28
My sister may act like she doesn’t want love, when really, she wants it more than anyone else.
So if you can’t give it to her, let her go.
I’ve never felt anything for Anastasia Morozov. Maybe she isn’t the lifeless doll she pretends to be. But now she annoys the fuck out of me.
Because she gets so easily what I’ll never have.
Freya’s loyalty.
I can do what I want — push the little Morozov into my home, put my ring on her finger, get her to wear my diamond collar around her neck — but in the end, there are things I’ll never be able to force. Never be able to buy. Like her loyalty. And her trust.
And I know, without a doubt, that given the choice she between her sister and I, Freya will always choose her sister.
Envy wraps its green vines around my neck.
I’m envious of Anastasia. Her, and everyone else who has the one thing I can never get.
So when I get back to the building to find the little Morozov in conversation with someone who looks suspiciously similar to the fucker from all those days ago at the ice rink, my blood heats.
I step up closer, but Freya’s so engrossed in her little conversation that she doesn’t even notice me. The boy with glasses has his gaze fixed on her. It was clear then, and it’s clear now.
He’s in love with her.
My blood drips with spite.
I should have put a bullet in his skull when I had the chance.
He says something that makes Freya pout her lips and cross her delicate brows in anger — it’s not the wild, untamed anger she often sends my way. This anger is restrained — protective, almost. She cares about him.
And then he says something that casts a blood red haze over my mind.
“Run away with me,” he says, “We can move to another state. I’ll take care of you.”
I’m moving forward with only half of my own volition. “You’ll do what, exactly?”
Freya turns, her eyes wide before her pretty features crumple. “Torren.”
My name on her lips is fuel to the flame in my chest.
And just like that day at the engagement, when she stepped in front of her father and sister to protect them, she does the same. For him. Her hazel gaze meets mine. Pleading. Desperate, as she says, “Don’t hurt him.”
I tell her to get in the elevator. Of fucking course she doesn’t listen.
She goes weak. The perfect picture of devastation, she sinks to the floor in that ridiculous Hepburn get-up of hers, burying her face in her hands. “Please.”
She’s begging. For him. The sight pisses the fuck out of me.
Gritting my teeth, I walk over to her. I’ve never gotten on one knee for a woman, but I kneel and haul her up.
Then, I snap. “Get. Inside.”
I push her towards the elevator, not backing down until she’s in. I watch as the doors close, eating up her figure. As the numbers go up, all the way till the penthouse.
Good girl.
Then, and only then, do I turn my gaze to the boy, who’s had the wits not to run. “Benjamin, is it?”
There’s a glare in his glasses, the knot in his throat bobbing as he gives me a tight nod. He’s wearing a striped golf shirt and frayed jeans. I supress the urge to strangle him, right here, in the lobby of the building. As it is, there are lingering stares.
After I first time I saw him with Freya at the ice rink, I had the fool looked up to see if he’d be any trouble.
His file came up with nothing. His records were clean.
Born Benjamin Frasier to two lovable, normal parents, he attended a public high school, and studied computers at college.
Now, he works for a small tech company, trying to develop his “breakthrough app” that no one is going to use.
I wouldn’t have had a problem with him, had he not tried to steal something that belongs to me.
At the entrance of the building, I meet Angelo’s gaze. I’m going to have a word with him about what riffraff are allowed to enter. After Dante Manicini had entered and tried touching up my woman, I thought I already made it clear that people are meant to be ID’d before entering the building.
I own the building, and I should vacate the entire fucking thing, but it’s not good business. I’d become too noticeable, and the feds would be on my ass.
For now, I have a more pressing problem to deal with.
I meet said problem’s gaze.
Benjamin clenches his jaw, trying to mask his emotions.
But that’s the thing about me and fear. They call me a hellhound, and it’s never rang truer than now.
I’ve always known when people are afraid of me.
I’ve never sniffed it on my little Morozov.
But right now, as much as Benjamin tries to hide it, it’s all over him.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Benjamin,” I say, “You’re going to follow me into the elevator. And then you’re going to explain to me why I shouldn’t snap your fucking neck.”
He’s smart enough not to run.
I walk into the lift, and he follows, not meeting my gaze.
The lift stops on the lowest level before ground level, where I’ve cleared the floor for an extra office. In case of . . . emergencies.
I hate doing this kind of shit here. Although I rarely use this particular office, this is where I live. Blood always gets annoyingly messy, and the place reeks of hydrogen peroxide after a clean-up.
I nod to Benjamin. “Sit.”
Clearly nervous, he takes his seat.
“I’ve got to admit—” I lower into my seat opposite him, fixing my glare on his unimpressive face. “—You’ve got balls, Benjamin.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and not meeting my gaze. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?” I huff a humorless laugh. “Which part of it were you unaware of, Benny? The part where you entered my building without permission? Or the part where you tried to get my fiancé to run away with you?”
Tongue prodding the inside of my cheek, I speak again. “You know, I know this other Benjamin. Benjamin Franklin.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, fidgeting with his hands and still not meeting my gaze. It’s amusing, watching him struggle to maintain a semblance of dignity.
“American writer,” I continue, “Scientist, inventor, statesman, diplomat, printer, publisher, and political philosopher.” I cock my head as I glace down at him. “Sound familiar?”
He says nothing, shaking his head imperceptibly. I don’t miss the way he’s working up a sweat, or the slight shake to his hands.
I take out my wallet, pulling out a crisp hundred dollar note and placing it face down on the table in front of us. Gently.
“That’s him,” I say, “Benjamin Franklin.”
Ben nods, a little. Or shakes his head. His movements are so small and unvaried that it’s hard to tell.
“Fun fact about Benjamin,” I say, unholstering my .02, the metal cool and familiar under my fingers. “He was assassinated. Two bullets in the chest.”
He freezes, his entire body going rigid.
My lips lift. “Just kidding. He died from lung inflammation.”
I set the gun down on the table in front of us as my amusement fades. “But that’s the difference between Franklin and you, Ben. He died at eighty four, from old age, after a long, successful life. Everyone remembered him.”
Over time, wringing out people?s fears became like any other game to me. And Benny?s greatest fear is predictable. Veritable, but predictable, nonetheless.
All someone like him wants is to make a name for himself.
“The difference between him and you, Benjamin,” I say, “Is that you are going to die, here, at the very bottom of the building I own, and no one will give a fuck. No one will remember you, or your stupid fucking face.”
Without warning, I stand, picking up the gun before shoving its butt into his skull, the force sending him back in his chair. Ben curses under his breath, panic flooding his wide-eyed gaze. Fury bites at the edge of my vision as I grind down on my jaw.
I study the lines of his face, follow the bead of sweat that trails from his forehead. He’s average looking. Ordinary. Nothing about him screams attractive. Appealing. Worthy of her.
“What does she see in you?” I grit out.
A liquid evil seeps into my veins, like black ink taking the place of blood.
I tilt my head, pressing the gun hard enough into his head for it to bruise. “Have you kissed her?”
He swallows, shaking his head. “I—”
I grit my teeth. “Touched her?”
“N-No,” he stutters, “I—”
My fingers flutter on the trigger, and the pulse in his neck beats madly. “Fucked her?”
He averts his gaze, not saying a word.
I draw a harsh breath.
Even if I cut him to pieces, it won’t be enough.
I want to steal the very memory of her from his mind.
I exhale deeply, loosening my grip on the gun as I pull it away from his head. He lets go of a ragged breath. Then I proceed to shove my gun into his hands. He fumbles, gripping the gun by the barrel. Fucking idiot.
“Fight for her,” I growl, bloodlust roaring in my veins. “She deserves that much.”
Benjamin blinks rapidly, his eyes glazing over.
“What the fuck are you staring at?!” I shout. “Shoot me.”
He flinches. “I can’t!”
He throws the gun back onto the table. “I can’t! Shit.”
I blink, my vision clearing. I pick my gun up, placing it back in its holster at my side.
Resolute, what I knew from the beginning sinks in.
There is little I won’t give her if she asked.
Please, she’d said. For him.
I can’t kill him.
Because she asked me not to. She’s never said please to me. Not once. But she begged to let him live.
Him.
And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the locket she guards around her neck has a picture of this fucking fool in it.
A fucking idiot who won’t even fight for her.
Why do I care?
Why do I care if she hates me more if I kill him?
What is this absurd fucking obsession I have with her, a girl who can’t even stand the sight of me?
Fuck.
My arm flies out to flip the table in front of me, and it shudders to the floor, glass shattering to pieces at my feet.
Just then, the elevator dings. I don’t have to turn to know that it’s Luca. Angelo must have alerted him to trouble, and as second in command, it’s his duty to be at my side during . . . altercations.
It’s not long before he enters, still in his suit from the funeral. “Torren,” he says, his gaze going from me, to Benjamin, to the mess on the floor. “Don’t.”
I take a slow breath. “Don’t what?”
My cousin grimaces. “You can’t kill him.”
I tilt my head, clenching my jaw. “You didn’t kick up this much of a fuss when it was Dante Mancini.”
“You didn’t give me a fucking chance! Besides, Dante had mob blood.” Luca shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering to Benjamin, who’s shaking in his seat, no longer trying to hide how afraid he is. “No civilians. You know the rules.”
I grind down on my molars.
He’s still hung up over the girl he killed someone for in high school. Now that I think about it, Benjamin has the same look as Luca’s high school sweetheart. She too, was skinny, with dark hair and glasses.
“You?re still hung up over that bitch?” I taunt.
My words were out of line. I know it the minute they fall from my mouth. I just can?t find it in myself to feel that bad about it.
He killed someone for her, and still, she never gave a fuck about him.
Luca clenches his jaw and curls his fists at his sides, but keeps his mouth shut.
I exhale, turning to Ben.
“You will die here,” I tell him.
His eyes widen as he shakes his head. “No. Please—”
Luca takes a step closer, and I lift a hand to stop him.
“You can pick your death,” I say. “Tripped, drowned, electrocuted—I don’t give a fuck. Tomorrow, you will cease to exist. You’ll change your name. Move to another state. You’ll forget about my wife—”
Benjamin’s head jars, and he chances a look up at me. “Wife?”
I grit my teeth. “Fiancé.”
“It-It’s real, then?” he stutters.
Is it real?
Fuck yes.
That ring on her finger is cold, hard metal. It’s real. Irrefutable.
And I’m the one who put it there.
“Get him out of my fucking sight,” I snap.
Benjamin scrambles to his feet, glass crunching under his sneakers. I watch as Luca escorts the boy out of the office.
It hits me then — the maddening awareness that I have no immediate family left. No one, except for a girl who isn’t legally my wife, and who would rather see me dead.
At least she’s not afraid of me. The only people I’ve ever trusted were those who aren’t afraid of me. She’s irrevocably attached to me, now. I won’t let her go.
Truth is, I never intended on keeping her.
I stayed away from her because she wasn’t fair game.
I draw the line on very few things, but this is one of them.
I may have forced the engagement on her, but I’d never force myself on her.
Especially since I never intended on keeping her.
Scaring her into submission, maybe. But never keeping her.
Never getting involved with her sexually when she was only business.
I wanted her to fear me. I wanted to tame her. But I now know it’s impossible, now I want to keep her wild. Untamed. Fearless. The thought of her being afraid of me . . . it’s a nasty scab I want to pick.
She was meant to be temporary, just a tool I used to get what I wanted from her father. The rational part of me would have taken the territory deal her father offered and let her go.
But now I’ve learned the shape of her body through the different cuts of her clothes. She does it on purpose. Or she doesn’t. I don’t fucking care. The need to fuck her and claim her and make her mine — it’s unbearable.
Fighting her advances has become the hardest fucking task I’ve ever had to do.
I wonder if she knows I’ll take whatever scraps she?s willing to give me.
If what they say is true, then I’m a hellhound.
And I’m fucking starving.
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author?s note:
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see you next chapter 3