Torment

35

I’m enveloped by something hot — arms, I quickly realize — thick, heavy arms.

Torren.

His arms are around me. Holding me to him.

One of his big hands is buried in my hair, cupping the crown of my head, the other, wrapped firmly around my torso.

Heat is pouring from his body into mine, and his cologne — hints of spiced wood and fresh soap — hits me anew, sending my heartbeat into a frenzied rush. I’m sprawled on top of him, and every breath he takes presses his chest against mine. My entire body shifts to the rhythm of his breathing.

A frown tugs at my brows. He’s fully clothed, and my upper half is covered only by my lacy bralette. I’m sure I put on a hoodie when I came back from the bar . . .

But it’s missing.

I tilt my head slightly, narrowing my eyes as my gaze snags on a mass of black material across the room — thrown recklessly in the fireplace, ashen and burnt.

What the hell?

He burnt my hoodie.

Ben’s hoodie, to be exact.

Memories of last night flash in my mind. Me getting drunk at the bar, him appearing in the apartment.

The flash drive.

I opened the flash drive. There was more on it than I expected — the skeleton of his operation — dirty feds, bribes, information on the family’s annual meeting. Information on meeting locations, information on security.

Including a file on me.

He knew I existed.

They’d been trying to find out more about me the entire time I was in college, but couldn’t come up with much. After all, I was studying under a fake surname and zero affiliation to my father. It would’ve been like finding a needle in a haystack.

But it’s not the realization that he knew about me that truly grates on my nerves — it’s the fact that his intention was never to marry Ana. My sister was just a placeholder to him. A placeholder for me.

Annoyance floods my veins. Why? Why go so far? What did my father do for Torren to want retribution this badly?

I almost told him the truth — almost admitted that I’d stolen his information. But somehow, even in my drunken state, I had enough sense to cover up my mistake with some excuse about being banned from the rink.

I lift slowly, forcing his arms apart slightly as I study his face.

I’ve never seen him sleep.

He looks so different like this. In the dim morning light, with his eyes closed, Torren looks more peaceful than I’ve ever seen him.

But even then, there’s this sort of . . .

mellowed agitation set between his brows.

Like even in his sleep, there’s something to be annoyed about.

His lashes are dark, like bleeding ink, and there’s a slight warm flush to the crests of his sharp cheekbones.

I can’t help but notice that his lips are fuller than usual in the morning.

And I can’t help but wonder what they would feel like on mine.

Blood rushes to my cheeks.

I like you. Don’t know why, I just do.

Insides burning, I scramble off him. God, did I actually admit that to him last night? What is wrong with me?

Why do I feel such an overwhelming sense of guilt at the thought of handing the information to my father?

You can’t betray someone you were never loyal to in the first place.

Torren stirs, a line forming between his brows as he opens his eyes, setting them on me as he lifts from the couch.

“Where are you going?” he asks, and his voice is so raspy and rough at the edges that I buffer for a second.

When I finally find my voice, I murmur, “Out.”

I find myself edging away from him, and his eyes track the movement. I’m about to turn when his voice stops me.

“Freya.”

I meet his gaze expectantly.

His features are serious. “The wedding is set.”

Everything goes still. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, and a single word falls from my lips. “When?”

“Next week.”

All the air is harshly extricated from my lungs. And just like that, something inside me bursts, like some sort of screwed up confetti.

I clamp down on my jaw, a knot forming in my throat. “You didn’t think to tell me?”

His expression is impassive, and he doesn’t even try to deny it as he stares up at me from the couch. “I’m telling you right now.”

“It’s not enough!” I exclaim. “I need more time.”

There’s a line of agitation between his brows. “Giving you a month to mellow out was generous enough.”

He waited. He waited for me to get tired of fighting back, to get soft, so he could scoop me up better.

He knew that I?d grow tired of fighting him eventually.

I?m so weak. I?m so weak.

The backs of my eyes burn. “You won’t ask me to marry you?”

His expression is impassive, and he doesn’t even try to deny it as he stares up at me from the couch. “A bit redundant given that you signed a contract, don’t you think?”

I stare at him in disbelief. He stares back with little remorse.

“You knew what you were getting into when you got involved with me,” he says, “When you signed the contract. When you got into my bed.”

I feel like sinking into the floor. Every word he says makes me feel smaller and smaller.

He narrows his eyes at the look on my face. “What did you expect? Me to get down on one knee? Beg you to marry me?”

“One knee is asking,” I say, “Two are begging. I’m asking you for one knee.”

His jaw is tight. “Not happening.”

And if there was ever any doubt in my mind about handing what I stole over to my father, it’s gone.

I’m going to give the information to my father before I change my mind. Let him do whatever he wants with it. I’m going to get out. Wash my hands clean of this relationship — whatever it is.

Without a word to him, I turn, striding to my room where I push on a pair of jeans and a jacket. And when I walk out my room, past him, and out the apartment, he doesn’t stop me.

If he knew what I had with me, things would have been different.

Angelo isn’t waiting for me, so I hail a cab. Sitting in the back of the cab, it takes effort not to fidget with my hands. I won’t give the flash over to my father without asking for something in return. Not when there’s something I need him to promise me.

Finally, the cab pulls into the Morozov driveway, and I know they won’t allow him to go any further, so I get out, and take a short walk to the gates.

As usual, Dimitri is stationed at the entrance of the house. His eyes flash with slight surprise when they land on me, and I dip my head in greeting as I enter the house, where I’m greeted by the disapproving gaze of my lovely Mama.

She’s dressed in shades of muted green, her blonde hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes narrow on me immediately. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with Papa,” I say, tugging on the sleeves of my jacket. “Where is he?”

“Out. For work.” Her nose wrinkles as she scowls at me. “You reek of alcohol.”

“Yes, sorry.” Blood rushes to my cheeks. “I was in a rush, so I didn’t have time to—”

“Magdalena!” She cuts me off, yelling for one of her maids. “Naydite odezhdu dlya malen’koy ved’my!”

I know enough Russian to know what she said. Find some clothes for the little witch.

“Where’s Ana?” I ask, desperate to see her, if not Papa.

“I don’t know what you said to my daughter,” Mama says, “But she has become obsessed with those useless ballet classes. She is there now.” She pushes me toward the stairs. “Go. Wash yourself.”

I swallow the knot at my throat. “Okay. Yeah.”

Upstairs, Magda draws a bath for me, and I add some of Ana’s bubble bath to the water before stripping of my clothes. The flash drive falls to the floor when I pull my jeans off, and I pick it up, setting it on the pedestal next to the tub.

When I sink into the water, it’s like the flash drive is mocking me from its position on the pedestal.

I don’t know what I did while I was drunk, but I obviously wasn’t walking straight, because my body hurts in odd places. I shut my eyes and focus on the way the tepid water seeps into my aching muscles. When my fingers start to prune, I sigh and climb out the tub, drying myself.

My old bedroom has been converted into some type of closet for Mama. Sighing, I fix my gaze on the black slip-on dress hanging for me. It’s from the pile of clothes I couldn’t fit in my suitcases. I run my hand over the silk before slipping it on.

And then, like it’s calling my name, I walk back to the bathroom to collect the flash drive. The dress has no pockets, so I’m forced to keep the metal in the palm of my hand. I clasp it so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t become a part of my flesh.

Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of male voices, and briefly recognize Papa’s voice among them.

It’s now or never.

Taking a deep breath, I make my way downstairs, where Papa is talking to Dimitri, Sergei, and a few other high rank men.

“Freya,” he says.

He dismisses his men, leaving just us in the hallway.

His gaze catches my fist, and I didn’t realize how much I was fidgeting with the flash drive. And his face dawns with realization. “You have it?”

I nod once, not trusting myself with words.

My father’s eyes swirl with a dark, almost morbid glee. “Let’s go to my office.”

I pause. He’s never allowed me into his office before. Ever. In a strange way, it makes me feel suddenly important. I brush aside the childish feeling, following him to the office, where he takes a seat at his desk.

“Show it to me,” he says.

I lift my hand, then draw it back, remembering. “Papa, I need to ask you something.”

He frowns, impatience tints his words as he asks, “What is it?”

“Why do you favor me over Ana?” I ask, averting my gaze. “I’m not even your legitimate daughter.”

“You’re my daughter,” he snaps.

I stay silent, not satisfied.

He sighs. “Freya . . . you were so young, and you were already so self-sufficient. So willing to fight the world by yourself. You reminded me of myself. It made me want to protect you more.”

My grip on the flash drive tightens.

“I might have trained Anastasia, and given you freedom,” he says, “but she was never really good at it. It wasn’t in her heart.” He lifts his gaze to me. “You, on the other hand . . . did you think I didn’t see you, spying on my office all these years?”

I swallow. “How did you know?”

He fixes me with a resigned smile. “Because I told you to stay away. And you never were a very obedient child. So you did the opposite. You came closer.”

“I never wanted this life for my girls,” Papa continues, “Especially not for you. But it’s too late now. It’s our world. And you have to live in it,” he says, “or die in it.”

His gaze is hard. “And I won’t allow you to die. The Costas have taken too much from us already. I won’t let them take you, too.”

“If I give you this,” I say, “you’ll get me out if the marriage. No one will die, and you won’t try to get Ana to marry someone. Give me your word.”

He’s silent.

“Swear it, Papa.”

My father sighs. “I swear it.”

I ruined a marriage. My very existence was proof of disloyalty. Maybe it’s why I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove my own loyalty.

If love was really something so strong, why did my father cheat?

Marriage is such a fickle, breakable thing. I want nothing to do with it.

Swallowing, I hand him the flash drive. He pockets it immediately.

I glance up at him briefly. “Do you have nothing else to say to me?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

I clamp down on my jaw. “It’s my birthday today, Papa.”

His face crumbles. “Freya, moy lisenok, I’ve been so busy —”

Tears clouding my vision, I turn and leave his office. I hope that I won’t regret what I’ve just done.

Ana is standing outside, back from ballet. Her brows furrow when she notices that I’m leaving. “Freya? Where are you—”

“Let her go,” Mama’s voice sounds from the kitchen.

And before I have to listen to any more, before have to stay any longer in a place I’m not wanted, or needed, or remembered, I walk out.

I can’t even go to the rink, because of the stupid ban.

So instead I catch a cab from Staten Island to the city and spend the rest of the day wandering Manhattan.

I don’t even have the urge to buy anything other than an ice cream cone, and I walk until my feet hurt, stopping to gaze at the mannequins.

When I return to the apartment, I open the door to come face to face with a fuming Torren. His gaze is lit with anger, as he fixes the heavy weight of it on me. My heart slams in my chest.

Does he know?

His features flicker with displeasure, and I’m on high alert, overanalysing his every movement, trying to figure out what he knows, or what he doesn’t.

His voice is low, each word thick with malice when he asks, “Where did you go?”

I swallow, trying to steady my voice and appear nonchalant. “Home,” I say, “Then did a little window shopping.”

“This is your home,” he grits out. “And girls like you don’t go window shopping.” He flashes me a sardonic look. “Girls like you buy the whole store.”

I bristle at his tone, but don’t say anything. Deliberately. I’m worried that if I do, my voice will shake, and if he isn’t already suspicious, he will be.

His gaze narrows. “How did you go?”

“Took a cab,” I say, my heart racing violently in my chest.

His jaw tightens.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he says, “to take our drivers?”

I’m frozen in place, still trying to figure out how much he knows, or if he knows anything at all.

His jaw is tight as he nears me. “Do you enjoy getting a rise out of me, Freya?”

His gaze drops to my lips, to the rise and fall of my chest. My heart skips a beat, and I try to focus on anything but his heated gaze, but it’s close to impossible. “Do you like defying me?”

He narrows his eyes. “Do you want to get punished?”

He lifts his hands to the straps of my dress, tugging on the strings as his fingers graze down the straps to my back, skimming my shoulder blades. A feral sensation starts at the pit of my stomach.

Torren leans further in and dips his head.

His breath is warm on the the soft skin of my throat, and my pulse throbs, a fluttering mess under him.

He moves further up my neck, closing in on the line of my jaw, and stops there.

I feel his teeth graze a bit of my skin, and his fingers press into my back.

But before I can fully process the action, he pulls away from me harshly.

He says he wants to punish me, but it seems more the other way around — like I?m the one punishing him. I?m not even trying to.

His pupils are dilated, and laser-focused my lips.

“Fuck,” he curses, something akin to pain in his dark eyes. “You’re driving me insane.”

I suck in a breath. Overstimulated, overwhelmed. I’m sure he doesn’t know, and exhaustion is hitting me, whether it was from walking around for hours, or because of the exertion the paranoia is placing on my heart.

I’m just so . . . tired.

I draw back from him, hiding my face so that he can’t see that my eyes are beginning to water again. I didn’t get the tears out after walking out of my father’s office, and they’re coming back with a vengeance. I can feel his gaze burn into me — feel the displeasure roll off him in waves.

“Let’s go,” he orders gruffly.

Go?

I frown, glancing up him in confusion. “Where?”

He doesn’t answer, just walks toward the exit of the apartment. Equal parts confused and intrigued, I follow behind him, into the elevator, which opens up in the garage. The Mustang is still where I left it, the tools I was using to check out the engine scattered around the floor.

Torren gets into what I know now is his favorite car, the Miura. Still confused, I slide into the passenger seat.

Wordlessly, he switches on the ignition. The roof is down, so cool air rushes into my face and through my hair as the car purrs into motion.

Torren turns to me, and his voice is low when he asks, “Want to drive?”

My brows knit. “What?”

He clenches his jaw as he pulls the car out of the parking. “Do you want to drive or not?”

I was wondering if I heard right. “I thought you said no one but you sits in the driver’s seat of this car.”

“I did,” he says. His gaze is hot. “You won’t be sitting on the seat.”

My breath draws to a stop as I realize what he’s implying, and my gaze drops to his thighs. As if on cue, they widen. Or maybe I’m just seeing things.

“You got your license?” he asks casually.

I roll my eyes. “Yes.”

“Stick shift or auto?”

I scoff. “Stick.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Good girl.”

He joins the freeway. “Now, come sit on my lap.”

Something stirs low my belly at his words. Slowly, my hesitation melts away. There’s no way he knows what I’ve done if this is what he’s proposing. Or maybe he does. Either way, it’s the first sliver of excitement I’ve felt in hours, and I’m not about to pass it up.

Before I can decide against it, I kick off my heels and unbuckle my seat belt. Lifting the hem of my dress so that I can climb over the center console, I sink into his lap. My bare feet settle on top of his polished shoes.

Blood rises to the surface of my skin, and the pulse between my legs throbs madly. My ass is pressing into the firm muscle of his thighs. I shift my hips a little, and a groan rumbles from his chest. “Stay still.”

My lips lift. I love riling him up.

Torren trails the rough palms of his hands along my forearms, coming up to grip my wrists, before he moves my hands to the steering wheel.

“Steer,” he says.

“Where?” I ask.

“Wherever I tell you.”

I frown, realizing that he likes telling me what to do.

I press down on his right foot with my own, and his shoe sinks down the accelerator. The car speeds up, wind rushing through my hair. Torren leans in the opposite direction, shifting under me so that he can keep an eye on the road.

“Left,” he says.

I clamp down on my jaw at the blasé way he makes the order, but I take the turn anyway.

We drive for a while, and though my hands are on the wheel, I’m hyperaware of him behind me, his presence all-consuming.

The feel of his body under mine is pure sin.

He lists off instructions, and the destination only dawns on me when I notice the coast.

The beach.

He brought me back. I can’t think too hard about it. If I do, that guilty feeling will become unbearable. Instead, I focus on shifting the gears to slow the car down.

He opens the door, and I slip off his lap out the car. “You’re meeting someone here, I suppose?”

Amusement fills his gaze as he gets out the car, shutting his door. “Let’s hope he doesn’t bail this time.”

The saltine scent of the air infuses my senses, and a cool breeze blows through my hair. Just like the other time, I make my way down the boardwalk to the sand.

This time it’s different, though. There’s a heavy feeling in my heart. I don’t even feel like going to the water, so I just sit on the sand, and pull the hem of my dress up so that the silk pools around my thighs.

It’s a while before Torren comes to sit next to me. Just like the last time, he has no reservations about wearing a crisp white shirt and slacks to the beach. The sight is ironic, but somehow, I can’t imagine it any other way. He takes out a lighter, flicking on the dial. Over and over.

And then, lazily, he brings to flame to me.

I pass him a quizzical look, the heat of the flame warming my chin.

“Blow,” he says.

Confused, I form an O with my lips and blow out the flame.

Wordlessly, Torren draws the lighter away from me. He takes out a cigarette — no, not a cigarette. A blunt. And he flickers his lighter again and cups his hand around the blunt before lighting it up.

“Happy birthday,” he says, not meeting my gaze.

Oh.

My mouth dries. “How did you know?”

There’s slight amusement in his gaze as he gives me a momentary glance. “I signed a contract to marry you.”

I frown. “When’s Ana’s birthday, then? You signed a contract to marry her, too.”

He gives me a dull look. “August.”

I narrow my eyes. “What date in August?”

He pauses for a while. Thinking. Then, he says, “Your sister’s birthday is irrelevant to me.”

I scoff. Unbelievable. He was engaged to her for five years and he doesn’t know the date of her birthday. I don’t know whether I should feel happy or offended.

“Why do you like the beach so much?” he asks, after a while.

I lift a brow. “Are we playing twenty questions?”

I expect him to cast me a derisive look and shut down the idea immediately, but he doesn’t. He just blows out a puff of smoke and says, “If you want.”

I blink, momentarily stunned at his easy reply, but I swallow it down and turn away from him. “Papa never had the time to bring me when I was younger.”

Torren turns to peruse me, a line forming between his brows. “Why do you always walk around dressed like some sort of goth Barbie?”

I huff a laugh. “Are you asking why I always wear black?”

Then I pause, giving him a pointed look. “It’s my turn to ask you a question. That’s how the game works.”

He grunts. “I don’t care how the game works.”

His answer should annoy me, but somehow, it only has me chewing back a smile.

“It suits me,” I mumble, focusing on the push and pull of the waves in the dusk. “I think I came out the womb kicking and screaming and hating the world. A bastard daughter. If I’m not darkness, what am I?”

He’s still quiet. Before he decides to speak. “You don’t know darkness.”

I lift a brow. “And you do?”

“Yes,” he says, “I do.”

There’s a moment of silence, filled only by the sound of the waves crashing in the distance.

“You’re stranded in the middle of the sea in the dark,” he says, “No sun. Just night after night, trying to get to shore. It’s a miserable existence.

A pathetic hopelessness. You can’t see anything.

Can’t feel anything. All you can hear is the hopeless rush of water for miles around you.

You want to give up. Just sink to the bottom until you drown, so you can end it all. ”

He shifts his gaze to me, taking a drag. “That’s darkness.”

I swallow.

“And in that endless night,” he says, “You’d be a single shining star. You’re not the darkness, little Morozov. You fucking shine.”

My breath hitches, and my chest starts to cave, guilt seeping in, like when you tear off wallpaper to reveal the ugly wall underneath.

“Too bright, sometimes,” he says, irritation brimming in his gaze. “It’s annoying.”

I clear my throat, pushing away the feeling.

“Either way,” I murmur, “I can’t imagine wearing white.”

“You will,” he says, his voice low. “For me.”

I clamp down on my jaw at his implication. No, I want to say, I won’t. But there’s also a small voice in my head that argues, You want to, though.

His voice draws me out of my mind.

“What’s in your locket?” he asks, his gaze settling on the silver heart on my neck.

“Nothing,” I say, truthfully, knowing he’ll think I’m avoiding the question.

My gaze catches on the blunt between his fingers, at the way his lips roll around the paper, and I’ve never wanted to smoke as much as I do now.

“I want a hit,” I blurt.

His brows rise marginally, dark eyes filling with amusement. “A hit?”

“Yes.” I reach over, plucking the blunt from his fingers. He doesn’t stop me. Slowly, I place it between my lips and hollow my cheeks as I suck in. It’s strong, and it hits quick, burning the back of my throat and casting a haze over my mind.

When I glance over at Torren, he doesn’t hide his surprise.

Maybe he was expecting me to cough. I don’t smoke, but learning how to is practically college induction.

I turn my head to blow the smoke away, but he reaches over and grips my chin, bringing me in line with his mouth.

He parts his lips, and I’m forced to blow the smoke into his mouth.

I blink, and he snatches the blunt back from me. “Good girls don’t smoke.”

“I’m not a good girl,” I snap back.

He places the blunt back between his lips, over the same spot where my lips has been, and smiles to himself. “True.”

His smugness reminds me that I’ve answered countless of his questions, and even if it isn’t a game, he owes me. So I decide to take the plunge.

“What’s your biggest fear?” I ask him.

His reputation revolves around being able to read other?s fears. I?ve always wondered if he had any.

He’s quiet for a while. And in that moment, I think he’s not going to answer, when he says, “God.”

A frown touches my lips. “Why?”

“He’s the only one who can take anything from me.”

“What don’t you want to be taken away from you?”

He stays quiet for a while. Then he turns to me. The weight of his stare is heavy. Too heavy. My stomach drops.

“I know where I’m ending up, Freya,” he says, “I intend on making sure I have no regrets.”

“So you don’t regret it, then?” I say, glancing at him. “You don’t regret me?”

He inhales deeply. Then he says, “Fucking you feels like revenge and absolution.”

“Those are opposites,” I mutter.

“Exactly.”

“Revenge?” I ask.

“On behalf of your father.”

“Absolution?”

“On behalf of mine.”

“And you? What does it feel like to you?”

“Salvation.”

Salvation.

My palms are clammy, and nerves fetter down my spine. He’s answering my questions, but somehow, I’m the one being disarmed.

Another question pops up in my mind, one I know I shouldn’t ask, but before I can help myself, it falls from my lips. “Is Ben safe?”

He clenches his jaw as a deep rage crosses his features. He doesn’t answer. And after a while, it becomes clear that he doesn’t plan to.

“The day my sister was meant to become your fiancée,” I say, “Why did you change your mind?”

No answer.

I press on. “Why did you give me a different ring?”

Still nothing.

“Cheater,” I snap. The waves crash harder into the sand, agreeing with me, almost. It’s completely dark now, the sun far down the horizon.

Torren works on his jaw, facing ahead of him. “I let you leave today because it’s your birthday, and your Papa has the right to give you . . . cake or whatever else you wanted.”

I blink as I take his words in. No, my Papa didn’t do anything of that sort. But I’m too embarrassed to admit it to him. The memory hits me — of how Papa ruined Ana’s eighteenth birthday by making her sign a marriage contract. He doesn’t exactly have the best track record with birthdays, it seems.

So what? I still made the right choice in giving him that flash drive. He’s still a good man. He?s still my father.

“In the future,” Torren says, “don’t leave the apartment without telling me where you’re going.”

He doesn’t say it like a threat, or even an order.

I don’t tell him that we won’t have a future.