crouches in front of me, looking up at me for a brief second, his dark hair falling against his forehead. His eyes darken with something implacable before he scowls and drags his gaze back down at my hands.

He removes another piece, and I hiss, clenching his sides with my thighs. We make brief eye contact, and he gives me a murderous glance before looking away, tightening his jaw like he’s deeply annoyed by something.

I just want this to be over so I can sleep. Even the bathtub is looking real appealing right now . . . I find myself leaning backward into it, my eyelids fluttering closed.

“Situp,” Torren growls, tweezing out a big piece of glass too quickly. On purpose.

“Ow,” I whine, locking my legs around him in a death grip.

Torren’s hands settle on my thighs as he shoves them apart, shooting me a repulsed look. I roll my eyes, dangling my legs.

He douses my hands in some ointment and then wraps them meticulously in bandages from the first aid box. The way he wraps is neat. Clean. Precise. For a second, he glances up at me, and something flashes in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but scowls to himself and closes it again.

My gaze snatches on the gun tucked in his pants and I realize something. He didn’t take the ring off my hand before wrapping the bandage. The weight of the cold metal still heavy, and it sends a shock of sobriety through my system.

I shoot to my feet, lunging for the gun, and before he can even register what’s happening, I aim it at him.

Betrayal, caution and anger lights up in his eyes as they go to my hand. I tug the safety down.

“Put it down,” he says, an eery calm to his voice.

I can end this right now. Stop the marriage. Free my family.

My heart thunders in my chest.

“Freya,” he says again, his voice a clear warning, “Put. The gun. Down.”

I pull the trigger.

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