Torment | 18+ ✓

16

Sal laughs.

Again, not a joke.

The smell of food wafts into the library, and I figure my appetite is back, because my stomach growls in response. Is Giulia still here? Turning my attention back to the call, I groan. “Listen, just, do not try to visit me, okay? I’ll text you guys.”

They both grudgingly agree and make me swear to call back later. Even though I want to keep them away from this whole situation, I can’t deny that I feel way better after talking to them, even if it was for a short time. I cut the call and walk out the library, following the scent of food.

Creeping down the stairs, I look across the staircase to find Torren standing at the kitchen oasis, forking pasta into his mouth.

He was here the whole time?

My stomach has officially caught up, and I’m now so hungry I’m practically salivating at the sight and smell of food. But… I’d rather just wait it out until he leaves. That way, I’m not forced to engage with the spawn of Satan.

I take a few steps back, deciding to wait it out in my room, a.k.a. the guest room, when his low voice sounds from the other side of the space.

“You haven’t eaten in two days.”

Stopping my tracks, I frown. How does he know? But the answer comes to me just as quick. Giulia.

“What do you care?” I bite back.

He glances up at me, bored. “I don’t. I’m contractually obligated to keep you fed and healthy.”

Technically, he’s only contractually obligated to provide me with food and water. Whether I actually eat or drink is up to me. I meet his gaze. “The contract is only effective once you marry me.”

His jaw is tight, his gaze empty. “Are you planning on starving yourself to death before then?”

I roll my eyes, deciding to just ignore him. My stomach is literally begging me to eat. Walking over, I settle on one of the bar stools.

He pushes a ceramic bowl filled with pasta across the marble towards me. It’s steaming hot and smells like garlic bliss, covered in a deep red tomato basil sauce and sprinkled with a dusting of parmesan. I stare down at the bowl, try not to salivate, and then glance back up at him. “Are you trying to feed me so you can fatten up your food?”

His eyes darken at the edges, but he doesn’t bother replying.

A warm spiral cuts through my veins. The pasta seems fresh, but the kitchen is spotless — there isn’t a single sign that something was prepared.

I look up at him. “Did you make this pasta from scratch?”

He doesn’t reply.

So he did make it.

“Who taught you how to cook?”

“None of your business,” he snaps, “Eat.”

I look at the steaming bowl suspiciously. What if it’s poisoned or something?

Torren seems to read my mind, giving me a flat look before he reaches forward, forking some into his mouth.

Fine. I lean forward over my bowl. My hair falls forward, getting in the way, so I try to braid it back. A frustrated sound climbs up my throat as the strands of hair get caught in the fresh scabs on my palms. It’s hopeless. Ana always did this for me. I can’t braid my hair on a good day, so how the hell am I supposed to braid it with my hands all sliced up?

Torren watches me fail miserably from the opposite side of the counter. I’m on my fourth try of trying to braid my stupid hair back, when, clenching his jaw, he walks over.