Torment | 18+ ✓

16

Confused, I freeze up as he edges up behind me.

He reaches for me, and I pull away, brows crossed. “What are you doing?”

“Stay still,” he grunts, grabbing and tugging on my hair, and heat spreads across my scalp.

For a brief second, I think he’s going to take a pair of scissors to my hair as retribution for me cutting up all his shirts, or something. Panic floods my chest, my heart a slobbering mess.

But he doesn’t move.

His hands shift behind me as he just . . . braids my hair.

Torren Costa braids my hair.

I hate this man. And he hates me. But he shared his food with me, and now he’s braiding my hair? It’s fucking absurd. The word falls from my lips before I can help it.

“Don’t.”

His grip on my hair tightens. “Shut up.”

I grit my teeth as another rush of warmth spreads across my scalp. How does he know how to do it, anyway? Most men can’t even tie a ponytail. What’s worse is that the barstool I’m sitting on leaves no reprieve from the thick heat sliding off his chest to land on my back. I can’t ignore it. Or the way his breath is hot down my neck, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I squirm uncomfortably on my seat.

The air between is alive. Electric. Heated. I’m fuming. I want to take this thing between us and strangle it — watch the life in its eyes die out. And then toss it to the street and watch the cars roll over it.

He reaches for my hand. I startle, jerking away from him. He rolls his eyes, grabbing hold of my wrist and coaxes the hair tie from it. My skin burns from where it meets his, but all too soon, his touch is gone, and he’s tying the hair tie to the end of the braid that he’s somehow made.

He finally moves away from me, the heat of his chest disappearing from behind me as he reclaims his potion in front of me, on the opposite end of the kitchen oasis.

I hate this.

The inconsistency of his actions makes hating him a messy and confusing game. Maybe that’s why he does it—to set me off track. Off balance. Off kilter. To make me question his every move.

My stomach rumbles, hauling me out of my mind. Clenching down on my jaw, I turn my attention to the steaming bowl of pasta in front of me.

I lift the fork to my lips and blow on it a bit before eating. It tastes good. Better than good. It tastes like heaven. I go to eat more, but when I hold the fork tighter, the handle pushes into the cuts in my palm.

I feel his eyes on me, dark and thick like molasses, and I break out in a cold sweat. I would normally play around with the fork and try to find a more comfortable way to hold it, but right now, I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of him. It would give him way too much satisfaction.

So instead, I hold the fork harder and fork another morsel into my mouth. I try to ignore the pain but the sweat on my palm makes the cuts sting. Badly.

I’m so hungry that I feel like flinging the fork aside and eating this pasta with my bare hands. Or taking the entire bowl and running to my room. But again, no way I’m doing that in front of him.

I painfully fork two more morsels into my mouth before Torren’s phone buzzes, and he lifts his attention away from me as he answers the call.

I exhale.

“Shipments should have been in by yesterday,” he speaks in the receiver.

I squirm in my seat, fighting the urge to run. Yes, I get some reprieve from his glare, but he’s still right fucking in front of me.