I’VE NEVER BEEN more worried in my life. When Torren pushes me into the elevator, I have no choice but to listen. I ride all the way up to the penthouse, my heart a pounding, bloodied mess in my chest.
I obey his instruction, because I know that I have little to no power this time. And this time, none of my stupid little tricks are going to work.
Ben crossed a line.
Normal men are protective over their woman. And Made men? They’re borderline territorial.
In the Cosa Nostra, when you gain a wife, through either love or a business acquisition, you vow to protect them with your life. Any insult to your wife is an insult to yourself. It’s a strict honor code that all Made men and their enforcers follow.
If you try to make a move on someone else’s wife, you will be punished for the disrespect.
It’s a certainty.
And if Torren could kill someone for touching me, after hearing that Ben was planning to run away with me . . .
I couldn’t even begin to imagine it.
All I could do was submit. Plead. And hope that, somehow, he’d pity me enough to change his mind.
I knew it was futile, but I had to try.
Defying him to protect Ben would make only things worse.
In the penthouse, I’m pacing the space between the kitchen and the dining table. Nerves are festering in my stomach like a swarm of bees. It feels like hours have passed, but when I look up at the sleek metal clock on the wall, I realize it’s only been two minutes.
Images of Ben’s cold, dead body, covered in blood swarm my mind.
God, I feel like throwing up.
My funeral outfit is suddenly too much to breathe through.
I reach behind me, tugging down the zipper of the dress before slipping out of it. The black material sinks to the floor. Rushing to the bathroom, I lean over the sink in just my underwear, dry heaving.
Nothing comes up.
But it’s hard to breathe, and it feels like I’ve been hit by a bus.
I must be having some sort of panic attack.
I glance up at myself in the mirror. My brows are pulled together in clear distress, and my hear is still in the fifties’ hairdo from the funeral, although it looks more like a bird’s nest now.
Frantic, and with shaking fingers, I start to pull out the pins in my hair. I send a brush through my knots, then tie back my hair before stepping into the shower to try to clear my mind.
The water rushes over my skin, and I exhale, air rushing through my lungs as I focus on breathing.
They say my husband-to-be is a hellhound. That he can figure out your deepest fear in minutes and use it against you. I guess it becomes easy to detect fear — become well acquainted with it, even — when so many people are afraid of you.
I’m not one of them.
I’m not afraid of him. And I think he knows it, too.
Right from the very beginning, my fear was that those I care about would be harmed. It’s why I stepped in front of Papa and Ana that day at the engagement, and it’s why I stepped in front of Ben today.
My deepest fear is that those I care about would be harmed because of me. It’s recklessly selfless, and I don’t like to indulge the thought.
But it’s true.
If Torren kills Ben, I’ll never forgive him.
I’ll never forgive myself.
Everything will be irreparably damaged. Irreparably broken. Because that’s the kind of guilt that clings to you like a second skin — the kind you carry for the rest of your life.
When I’m out the shower, I dry up before pulling on an oversized black tee. And then I’m back to pacing in the space between the kitchen oasis and dining table.
I only managed to chew through thirty minutes in the shower. An hour later, I’m still pacing, damn near about to lose my mind, when the door to the apartment opens.
I turn, my heart leaping out my chest.
It’s Luca. Exhaustion laces his features as he glances my way.
“Hey, baby M,” he says.
He passes me a smile, but it doesn’t hold its usual candor.
As underboss and second in command, he has to know what’s going on.
“Do you know anything?” I ask as I rush up to him, my eyes tearing up. “About Ben?”
Luca gives me a tight-lipped smile, nodding briefly. “He’s alright.”
My heart stops. “What?”
“He’s alright,” he repeats.
My brows knit. “What do you mean?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Luca says, “Your friend’s okay.”
My pulse is skyrocketing, and my mind is addled with confusion. I frown. “He’s alive? Not harmed in any way?”
Luca nods.
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
His brown eyes flicker with amusement. “I knew you’d say that.”
With that, he pulls out his phone, showing me a picture on his screen. And sure enough, there it is, with the time stamp to go with — Ben in the back of an SUV. He’s alive. Shaken and thoroughly disturbed, but alive. And there’s no blood.
He’s sitting next to a nonchalant Luca, who’s pulling a thumbs-up as he smiles at the camera.
Relief and disbelief flood my chest, and tears fall down my cheeks as I glare up at Luca. “Why did you take a selfie?!”
He grins. “I hate the inverted camera.”
I let out a delirious laugh that comes out more like a croak. And then I break out into a sob. It’s like all my emotions bubble over and come out as a single mortifying breakdown.
“Hey,” Luca hums, engulfing me in a side-hug as he ruffles my hair. “Don’t cry. It’s all good. I promise.”
I hiccup as I pull away from him, swiping a hand over my cheeks. “I can’t believe it.”
“Honestly?” he says, “Neither can I.”
“If you were him,” I say, glancing up at Luca, “If you were in his shoes. What would you have done?”
His gaze darkens, eclipsing the jovial lightness that’s so often there. “Your friend wouldn’t have come out unharmed. Alive, maybe. But not unharmed.”
I inhale a slow breath.
Luca sighs. “Men like us have a lot of power, baby M. A lot of power, and a lot of pride.”
I glance away. He’s saying that if he was in the same situation, he would have done what any other man accustomed to violence and power would have done.
“If you want to know something,” Luca says, “Know this — it was infinitely easier for Torren to have ended your friend’s life today. What he did instead — letting him go without a scratch . . . that’s hard.”
I’m silent as I let it all sink in. Torren did more than spared Ben’s life today. He let him leave. Unharmed. Something even Luca admits he wouldn’t have done. And although Luca is insinuating that all Made men are the same, there’s no denying he’s kinder than Torren.
So why?
“Freya,” Luca says, bringing my attention back to him. His tone warning. “Don’t try to contact Ben again. If you care about him at all, you’ll stay away from him.”
I swallow, frowning.
“The world we live in?” Luca says, “You, me, Torren, your sister?” Pain clouds his features, like he’s speaking from experience. “Some people are just not built for it.”
Slowly, I nod. He’s right. Ben should have never been brazen enough to seek me out when he knew the nature of my father’s business. He should have listened when I warned him to stay away, again and again. But he didn’t. And this is the consequence.
It’s a miracle that he got out alive. And if I try to contact him again, I’ll only be bringing him back into a world too dark for him. A world he narrowly escaped. Wherever he is, he’s safe.
And I want it to stay that way.
“I’m going to leave now,” Luca says, glancing down at me with brief concern. “You’ll be okay?”
I nod.
He nods back, giving me a once-over. He must be satisfied with whatever he finds, because he moves to leave.
“Luca?” I call.
He turns.
“Thank you.”
He smiles. “Don’t mention it.”
***
AN HOUR LATER, I’m in my room, on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’m still reeling from the harrowing events of the day, and it’s only now that I think about my father’s demand from the funeral.
He wants me to get a hold of a flash drive that has information that can be used against Torren. And apparently, the flash drive is somewhere in the penthouse.
It should be an easy decision.
I should find the blue flash drive and get it to my father as soon as possible. Torren’s not here, so now would be the perfect time to start looking.
But my limbs are heavy, and I can’t seem to move.
Why does the thought of doing it feel . . . wrong?
I press the heels of my palms into my face and draw a slow breath. I’m about to make up my mind and get out of the bed when I hear the door to the apartment open.
Torren.
My entire body goes still. A flurry of emotions hit me — and I’m confused when one of them is suspiciously close to relief.
It hits me then — that maybe the reason he didn’t punish Ben was because he was reserving it for me. I wait for any sudden noise, for him to barge into my room.
He never does.
The minutes that pass are torture. It soon becomes clear that he has no intention of confronting me. And if I stay in this room for another second, I’m really going to go crazy.
Taking a deep breath, I pull myself out of the bed, my feet meeting the cool surface of the tiles.
I walk out into the open plan space. Torren is in the entertainment area of the penthouse, closer to the clear glass doors that open up to the deck outside. His suit jacket is discarded, and his white dress shirt strains against his back, sleeves pulled up to his forearms.
He’s playing pool.
I’ve never sought him out like this. And I don’t know how to bridge the distance I once found a sweet escape.
His back stiffens as soon as I pad into the space, alerted to my presence. Still, he makes no effort to acknowledge me. He just walks around the table, taking another shot with the pool cue in his arms.
It’s strange. I almost want him to be mad. For there to be some sort of reaction, instead of this vague passive aggressiveness.
I don’t even mind being the first to break the silence. But for some reason, I can’t seem to find the words.
It’s frustrating.
I’ve never been short for words. I’m loud and talkative, and that’ll never change.
It’s almost like my silence annoys him, too, because a few seconds later, he speaks, still not facing me.
“Your little boyfriend is alive, if that’s what you’re here for.”
I swallow in a weak attempt to ease the dry knot at my throat. “How much did you hear?”
He clenches his jaw. “Enough.”
The conviction he places in the single word sends a shiver down my spine. I take a step closer to the pool table, until I’m opposite him. And then I press on. “Why did you let him live?”
He meets my gaze across the table, embers of fire flickering in his dark eyes. “You know why.”
My heart free falls.
Just like that, all the way down to the bottom of my ribcage. Does he know what he’s implying? That he didn’t harm Ben because I asked him not to?
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, slowly.
He lifts his gaze to me. “No?”
I shake my head, chewing on my lower lip. “No.”
Torren’s jaw twitches, his gaze dropping to the heart locket around my neck. Irritation flickers in his eyes, followed by a deep displeasure.
I know what I’m doing. This no longer feels like the time I tried to seduce him on the couch. This feels real.
Dangerous.
I’m poking at a wounded animal.
Because that’s exactly what he is — a predator whose ego has been wounded. A savage creature begging for a fight.
He sets down the pool cue in his hand. And then he takes a step closer to me.
I don’t move. My flesh is heating up, burning from the inside under his scorching gaze.
His jaw tightens. “Tell me why I can’t stop thinking about you.”
All the air is harshly extricated from my lungs.
“Tell me why,” he says, “when I look at other women, all I see is ways they aren’t you.”
Whatever feelings he’s conjuring up in my chest— they’re visceral. Foreign. It’s like a disease my body no longer knows how to fight. Maybe it did, at some point. But the cells have given up. I don’t know how to speak. How to act. How to breathe.
“And most of all,” he says, his inked hand curling into a fist at his side. “Tell me why you don’t seem to feel the same way.”
My mouth is dry, and all I can manage is an unsteady, “I . . .”
He doesn’t give me a chance to speak. Doesn’t give me a chance to end this — whatever this is — before it’s too late.
“You let another man into my property,” he says, taking a step closer, “And he has the fucking nerve to touch you—”
The word falls from my lips before I fully register it. “Please—”
“Please—” His eyes narrow, burning at the edges, like the cherry of a cigarette. “—is not a magic word.”
I recoil. Brief shock seizes my mind. I’d never said ‘please’ to him before. Ever. Not until earlier, when I asked him not to hurt Ben. I’d said it in desperation. But now . . . I said it because I wanted him to hear my side. Because I wanted to offer him an explanation.
I have never, not once, felt like I owed him an explanation.
What is wrong with me?
Torren takes a step closer, coming up behind me. He presses me against the edge of the pool table. His chest is pressed up against my back, his thick, hot heat seeping into my skin. There’s not enough time to pilfer through the array of emotions that hiss and erupt in my chest.
“Did you want to go with him?” he asks, his voice rough. Goosebumps fetter down my neck, every inch of my body on edge.
He threads my hair through his fingers, moving the strands away from my ear and neck. “Tell me the truth.”
I stay silent, half unable to form coherent words as he leans down to my exposed neck. I feel his tongue come down on my skin. A fire erupts in my belly as he licks a line up my throat, and I’m half unwilling to give up the truth.
But there’s no fighting the feeling.
The only way out is to give in.
“Now,” he orders, against my skin.
“No,” I breathe. “I didnʼt want to go with him.”
There’s a sharp intake of his breath.
I should have gotten this over a long time ago. This is what I need to clear the haze over my mind. I need him to touch me. I need him to hurt me. I need him to remind me why I hated him so much in the first place.
“I don’t share,” he says, his voice low, “If you said yes, I would have done something fucking insane. Like lock you up in my room. Tie you to my bed. Keep you there forever.”
I must be tired, or just out of my mind, because his words don’t coax as much anger from me as they should. Instead, pleasure is blooming inside me like an ink stain, blotting out every rational thought.
“I would have killed him,” he says in my ear.
A hot, achy weight settles between my legs. His eyes are ink-black as he stares down at me, wrapping my hair around his fist.
“Does that scare you?”
I shake my head.
“Speak,” he orders, tugging at my hair.
“No,” I breathe.
“It should. It should terrify you. Because I’m not—” He grunts, bending me over the pool table, so suddenly that it knocks the breath out of me. “—Lying.”
I let out a sharp breath. My cheek and breasts are pressed flat against the soft felt of the pool table. My ass is in the air, bared to him under the hem of the oversized t-shirt I have on.
Torren brands his hot palm down the curve of my spine, the heat a delicious sensation. He lets out an appreciative hum.
“I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined you like this . . .” he says, “Face down, ass up.”
His touch turns from tender to hot and angry as it mars the base of my spine. He presses his fingertips into the flesh of my hips, and I have to hold back from letting out a moan. He bucks his hips into my ass, and I feel the hard prod of his length through his slacks.
He bunches up the hem of my shirt with one hand, and cool air runs over the bare skin of my ass, and the backs of my thighs.
The first touch of his callused hand against my skin is addictive. There’s a harsh intake of his breath as he barely touches my skin.
“So fucking soft,” he murmurs.
He kneads the flesh of my ass. And then, he fingers lowers, to the wetness between my legs. A moan escapes my throat as his fingers find the soaking wet slick there.
“Fuck,” he curses, under his breath.
He trails the wetness around, then rubs it around my clit in circles.
I squeeze my eyes shut and tip my head back. “Oh, God.”
He huffs an amused breath. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
Then he pulls away, and I suck in a tortured breath as I realize what he’s doing.
He’s punishing me.
Edging me.
Wordless, he goes back to touching my ass, kneading it rougher this time. Then, suddenly, he slaps my ass. Hard.
I gasp, because I feel it between my legs. My clit is humming in vibration, begging for attention.
“Torren,” I murmur, “Please.”
“I told you,” he growls, “not a magic word.”
But his words contradict his actions, because his fingers find my clit again, and I arch into the touch.
He likes it when I say please. Likes it when I beg.
But not for someone else.
Just for him.
“I want to see all of you,” he rumbles.
Suddenly, he flips me around and places his hands on my hips, lifting me on top of the pool table until I’m flat on its surface.
“Lie back,” he orders, roughly. “And spread your legs.”
Numb and pliant, I heed the instruction, my spine touching the table flat. The heels of my feet are perched on the edge of the pool table. I lift the hem of my oversized black shirt, to reveal my bare sex, spread open for him.
Torren’s pupils dilate so much his eyes are almost completely black. His hands settle on my knees, hot and rough, his eyes trailing from between my legs, up my body until they meet my gaze.
Eyes still on me, he traces his fingers down the outside of my thighs and lowers his face between them.
Oh, God.
But he never reaches the vee between my legs. He takes his time, slow and torturous, running his hands up and down my thighs. I’m breathing fast when his lips meet my inner thighs in the softest kiss. He runs his tongue over the same spot, then nips at my thigh with his teeth. I shudder from the sharp zing of pain.
He repeats this a few more times, a baby-soft kiss followed by a lazy lick of his tongue and the harsh nip and bite of his teeth, each time getting closer and closer to my pussy.
Eventually, I’m frustrated and needy, practically begging for release.
“Please.”
Torren hums an approving sound from his throat and leans over the table. He brings his rough hands around the base of my thighs, pressing into it before he moves his tongue in one long lick from ass to clit.
I moan. Out loud.
“You won’t see him again,” he orders.
He pulls away, and my pleasure slowly ebbs away. I resist the urge to growl in frustration.
“Say it.”
I grit my teeth. “I won’t see him again.”
He hums in satisfaction. “Good girl.”
He goes back to eating at me, licking and sucking like it’s oxygen.
“You begged for him,” he growls against my flesh. “Never do it again, do you understand?”
Dazed, I nod.
“Words, Freya.”
“I . . . understand.”
He licks me again, one long, flat-tongued lick, and I almost come from it. “You’re on your knees for no one but me.”
And then he licks my clit. A rumble of satisfaction sounds from his chest, like he’s enjoying this.
“If I lick it, it’s mine,” he murmurs. “Isn’t that what you said?”
I breathe out a non-reply.
“Who does this tight little pussy belong to, then?”
Irritation flickers at the back of my mind.
“Me,” I grind out.
I feel the nip of his teeth. “Wrong answer.”
And then he pulls away until the only thing I feel is the breath of his exhale. I try to push back into his mouth, but he pulls further back, not giving me even an inch.
“Yours,” I growl, desperate, “It’s yours.”
Torren grins. “I know, baby.”
He spreads me open with rough hands. Increasing the pressure until he pushes his tongue inside me, he fucks me with his tongue. In and out. At one stage, he stays still, and I greedily snap my hips to ride his tongue, taking it deeper in me.
He lets me.
It’s the night of his father’s funeral, and he’s eating me out like it’s his birthday instead. Like a starved man. Sick. He’s so sick.
The pressure between my legs builds until it’s unbearable. All he has to do is push a single finger inside me, tongue pressed flat against my clit, and the orgasm hits me like a freight train.
Truth is, Ben would never be able to handle my darkness. Doesn’t even know it exists.
Torren — he sees it. Sees me, and all my darkness. He leashes it. Because his darkness is only a reflection of mine.
I come so hard black dots blur my vision. My back arches from the pool table, legs shaking. He doesn’t move, just laps at my clit as the waves of orgasm hit me, one by one.
I’m still sensitive from overstimulation when he flicks the back of his hand against my pussy. I jerk slightly from the contact.
I get no warning before he pulls away, leaving me there, spread half naked on his pool table, still reeling. Still needing more. Still wanting more.
I come up on my elbows, still breathing hard, my body burning from exertion. Amusement flickers in his eyes as his tongue darts out to run over his lips.
Then he turns his back to me. And all he says as he walks away is, “Sleep tight, little hellfire.”
❖ ❖ ❖
authorʼs note:
tfw the slow starts burning
spoiler for chapter 30 on my instagram @rhianovakauthor. see you there :)