Torment

23

Torren spreads his legs as he leans back on the couch, his attention on the screen.

He’s seriously focusing his gaze on the show.

How the hell is he so nonchalant? I grit my teeth. So much for seducing him. He’s so damn confusing. He was turned on by me. I know he was. So why didn’t he just give in?

“Someone would have paid good money for that,” I grind out.

He doesn’t even look up from the screen. “Too bad I just got it for free.”

Anger courses through my veins, and I stay rooted to the spot in front the couch, in between where he’s sitting and the TV.

He gives me a brief glace, annoyance flickering in his gaze. “I’ll pay you to get out of the way.”

I clench my fists at my sides. “You are such an asshole.”

“Took notes from your father,” he murmurs dryly.

I narrow my eyes. “And not your own?”

He shrugs. “Him, too.”

God. The senseless apathy rolling off him is infuriating. I’ve never wanted to physically hurt someone so much in my entire life.

“What do you want, huh?” I ask him. “One second you’re avoiding me like the plague, the next you’re murdering someone for me. Insulting me, then braiding my hair and feeding me. Just tell me what you want.”

He’s quiet for a while, simmering silently on the couch, before he finally decides to speak.

“Nothing,” he says, “I want nothing from you. Every second you’re here, with me is a second your father is worrying himself sick. And that’s enough for me.”

I grind down on my molars. “I’m done.”

He shifts his gaze to me again. “With what?”

“This,” I mutter, lifting my hands in exasperation. “You.”

His gaze turns molten, eating up every pore on my face. “Like hell you are.”

For a second, I’m tempted to spill it all. Everything — that I have an option to leave. To marry Rune Volkov and run far, far away from him and this place.

Instead, I draw back. Cool down. And say, “I’m not always going to be here.”

A quiet, dangerous calm settles in the air between us.

“Yes,” he says, quietly, “you are.”

He says it with such firm resoluteness, like he’s not the least bit insecure about what I’ve said. He just disregards it. Confidently.

And just like that, anger bubbles up my throat, to the surface of my skin. I feel my ears go hot from it.

“You’re sick, and you’re a control freak,” I spit, “You say you’re nothing like your father, but really? You’re living proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

He goes still.

I don’t wait for his reaction.

I storm into my room in a rushed frenzy, changing into a pair of leggings. Then I slip on my jacket and sneakers.

I charge back into the living room, where Torren is still sitting.

I don’t care that it’s four a.m. I’m not spending another second in this house.

And with that, I’m out the apartment in seconds.

He doesn’t stop me.

It takes a while for me to get a cab, but we’re in upper east Manhattan, and it’s a Saturday morning — the aftermath of a Friday night — so people are probably only just returning home from partying.

I hail a cab, getting in.

“Where to, ma’am?” the driver calls from the front.

I sit back, glancing out the window. “The ice rink.”

The driver goes quiet. “It’s four a.m.”

“I know.”

He sighs, then starts driving. No doubt my request isn’t the strangest he’s heard, anyway. The rink isn’t far, and there’s not as much traffic on the roads around this time.

New York is forever lit up. Forever alight. Bright, effulgent energy permeating the air. I love the city. It was nice living in the heart of it, away from my father’s mansion on Staten Island and everything that came with it.

Now, cars still roll past, and the night is breaking into a dark morning. The city lights everything up, so one wouldn’t really be able to tell the difference between early morning or late night.

It?s not long before we reach the ice rink, and I settle the bill with the cab driver, stepping out on the street.

The rink is closed around this time, but I worked as a marshal in my junior year of college, and they never changed the security codes since. There’s not much to steal from an ice rink, anyway.

It’s how I used to sneak in later on, sometimes, late at night when my political science essays were killing me and I needed an escape.

I switch on the back lights of the arena, giving myself enough light for sight, but also not too much that passers-by notice and decide to investigate.

Normally, I’d have Ben with me for company, but honestly, I don’t want anything to do with anyone else.

I just want to be alone.

I fish out ice skates from the rental cubicles. They’re not my own, but they’ll do. I fit them on over my socks, and then I glide out on the ice.

As soon as I get on the ice, I feel lighter. It’s like soothing balm on an open cut. As I go through my routine, I forget about my crappy, crappy life.

All I taste is freedom.

I ease into the routine, just doing regular warm-ups around the rink. And then I shift into harder runs—a jump and twirl, a flip, axel, toe loop, and finally a Lutz.

And then I repeat it.

Over and over, like religion.

It’s around eight a.m. when the sun starts to filter into the ice rink. Four hours of skating non-stop. Exhaustion tugs at my bones, but I push myself further.

I missed this.

And I need it to burn.

I land a spin as a shadow appears at the other end of the rink, singing me.

My heart kicks up a beat, and when I squint my eyes, I recognize the person.

Torren.

He’s freshly showered, his arms folded across his chest as he watches me with they now familiar, annoyingly intrusive dark gaze.

Just like all that time back, when I turned down lunch to go skating instead.

The sight of his face, and the heat of his presence skitters down my spine like a harsh intrusion.

Why did he come? And how did he find me? When I left the apartment to see my friends, he didn’t come looking for me. Why now?

I clamp down on my jaw, realizing that I don’t care. Ignoring his presence, I run through the jumps again.

Except this time, I seriously torture myself with it. I take turn after turn with little break in between, and it’s dangerous enough to snap my ankle if I land badly.

I never do.

Now that he’s here, it takes more effort to push away the feelings of anger and frustration. The bubble up and over the surface like an overstuffed volcano. I catch his gaze as I cut through the ice, shards of ice chipping and flying from the icy white surface of the rink as I take a hard landing.

I catch something in his eyes. Admiration? I huff an air of breath. No. It can’t be. And even if it was, I don’t need it from him.

I draw to a stop, my muscles spent, my bones jelly. I climb off the ice, taking a seat on the bench as I remove my skates.

Pain has seized every inch of my feet, but as I roll my ankles around slowly, the burn is satisfying, almost. The pain will be worse tomorrow.

I feel a dark gaze on me again, and I glance up find Torren still watching me, deep curiousity lurking in his eyes.

For a second, I think of ignoring him and getting a cab. But I don’t care that much. Not really.

It’s decided.

I’m going to tell my father that I’ve accepted his proposal.

And I’m leaving to Russia as soon as possible.

Torren doesn’t say a word to me. He just strides towards the exit, his hands in his pockets.

Breathing in and out, I pick up the skates and slot then back into their box, and I follow after him.

He’s in the driver’s seat of the Audi. I open the passenger door, sliding in.

The car ride is quiet.

A thick, heavy silence sits between us. No sounds, save for the whir of the vehicle as it glides along the road. I don’t bother trying to fill the silence with music or empty conversation.

I don’t speak to him.

Not once.

I sleep in my own room, and I even start using the guest bathroom, which was originally meant for me.

Torren doesn’t question it. In fact, I barely see him, even though we live in the same house. He leaves early, not around when I wake up, and returns late. Sometimes I hear him return and go back to sleep.

I love it.

The less I have to see him, the better.

I spend time with Rhaegar. Reading, watching TV, or swimming in the pool. I even convince Giulia to stay over for longer.

One day, I walk out my room while Giulia’s cooking in the kitchen, and Torren hasn’t left yet. My heart jumps in my chest, my skin pricking from the heavy weight of his stare.

I don’t know why, but his gaze feels livid. But it’s also . . . desperate, somehow. Like he’s angry that I’m ignoring him, but also needy for my attention.

Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.

Either way, I ignore him, pouring myself a glass of water.

He clenches his jaw, walking out apartment and slamming the door behind him.

I startle, and the glass slips from my hands. It shatters on the floor and I wince, immediately bending to try and pick it up.

“Miss Freya!” Giulia exclaims.

She pushes me out the way with her short, stout body, then pulls on rubber gloves and starts picking up the pieces of glass.

Tears prickle at my eyes. I can’t help it.

Giulia frowns when her gaze settles on me. “You hurt?”

“No.” I shake my head, the tears falling down my cheeks.

Confusion laces her features. “Why do you cry?”

I shrug. “It’s nothing.”

You remind me of a mother I never had.

Giulia’s gaze goes soft, and somehow, even without me saying it, I know she understands.

I wipe at my cheeks with my palms, sniffing. “Can you . . . can you just call me Freya, please?”

Giulia grimaces. “Miss Freya?”

I shake my head. “Freya.”

“Miss?” she tries.

“Just Freya.”

Giulia sighs, taking a breath. “Fine. Freya.”

My lips curve. For a second, I seriously consider kidnapping Giulia and taking her to Russia with me.

Because that’s where I’m going. Russia. The thought hits me, and I feel like crying again.

I’m seriously going to leave everything behind. All of it. The good and the bad. And although I’m not sure how to feel about it, my mind is set.

Exactly one week after my visit to the rink, I come out the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me to find Giulia telling me that there’s a dress prepared for me.

The charity ball.

I remember Torren asking about it. But we haven’t spoken for days, and it completely slipped my mind.

“Whatever it is,” I tell her, “I’m not wearing it, Giuls.”

It’s no doubt one of his stupid little attempts to get me to look like some sort of pure angel.

Giulia purses her lips. “Maybe you see dress first, no?”

There’s a sour taste in my mouth, but I don’t protest as Giulia lugs in a Vivienne Westwood hanger with a long dress perched on it.

My mouth dries.

The dress is stunning. Long, black, and slim fit, with thin straps and a low cut.

It’s covered in shimmering black sequins, from the bust to the hem, which pools in a short train at the bottom of the dress.

And my favorite part — a deep slit running all the way from the middle of the dress to the hem.

“You like?” Giulia asks, shaking the hanger.

I nod, numbly taking the dress from her.

There’s no way I’m not trying it on. This dress was practically made for me.

I slip into the dress, and it fits like a glove. It’s backless, and there’s a short zip from my tailbone to the bottom of my back.

I fish out my pair of black Louboutin pumps, slipping them on so that the length of the dress sits better.

Then I trudge out of my room, looking for Giulia. “Giulia!” I call. “Will you help me with this?”

There’s no response, but a few seconds later, I feel hands brand my lower back, skimming my ass.

It’s not Giulia.

I’d know that touch anywhere—recognize the specific scent of cologne in a crowd of thousands.

Torren.

“I can do it myself,” I grind out, trying to shrink out of his touch.

The first words I’ve spoken to him in days. It feels like I’m breaking an unsung vow.

His voice is quiet. Lethal, but soothing, almost, as he holds me in place by my hips, the heat of his palms seeping into my flesh through the material of the dress. “I know.”

He stays behind me, pressing his fingers into my lower back as he pulls the zip up frustratingly slow.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, behind me.

My stomach does a flip, and I feel like punching myself for the traitorous reaction.

I walk back into my room, huffing an annoyed breath as I stare at myself in the mirror.

And to my complete and utter annoyance, Torren follows.

I knit my brows, glaring up at him in disapproval. He ignores my glare, coming up behind me in the mirror. My body heats with him at my back, and the way he devours my reflection in the mirror should be criminal.

I can’t deny that I look good. The dress really was made for me. It sits on my body like a second skin, dark and glittering and alive. I look like a dark princess.

Something catches my eye, in his hand, and I turn to look down at it with a frown.

Torren flips over his inked hand, revealing a diamond choker.

“Is this supposed to be for me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

He wants me to wear a diamond choker?

The slow amusement that lurks in his eyes is all the answer I need. My blood boils, and a scowl pulls at my lips.

A collar is still a collar, no matter how many diamonds you slap on it.

“If you want another dog,” I growl, “Get one.”

He tilts his head as he studies me.

“You want my loyalty?” I spit. “Then earn it.” I turn back to the mirror. “You want my forgiveness? Apologize.”

Torren sighs, setting the choker on my dresser. “My father’s motto is ask for forgiveness, never permission. Mine is the opposite.”

What? So he won’t apologize? Fine.

“Give back my family’s emblem,” I demand.

He exhales deeply, seemingly ignoring my demand. Instead, his arm comes around me, his fingers skimming my throat. I train my gaze on my reflection, even as my stomach erupts, and a pulse starts between my legs.

“All these symbols around your neck . . .” he murmurs. His fingers press tighter around my throat, my pulse fluttering wildly in my neck.

He stares at my heart locket in the mirror, dark, liquid malice in his eyes.

“If you want to be owned so badly,” he says, “let me be the one to own you.”

My heart thuds in my chest like a captive.

He lowers his mouth to my ear, his voice low and rough. “If you want to belong so badly, belong to me.”

I swallow, refusing to say a word. It doesn’t help that my throat is dryer than a desert, or that the pulse between my legs is now so strong I feel like I might pass out.

“Wear the necklace,” he says, “and I’ll give you something I’ve never given anyone else.”

I narrow my eyes at him in the mirror. “What?”

“Control,” he says, “Five minutes. You can do whatever you want to me.”

I scoff. “Ten minutes.”

He’s resolute, his jaw tight. “Seven or nothing.”

I frown, sceptical. “Seven minutes, I get to do whatever I want to you, and you won’t touch me?”

He nods, simply, like it isn’t the most bizzare and twisted thing anyone’s ever bartered with.

And I must be insane, because I nod my head, agreeing. “Fine.”

Morbid glee enters his gaze, and he steps away from my back, taking a seat on my vanity chair, instead. He leans forward, playing with his watch, before turning his wrist to show me a seven minute timer.

“When you’re ready,” he murmurs.

I step over to him in heels, the gown on my body trailing behind me. Swallowing, I reach over and dig my fingers into the knot of his tie, loosening it until the entire strip of material is in my hands.

He doesn’t make a move to stop me. Instead, the corner of his mouth tips up.

I fan out the tie, edging closer to him. He glances up at me as I pull the tie over his eyes, leaning over him to make a tight bow at the back of his head.

The smirk on his lips deepens.

He starts the timer.

I freeze. Cheat. I never said I was ready.

“What’s wrong, little Morozov?” he muses. “Cat got your tongue?”

It’s only then that I feel a deep sense of regret, because I should’ve used the tie to gag him, instead.

“That mouth of yours has better places to be,” he says, goading me, “ Like around my—”

I slap him.

Hard.

The sound cracks in the air. His face moves a little to the left from the impact, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move his hands from behind the chair. His jaw clenches and he turns back to me with a smile.

A smile.

Straight white teeth, his incisors sharp digging into his lower lip. It’s a mixture of mocking and malice.

Something in my stomach spirals. What the hell? Is he a masochist?

As if he can read my thoughts, Torren sits back in the chair. His pants strain as he spreads his thighs wider. Waiting for more.

He tilts his head as he regards me, the blindfold only adding to his appeal, because the bottom half of his face isn’t any less attractive than the top half. His jawline is sharp, his lips full.

“That the worst you got?” he muses.

Gritting my teeth, I edge closer and climb into his lap, biting down when it sends a sharp zing up my core and casts a violet-red haze over my mind.

I still have five more minutes.

Leaning forward, my heart climbs up my throat as my breath mixes with his. I’m close enough to kiss him, but that’s not what I want.

No.

I pull his bottom lip between my teeth and bite. Hard. Until I feel the metallic taste of blood on my tongue. Until it masks the taste of his lips.

Twisted pleasure erupts in my stomach, spreading though my chest like a wildfire. It’s cathartic.

I pull back to admire my artwork, a tiny bead of red blood on his swollen lip. And then I lean in, cupping his cleanly shaven jaw in my hands as I lick it off his lips.

If I lick it, it’s mine.

I glance down at his watch.

Four minutes left.

Just four minutes, and I want more.

His body radiates heat as he angles his head up at me, his lips bruised and swollen. A feral delight erupts inside me as I start moving my hips — back and forth, and then in a circle.

My lace underwear is so thin that I can feel his hard length against my clit, and the friction so delicious that I can’t stop. I press down harder into him, and he groans. Out loud. The sound is so raw, so hot and throaty that I let out a soft moan of my own.

I keep going, keep circling his cock though his pants, keep pressing down on him to relieve the pressure building at my core. Up, up, up.

And then it hits me.

The timer on his watch beeps.

And I come, choking back my moan and trying to steady my shaking body. His hands come up to settle on my ass.

It’s quick and dirty and fast. We’re both breathing hard when it’s over, and my cheeks flame as I realize what I’ve just done.

When I glance back at Torren, I expect there to be some sort of admonition at the fact that he allowed me to use him like that.

But he’s laying back on the chair, confident as usual. There’s a lazy amazement in his gaze, and it’s . . . smug, almost. Satiated. Satisfied. I scowl, tearing off him. I’m fully dressed, for crying out loud. I still have my heels on.

I ease off him, standing on my feet as I pick up the diamond choker from my dresser and try to put it on, but my hands are shaking from the orgasm.

I can’t believe I came so hard just from . . . dry sex. Like some horny teenager.

Torren pulls the makeshift blindfold away and rises from the chair.

His gaze drops to the diamond choker around my neck and then just a little lower, before he looks up at me.

His eyes darken dangerously, but maybe I’m just imagining it, because it’s gone almost instantly, replaced with a smug look of satisfaction.

I glare at him in the mirror.

“Every time you think you’re in control,” I murmur, “think about the time you willingly handed it over to me, instead. Think about how I used you to make myself come, because you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

He doesn?t say anything, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Guess that’s why they call it seven minutes in heaven.”

? ? ?

author?s note:

spoiler for chapter 24 on my instagram @rhianovakauthor and more on my twitter @rhianovakauthor

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see you next chapter 3