Torment

24

It’s early night, the sky a gentle black as the car glides on the road. I pull down the visor above my seat to check my reflection in the tiny mirror. My hair is in a centre path, left down, air-dried in loose waves.

I dump the contents of my clutch into the cup holder, ignoring the pointed glare I get from Torren as I apply some mascara, then a smidge of black eye pencil to smoke up my lids. I paint on a blush-pink lipstick and dab some of it on the crests of my cheeks, so it doubles up as blush.

Torren brings his hand over the steering wheel as he takes a turn. I feel his stare on me, heated and heavy, before it’s lazily dragged back to the road.

I press my lips together then smack then obnoxiously, turning to face his side profile. “What am I expected to do at this thing, anyway?”

“Sit still,” he says. “Look pretty.”

“That first part will be little hard for me.”

He reaches over me, slamming my visor back up. “The second part, too.”

I scoff. “Can you not be mean for like . . . two seconds?”

He stays quiet for a deliberate two seconds. Then he says, “Don’t cause any trouble. There’ll be cameras, and it’s bad press.”

I lift a brow. “Oh, so I’m bad press now?”

“You’re bad everything,” he mutters. My heart shoots up to my throat when he swings an arm over my headrest, glancing back as he reverses into a parking. “Little hellfire.”

Gritting my teeth, I get out the car before he can properly switch it off. A cool breeze leaps over my skin as I scan the tall, fawn building ahead of me— designed like Roman architecture, its entrance adorned with bright lighting.

Torren kills the engine and slides out the car. For a single second, his eyes drop to my dress slit, the part where the midnight black material splits to show skin. And then he drags it back up to my throat, where the diamond collar sits.

I brush past him and start walking.

We pass the colossal pinewood doors, wide open where the maroon carpet begins. There’s a buzzing in the air as people I can’t recognize mill around. Long, elaborate dresses and more suits than I can count.

Cameras flash. The largest chandelier I’ve ever seen hangs above us, the crystals shimmering.

He didn’t tell me it would be this . . . fancy. I feel strangely out of place. Me leading a normal life meant that I was never allowed to attend events like this. I got used to it eventually, but some part of me always longed to be invited. To feel like I was a part of something.

Unbidden, words ring in my mind.

If you want to belong so badly, belong to me.

Skin thrumming, I send an uneasy frown Torren’s way, and he catches it. Before I know it, he’s reaching over, sneaking his palm into my own. Something inside me ignites at the touch.

We walk in together, and eyes are darting our way from all directions.

I tense, and Torren squeezes a little tighter on my hand. It’s strangely reassuring.

I try to separate myself from him, but he just tightens his grasp, the warmth of his rough palm spreading through my skin.

We circle our way around a resplendent ice fountain in the shape of a swan, faint blue light illuminating the detailed carving on the wings.

Servers circle us carrying trays filled with an assortment of hors de’vours.

I get a glimpse of it all — brussel sprout sliders, prosciutto and puffed mushroom, garlic butter broccoli, and some shrimp cocktail thing, which looks more like art than food.

Across the room, I catch sight of my family at the entrance. Papa, Mama, and Ana, entering together. Now that I’m here, representing the Morozov name, I didn’t think they’d be here as well. Torren’s grasp on my hand loosens and I pace to my father.

He grunts as I crash into his chest for a hug. “You’re here?”

“It’s for charity, lisenok,” he says, “It would look bad if we didn’t come.”

Mama’s standing at his side, and I move to hug her, but she shrugs me off abruptly. Embarrassment and the sting of rejection blooms in my chest. She couldn’t even pretend for the cameras?

“Mama,” Ana rebukes.

She’s ignored.

“We’ll be back,” Mama says, clutching onto Papa’s arm. “We need to have a word with someone.”

And just like that, they brush past me.

I turn back to find Torren glaring at me with his jaw tight and an unkempt anger in his eyes. For a moment, he just stands there. Waiting for me to do something. When it’s clear that I’m not planning to doing anything at all, he clenches his jaw and walks away.

Sighing, I turn to my sister. Ana’s blonde hair falls to her chest in big curls, framing her heart-shaped face. She’s in a floor length silk dress in her signature color — white. The silk sits across her shoulders, clinging to her figure perfectly.

I’m the yin to her yang.

When I was younger, Halloween was my favorite time of the year.

As long as my makeup and costume gave me a good enough disguise, I was allowed to dress up and go trick o’ treating.

We matched outfits more often than not. Ana was the angel, I was the devil.

She was the white swan, and I was the black one.

This year, she was going to be Glinda the Good, and I was going to be the Wicked Witch of the West. But I already used the hideous witch dress for lunch with the Costas, and it doesn’t matter, anyway, because I doubt I’ll be able to celebrate Halloween all the way from Russia.

I refocus my gaze on my sister.

“You look pretty,” I tell her.

“You too,” she says, “Who did your makeup?”

“I did,” I mumble, “In the car on the way here.”

Mama gets makeup artists and stylists to come over to the house for big events, so Ana’s makeup is immaculate. Her big green eyes are lined to perfection, her skin matte and poreless.

“How do you always do that?” she murmurs.

My brows meet. “What?”

“Make it all look so effortless,” she says, her voice turns distant. “All I do is try.”

I offer her an empty smile. “Wanna swap places?”

Ana frowns, about to respond, when a silvery voice calls over to us.

“Ana?”

We turn to find Nessa Morelli traipsing over to us with an entire charcuterie board of food in her hands.

She’s stunning. There’s no other way to put it. Olive skin, thick, dark chocolate hair, pulled into a high ponytail. High cheekbones and blue-green eyes, full lips painted ruby red. The epitome of Italian beauty.

Her red dress matches the shade of her lips.

It’s a dramatic creation of tulle, with a deep V-neckline, cinched at the waist with giant, puffy sleeves.

A long train at the back but short at the front, exposing the length of her long, toned legs.

Nessa’s always had an . . . eclectic taste in fashion.

Ana rushes into Nessa for a hug.

“Woah,” Nessa exclaims, lifting her tray of food. “Watch the goods!”

“Sorry.” Ana flushes. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I’m starving,” Nessa says, casually popping a pastry into her mouth. “Swiped it from one of the servers. Why is the food at these things always so tiny?”

Genuine concern flickers in Ana’s eyes as she watches Nessa, and I almost laugh. Once, when we were younger, Ana and Nessa were playing while our fathers discussed business. I got jealous and joined them. Ana made Nessa swear to never tell anyone that I existed.

She never did.

“Nes,” Ana whispers. “People are looking.”

They are. They’re whispering, too. Nessa’s not exactly trying to blend in, walking around with a big red dress and eating from her stolen charcuterie board.

Nessa waves a dismissive hand, setting the board down on the table next to us. “Let them watch. I’m getting punished either way.”

Ana frowns. “Punished? For wh—”

Nessa cuts her off. “So Torren’s engaged to you now?”

I nod briefly. “Yep.”

She separates from Ana, curiosity dousing her features. “How’d that happen?”

“Long story. Now I have a 24/7 shackle.” I lift my hand to show her my ring, but my hand is empty.

“What the hell?” Panic floods my veins. “Where’s the ring?”

I never took that stupid ring off. I’ve even showered with it a few times.

“At least it’s a pretty shackle.” Nessa grins, lifting her hand. I narrow my eyes as I notice my ring sitting on her index finger.

My mouth drops. “How did you do that?”

Nessa shrugs. “Learnt it from a clown at a kids’ party.”

She pulls the band off her finger, offering me my own ring back. Still reeling, I take it back, slipping the cool metal back on.

Nessa turns to Ana. “So you get your freedom now?”

“Not for long,” Ana mumbles sourly. “Mama’s trying to get me engaged.”

Nessa sighs. “To the highest bidder, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah,” Ana mumbles. “Mother knows best.”

Seriously? I frown, making a mental note to ask her more about it later.

“Where’s your father?” I ask Nessa, thinking back to the meeting, where I corrected Jon Morelli.

At this, there’s a flash of discomfort in her yellow-flecked eyes. She covers it up quickly, passing me a close-lipped smile. “You pissed him off so much that he didn’t want to come.”

My lips part in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep.” She reaches over to her board, popping another pastry into her mouth. “So I have you to thank for my five minutes of freedom. Oh!—” She stops a server who’s walking by, grabbing three martini glasses.

Ana’s eyes widen. “Nessa, I don’t think . . .”

“Relax,” Nessa mutters, digging out something — a flask — from her bra. She pours an equal amount of liquid into the three glasses, then passes one to Ana and me.

“What is that?” I ask her.

“Tequila,” she replies, “The drinks they give out are non-alcoholic. It’s a family event.”

Nessa lifts her glass. “To freedom.”

Ana’s brows pull together. “I don’t think this is a good id—”

I shrug, lifting my glass. “To freedom.”

“Oh, what the hell.” Ana sighs, clinking her glass with ours.

And there we are, three girls with little to no freedom, toasting to it.

The alcohol works fast, coursing through my veins and sending a buzz under my skin. I look up from my empty glass to find Mama barrelling toward us, sending Nessa and I poisonous glares before dragging Ana away.

Nessa passes me a sour look. “God, how do you manage a day with that heinous bitch?”

I shrug. “I’m not entirely sure.”

Brief discomfort flashes in her eyes. “I gotta pee. Watch my board!”

And then she turns and walks off, and I’m alone.

From my periphery, I catch sight of Torren. He’s in the distance, partially blocked by suits and dresses.

The view clears, and at his side, there’s a woman in an elaborate velvet gown, leaning in and looking up at him as if entranced.

She’s beautiful — slim, tall, blonde hair, and wearing immaculate makeup. She looks like some sort of model.

And maybe she is.

She has her hand perched on his arm, and she’s talking to him with an animated air. Like she’s enjoying it. And Torren . . . he’s glancing at her as she talks. I can’t read his features, it’s too far to deduce anything.

They must know each other.

It’s strange, seeing him talk to anyone other than Luca. Of course, he’d spoken to Luca and his father, but that was often only to argue with them. And he isn’t arguing with this lady, no. It’s far from it.

He’s listening to her.

I watch as she talks, and apparently she says something funny, because she laughs at her own joke.

Then, he looks my way.

I look away as conspicuously as possible, but I know it’s too late. I don’t have to look to see it’s there — I can feel it — the way the corner of his lips tips up a little.

Great. I grit my teeth. Now he knows I’d been watching like some sort of creep. My breath hitches, and I swallow, fidgeting with the edge of the cloth that covers a nearby table.

This is all a game to him. All a game to someone who can get anything he wants, who has gotten anything he wants. I’d be plain stupid if I don’t see the way people look at him. The way women look at him.

That woman — the one who looks like a model. He’s been with her before. I know it. He’s been with many women before.

So where do I fit in?

Across the floor, my mother is holding Ana’s forearm as they talk to some businessman.

Along the way, some server offers me bubbling rose-gold champagne. I pluck the glass off the tray, downing it in one go.

I catch sight of someone walking over in my periphery. Looking up, I find Luca.

He cracks a bright white smile, locks of his dark hair strewn across his forehead. In a sleek black suit and bowtie, he’s quite the sight. He follows my gaze to a clearly entertained Torren.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, you know,” Luca says.

“Really?” I murmur, trying not to sound like I care. “She looks like she’s in love with him.”

Luca shrugs. “She probably is.”

Something seems to implode inside me, but I brush the feeling aside. I replace the empty glass in my hand with another from a moving server and start sipping on it.

“He was with her while he was engaged to my sister?” I ask him.

Luca’s eyes glitter as he looks at the expression on my face. “Did you really expect him to abstain from sex for five years?”

Irritation flickers inside my chest. “No.”

Before I can tip the contents of the second glass back, Luca gently plucks it out of my grasp and places it on a nearby table.

The mixture of champagne with my earlier shot of tequila starts to bubble under my veins, and the question spills from my lips. “Does he dance?”

“Torren?”

I nod.

Luca laughs at the idea. “No. I’ll give you ten bucks if you can get him on the dance floor.”

“Only ten bucks?” I scoff. “Cheapskate.”

His eyes slide behind me again. “Ten bucks and bragging rights.”

I grin. “You’re on.”

As if on cue, two boys walk over to Luca’s side. The taller one looks around sixteen, the short one with curly hair and glasses, around ten. Luca hugs both of them at his side, ruffling the shorter one’s curls.

“Freya,” Luca says, “Meet my brothers. Mickey and Phillip.”

Before I can say anything else, the taller one steps forward and reaches for my hand. Leaning forward, he places kiss on my hand before I can retract it.

“Michael,” he says, “But people who love me call me Mickey.”

I can’t help but smile. “Like the mouse?”

Phillip chews back a grin.

“Yeah, but the hot version.” Mickey winks. “You know what would make me look even hotter? You. In my arms.”

Luca laughs. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Maybe get out of high school first,” I murmur to Mickey. “I think I’m too old for you.”

“I like my women how I like my wine,” he says, “A little aged.”

“You aren’t even old enough to drink, you dumbfuck,” Luca says.

Mickey pulls at his suit jacket and reveals his arm, which is wrapped up in saran wrap. “I’m old enough to get one of these.”

Luca steps forward and slaps him on the back of his head. “I told you not to get that!”

Mickey shrugs his brother off. “Not my problem you’re scared of needles.”

I notice that the younger Costa, Phillip, is still quietly staring up at me. Luca and Mickey seem alike, but Phillip is clearly an introvert, used to being ignored. I lean down, giving him a small smile. “Hi, Phillip.”

He blushes. “Hi.”

He’s adorable.

Luca makes a disgruntled noise, still annoyed with Mickey. “Where’d you get it, anyway?”

“This dude under the bridge on main street,” Mickey says.

Luca knits his brows. “Yo, what the fuck, man? Now you might get some fucked up infection.”

“Not the worst way to go,” Mickey murmurs. He turns to face me again and smiles, “Before I die, will you go on a date with me?”

Just to entertain the kid, I mutter a dry, “Sure.”

“Sure, what?” Torren’s voice sounds from behind me.

Mickey goes pale as a sheet. “Uh, hey, boss. Lookin’ good. Your wife’s cool. I’ll, uh . . . I’ll see you later.”

And with that, he disappears, and I already kinda miss him.

I turn to Torren, recalling Lucas bet. “Hello, my love,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “Would you like to dance with me?”

A line forms between his brows, and something twitches in his jaw as he looks at me blankly. “No.”

I huff. “Fine.”

Swivelling on my heels, I walk back to Luca and his brothers, leaning down to glance at Phillip. “Hey. Wanna dance?”

Phillip’s eyes go wide, and Luca pushes him forward with a grin.

I pull him over not giving him a chance to run away as I pull his hands to settle on my sides and settle mine on his shoulders. I resist the urge to smile as a flush creeps up his neck, his cheeks ripening like a tomato.

Phillip blinks. “You’re, um, real pretty.”

My lips twitch. “Thank you.”

To his credit, Phillip is actually a good dancer. He doesn’t step on my toes once or trip me, or try to cop a feel. The same can’t be said for some of the college boys I’ve slow-danced with in the past.

“Sorry about my brother,” Phillip says, flushing even brighter and not meeting my eye.

I shake my head. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

The song changes to Frank Sinatra’s I’ve Got You Under My Skin. Across the room, Luca grins, like this whole scene is hilarious to him. I roll my eyes and smile back, about to flip him off, when suddenly—

“Move it, little man.”

I feel a jerk on my arm, someone much bigger, taller and meaner takes Phillip’s place.

Just like that, the gentle lightness of in the air disappears, replaced by a heavy darkness and the invasive scent of him.

Torren.

His hands settle on either side of my waist, dangerously low. A tremor pulses through my body at his touch.

And then he starts to dance with me, moving as smooth as he drives.

“What was that?” he asks, jaw tight.

“What?” I blurt, confused.

He narrows his eyes. “You smiled at him.”

“The ten-year-old kid?”

Torren grits his teeth. “No. Luca.”

I frown. “So I can’t smile now? What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t reply.

He just pulls me closer, the brand of his hand scorching the flesh on small of my back. The light of the chandelier hits his eyes at a strange angle, casting a scarlet-gold haze over them. He leans down to my ear, his lips so close that his heated breath fans my cheeks.

“Your tears,” he says, his voice low, “Your smiles, your laughter, your frowns. Your midnights and mornings. All of it. All of you.”

A shiver runs down my spine as he continues moving, a dark phantom on the floor, and irritation flickers inside me. “I’ll make sure to bottle them all up for you.”

Annoyance contorts his features for a split second before it dissolves into a blank sheet of neutrality. He glides with me across the floor, silent for a while, before he speaks. “Your mother. Why do you allow her to treat you like shit?”

I frown, an ache growing in my chest.

“It’s your father who cheated,” he says, “She has no reason to hate you.”

“The same way you hate me?” I say, “For no reason?”

His mouth pulls into a scowl.

Suddenly, hushed whispers fill the room. A huge man — like seriously huge — enters the ballroom, broad shoulders straining against his black suit. Light brown hair falls over his forehead, his piercing grey eyes scanning the room.

Rune Volkov.

He gaze settles on the corner of the room, where Nessa and Ana are talking.

A few paces behind them, my father’s eyes are wide. He knows nothing about Rune’s appearance. When I turn back to Torren, there?s a sense of victory lurking in his gaze as he spins me in his arms.

My heart free falls in my chest.

He knows.

? ? ?

author?s note:

spoiler for chapter 25 on my instagram @rhianovakauthor and more on my twitter @rhianovakauthor

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see you next chapter 3