Torment

34

And yet, when it’s over — she pulls away from me. To collect her fucking clothes from the floor. She puts them on with her back to me. And then she walks to her room.

Just like that.

Not a single word. Not a single fucking look in my direction. Anger stretches in my chest, a hot red rage lining my vision. I get dressed and pull out a cigarette — anything to occupy my hands. Anything to stop them from reaching out to her.

She really can’t stand me.

But her actions aren’t what anger me most. It’s the fact that I was anticipating something different. What the fuck was I expecting? For her to bat her lashes and say my dick changed her life? The brat won’t even let me taste her mouth.

Her hate is what I’m meant to want. To need. Her hate is what gives this meaningless life some semblance of purpose. Fuck, the thought of a Morozov hating me that much is the reason I woke up every morning for the past five years.

So why the fuck does it piss me off so much?

Thoughts ricochet in my mind at a hundred an hour, working up to a migraine. I don’t find the deep pleasure that once manifested in my chest at her hate. Instead, I find a deep annoyance. A prickly agitation.

She’s in my veins. And I imagine that attempting to get her out will be far more tiring than just leaving her there to simmer, and eventually dissipate.

The problem?

She won’t wear out. Even drugs wear out after a while, but hours after we fucked, Freya Morozov is still rushing through my blood.

I can’t get her out. Out of my chest, out of my mind.

She’s no cheap recreational drug. She’s a hard-core addiction. The kind that never leaves you. The kind that fucks you up irreversibly.

And I imagine that this is what withdrawal feels like.

I don’t realize how much time passes until the cigarette turns to ash, and the night sky turns to dawn. My phone rings, drawing me out of my mind.

It’s Vito, Luca’s papa, and my uncle and consigliere. I answer, lifting it to my ear. “Zio?”

“We need to talk,” he says on the other end. “It’s important.”

I’m almost thankful for the intrusion. Because it means I have a reason to get off the couch, take a shower, and get away from this apartment. Away from her.

Sunlight travels through the vast windows of the penthouse, bathing everything in honeyed shades of gold. Sighing, I drag a hand through my hair as I fix my gaze on the ground. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I end the call, taking a deep breath before I walk upstairs, showering and changing into a fresh pair of slacks and a button down. Walking back downstairs, I force myself past Freya’s room.

Giulia is in the kitchen, in her usual crisp white apron working at pastry dough with her hands. Her round face lights up when she notices me.

“Mr Costa,” she says, “Buongiorno.”

I dip my head in greeting. “Buongiorno, Giu.”

After Sof left, there was no need for me to keep the housekeeper around. But I’d grown fond of the older woman. When I’d stopped eating, and was drinking enough whiskey to kill a horse, it was Giulia who hid the alcohol and got me to eat enough to survive.

“Miss Freya — she is still sleeping?” Giulia asks me, passing me a full glass of orange juice.

“I assume so,” I murmur, my voice bitter. My gaze travels to the guest room as I lift the glass to my mouth, gulping down its contents. Before I know it, I’m turning to Giulia. “Will you check up on her? Make sure she eats?”

“Si, si!” Giulia gushes, her features softening. “Do not worry. I will make sure.”

I cup the crown of her head and lean down to place a quick, chaste kiss to her forehead. “Thank you.”

“She is a nice girl,” Giulia mumbles as she kneads the dough, more to herself than anything, “but she is very lonely.”

I brush past her, leaving my glass in the sink, and ignore the way her words poke at a fleshy part of my chest.

Our men are milling the entrance when I pull into the condo. They part the gates to let me in. It’s strange, how my father once had a lower rank than these men. In some ways, I respect how he slaughtered his way to the top with little to no remorse.

I know that his death was planned. That the heart attack was induced by a misbalance of drugs in his bloodstream.

My good old Papa had a habit of making bad blood wherever he went.

He had as many enemies as he did allies.

It’s figuring out which of them would have enough balls to go through with it.

I park the car and kill the ignition before sliding out. Inside the condo, my uncle and Luca are waiting for me.

My uncle Vito has always been the most patient of the Costa men.

The hot-blooded gene seemingly missed him.

And he never wanted to rule, either. He was for too satisfied to fall into the role of an advisor, who observes silently in the dark.

I wonder how I would have turned out with him as my father instead. Less angry, maybe.

“What did you want to discuss?” I ask him.

I know there’s a lot to be done, now that my father’s not around, there’s talk about what will happen to his assets, and how the business will run officially in his absence. It doesn’t really concern me. I’ve been running the business in his absence for years now.

“Mancini has been quiet,” my uncle says.

“Too quiet,” Luca adds. “He knows you took the hit on Dante.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, “He can’t do anything about it.”

“Alone, maybe,” Luca notes, “But if he finds a willing partner . . .”

Irritation tugs at the corner of my mind. “Who would dare?”

“Someone who has very little to lose,” my uncle says.

“Or too much to gain,” I mutter, clamping down on my jaw. “Meet with the families. Remind them of their allegiance to us.”

Luca frowns. “There’s no guarantee that they—”

“They listen,” I snap, “Or they end up like Dante Mancini.”

“Speaking of which,” my uncle says, “Why did you deliver the boy’s body to his father’s house? In a box, nonetheless.”

I jerk my head to my cousin. “Luca’s idea.”

Luca just shrugs, humor filling his eyes. “Logistics.”

My uncle shakes his head, clear disapproval in his gaze. “It was his mother who found it first. Now she won’t leave her bed from grief. Che peccato.”

“She should have taught her son not to touch a woman without permission,” I grind out. “Especially not my woman.”

He sighs. “It hasn’t been more than a month, and the Morozov girl has already caused a rift in our long running relationship with the Mancini family.”

“She has a name,” I point out.

He offers me a tiresome look. “She is not good for you.”

“I know, zio,” I murmur. “I know.”

My index finger pauses over the mouse pad for a second before I read over the email in front of me again. “What I do with her is none of your business.”

“Well,” he drags out, walking over to my desk. “She just invited me to get drunk with her.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “What?”

Luca sighs, fishing his phone out of his pocket before showing me the screen.

I’m bored.

Attached, there’s a picture of the bar in the lobby of the apartment building.

Wanna get drunk with me?

And Luca took the initiative of replying to her. I resist the urge to take a swing at his face and keep reading.

hello to you too, baby M.

Jaw tight, I glare at him. “How did you get her number?”

Luca shrugs. “She gave it to me.”

I stare at him. “When?”

“What do you mean when—” He goes still. “You don’t have her number.”

I clamp down on my jaw. There’s a stretched, empty silence as I don’t make an attempt to deny it.

“Fucking hell.” His mouth drops open. “You don’t have her number.”

“You said that already,” I snap.

“You’re marrying her,” Luca says, “and you don’t have her number.”

He bursts out into laughter.

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, reaching over my desk to snatch the phone out of his hand. “Moron.”

He’s too busy laughing to care. I enter her number into my phone, then send her a text.

Get out of the bar. Now.

Dots appear as she types a response, then disappear when the text comes through.

Who is this?

My lip curls in irritation.

Your husband, I type back. Save the number, brat.

She reads the message, and her reply is quick.

I don’t have a husband…

I grit my teeth, typing out the threat.

I’m going to spank your ass for that.

Her reply comes in seconds.

Oh no :( I’m so scared.

My lips lift. That feeling returns, of something stretching and expanding in my chest.

Is she a drug, and this a withdrawal, or do I just . . . miss her?

I shut off the idea as quick as it came. I was inside the brat a few hours ago. If I’m missing anything, it’s her pussy. Not her.

I glance down at my phone screen. She sent a picture. In it, she’s making a mockingly scared look, with a pout on her lips as she looks up at the camera with big eyes. Her tits are spilling out of a lacy black top that looks more like lingerie than anything else.

My blood heats. I pocket my phone and stand, walking towards the exit of the office.

“Where are you going?!” Luca calls. “We need to work on this shit.”

I wave a noncommittal hand. “Figure it out.”

Luca groans and starts talking again, but his words fade quickly, and I’m already out the door.

Sliding back into my car, I pull out of the condo and take a back road to cut through traffic. It’s dark now, and I somehow managed to kill enough time to cut though most of the day.

When I reach the building, I immediately notice that something’s out of place, and it has Freya’s name written all over it.

She’s carved out a space for herself in the corner of the garage, and the Mustang is pulled up against the racks of tools against the wall, some scattered on the polished cement of the ground.

The mess annoys me, but I force my gaze away and walk past. Technically, I did promise her she could play with the car, and I’m not one to go back on my word.

I’m in the elevator and heading straight for the bar, fully prepared to drag her out of there kicking and screaming if I have to.

But when I finally reach, there’s no sign of her.

I turn to the bartender, who suddenly appears very busy. “Where is she?”

I don’t have to elaborate. He already knows who I’m talking about.

“She left a few minutes ago,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “Said she felt sick.”

Annoyance stirs inside me, and I lean over the counter of the bar and grab him by the collar. “How much did you give her to drink?”

His eyes go wide. “I- I don’t know! She kept asking for more—”

I let go of his collar rougher than necessary. “She gets alcohol poisoning, and I’m lighting a fucking fire under your ass.”

He just stumbles back and blinks. Idiot.

I walk into the elevator, and when I get out upstairs, I’m about to call Luca to send out a few men out to look for her, when I notice the soft hum of the TV.

The brat’s curled up in the corner of the couch in an oversized black hoodie. And there’s this slasher scene playing on the flatscreen. It’s fucked up, even to my standards. Blood is spraying everywhere, and she’s just watching the scene calmly. Jesus fucking Christ.

I reach for the remote and switch off the screen.

Freya stirs, squinting in the dark. “Luca?”

A growl rises in my throat as I open my mouth to correct her, but I quell it, curiosity taking over. She’s drunk, and she thinks that I’m Luca.

How does she talk to people she doesn’t hate? How would she talk to me if I wasn’t me?

“Hm,” I murmur, vaguely.

“Where is he?” she asks.

I frown. “Who?”

“Torren,” she says.

Yeah, she’s wasted. She can’t even make out the difference between our voices. A small part of me purrs in satisfaction that she asked for me.

“At work,” I lie, frown deepening at her state. Her fox brown hair is messy around her face, and her cheeks are flushed from whatever alcohol she’s been drinking.

“Why have you been drinking?” I ask.

Freya gulps. “I did something bad . . .”

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

She shakes her head, less like she’s saying ‘no’ and more like she’s trying to sober up. “I . . . uh . . . I got banned from the ice rink.”

“Yeah?” I hum, taking a seat on the couch next to her. “How come?”

“I broke in,” she mumbles.

“Of course you did,” I surmise.

Twice, I’ve watched her skate. And both times, her talent stunned me. The way she moved on the ice was fucking mesmerizing.

She glided across the rink so fluidly it was like she was made of water — like she was an extension of the ice itself. And when she kicked off the ice and pirouetted, over and over, my chest caved.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.

Annoyed at my own thoughts, I focus my gaze on her. “Why didn’t you compete?”

“Wasn’t allowed,” she mumbles. “Papa said I couldn’t draw too much attention to myself.”

There’s a sour taste in my mouth at that. Her Papa is such a poor excuse for a father. He made her spend her entire life hiding from men like me, only to hardly put up a fight when it counted most.

“I think I could have had a shot at making the Olympic team,” Freya murmurs. Then she frowns, pressing her lips into a pout. “But maybe I’m just over-estimating myself.”

“You’re not,” I snap.

Her head whips to me, on high alert. The delicate arch of her nose wrinkles, and she dips closer to me, leaning into my neck. She sucks in a breath, her glazed-over eyes widening.

“You’re not Luca,” she whispers, “you’re . . . you.”

Suddenly, she’s on me, straddling my lap.

Fuck. She’s so close to my neck that her lips are brushing over the skin of my throat. Her breath is sweet and warm against my neck. The scent of her skin, ripe berries and vanilla cream, permeates the air, infiltrating my senses. My hands come up to settle on her ass.

“Tell me who you want me to be,” I murmur, glancing up at her. “I’ll be him.”

I’m taking liberties. She’s drunk, and I’m taking liberties. Somehow, I can’t stop.

“For a few seconds,” I say, “let me be someone you don’t hate.”

Her lips are parted and slightly puffy, begging to be licked and bit and kissed.

Her hazel eyes glaze over as she stares up at me, her breath hitching as she starts moving her hips over me.

Oh, fuck. She’s insatiable. I was hard as soon as she climbed on to me, and now this? I’m a dead fucking man.

“Stop that,” I growl, placing my hands on her hips, the self-restraint painful. I meet her gaze evenly. “I’m not going to fuck you while you’re drunk.”

She tilts her head, frowning. “Why?”

There’s a smidge of car grease on her cheek. I cup her jaw and run my thumb over the mark, twice, thrice over, until her skin is blemish-free. “How are you gonna give me consent, baby?”

Her cheeks burn brighter, and then, as if she catches herself, a line forms between her brows.

“I don’t even like you,” she mumbles, “It’s the hormones. I must be ovulating.”

I clamp down on my jaw, irritation and amusement flaring inside me at her words. Just then, I notice something about the hoodie she’s wearing. It has the logo of a company I recognize on the breast pocket. It’s the company her little friend Benjamin used to work for.

A fire spreads in my chest, and I take some of the material between my knuckles as I meet her gaze. “Who does this belong to?”

Even in her drunken state, she hesitates.

“Who?” I press.

Freya sighs.

“Tell me,” I order, “Now.”

“Ben,” she says, confirming my thoughts. Then, she adds, “He was good to me, you know.”

A rough growl creeps up my throat. “I’ll be good to you.”

She gives me an empty smile. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will,” I murmur, “I’ll be so damn good.”

Her breath hitches. She steadies it then fixes me with a resigned look. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

I pause for a moment. Can I have my revenge and keep her happy? No. I’m not a fool. You can’t have your cake and eat it. She’s right. Something has to give.

My priorities are all fucked up. I don’t know what I’m meant to do anymore. What to follow—my mind, or the bloodied mass of flesh that’s somehow still beating in my chest.

What is it called when you want someone to be happy at the cost of your own sanity?

“I’ve forgotten how to hate you,” I tell her, gripping her chin with one hand, squeezing her cheeks slightly. “Remind me. I need you to remind me.”

“I don’t . . .” she says, her eyelids fluttering closed, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

She leans against my chest. My hand settles on the crown of her head, and I can’t help but want time to freeze. Not go back, or forward. Just stay right here, like this, for the rest of my life. I would be fine with it. I’d be happy.

Her voice is small when she says, “Torren?”

I swallow. “Hmm?”

“I lied.”

A frown touches my lips. “About what?”

“I like you,” she says, “Don’t know why. I just do.”

Everything goes still. Air rushes out of my lungs. I can’t see. Can’t breathe. “You . . . what?”

She yawns, snuggling closer to me, her thighs tightening at my sides. “Tired.”

Like? Is that how I feel about her, too?

No. It’s more than that. She makes me . . . weak.

Her breathing slows, her body softening in my arms. I lift my hand to brush away a piece of hair that’s in her face, and my finger get caught in something — that heart locket of hers, I quickly realize.

A mixture of curiosity and jealousy claw at my insides like something feral cat. She’s drunk, and now unconscious. If she found out what I’m about to do, she’d hate me. But I have no intention of breaking the locket. Not until I see what’s inside it, at least.

I’m crossing a line, I know I’m crossing a line. But once I click the locket open, there’s no going back.

I crack open the metal heart, to reveal its insides, and—

It’s empty.