MORNING LIGHT SPILLS into the room through the slats in the blinds like honey. I wake in sheets, feeling empty, feverish and sticky. And it hurts like hell between my legs. The bathroom door is open, so I have a full view of Torren leaning over the sink as he brushes his teeth.
He’s shirtless, his black Tom Ford boxers hanging low on his hips. Scratches from my nails are carved down from his broad, muscled shoulders to the base of his spine, like bloodied wings on a fallen angel.
I curl up into myself and groan to myself. The sheets are heavy with a mix of both our scents, and it goes straight to my head.
There’s movement from the bathroom, and then Torren is at my side, staring down at me with his toothbrush perched between his lips.
“What’s wrong,” he says, like a statement rather than a question.
The words tumble out of my mouth. “It hurts.”
He considers me for a moment, giving me an impassive look. Then he turns back to the bathroom. I hear the sound of water running and then rifling, before he returns. I sit up against the headboard and frown up at him as he sets down a glass of water at the bedside.
He knocks twice on my chin with the tattooed knuckle of his index finger. “Open.”
Frown deepening, I drop my jaw.
He places the pill on my tongue, then lifts the glass of water to my lips. “Swallow.”
And even though the order annoys me, I have little choice but to listen.
He pats my cheek with the back of his hand lightly. “Good girl.”
The action is condescending — degrading, almost, but it’s paired with praise.
An aggravated growl rises in my throat. Resisting the urge to bite off his hand, I sink back into the pillow and try to go back to sleep, but his voice stops me.
“You need to shower,” he says, “And eat.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “Tired.”
He’s quiet for a while, and for a second I think he left the room. But I should have known he wouldn’t let up so easily, because moments later, his arms come around me as he hauls me off the bed with the covers still wrapped around me.
“No,” I whine in protest, making sounds of complaint.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
He sets me down on the counter next to the sink, and I pull the sheets tighter around me. I don’t even want to bother to turn and see my reflection in the mirror. I’m almost certain I look like a mess.
He opens the cupboard below the sink, taking out an electric toothbrush, which I know is a spare from snooping around a while back. He squeezes toothpaste on the bristles.
I try to unscramble my hand out of the sheet cocoon around me. “I can do it myself.”
“Stop talking,” he says, “And open wide.”
Sighing, I decide that it’s really not worth fighting him on something so trivial, so I open my mouth and tip my head back a bit. The buzz of the toothbrush grows louder as he switches it on and moves it around my mouth.
He’s strangely detached and mechanical about it. And surprisingly, more gentle and thorough than even I am when brushing my own teeth. My eyelids flutter shut as the pain pill starts to work, and the ache between my legs starts to melt away.
“Spit.”
My eyes snap open at the harsh intrusion of his voice. The side of his mouth lifts, like he did it on purpose. I give him a sidelong glance, leaning over the sink to spit out the toothpaste.
He repeats the process twice over, then passes me a glass to gargle.
When it’s finally done, he pulls me off the counter, and my feet meet the cool tiles of the floor. I tighten my hold on the sheet around me, anticipating what he’s going to do next a second too late. “Torren—”
He tugs the cover off me, and it pools around on the floor.
I suck in a breath as cool air hits me, my bare skin pebbling all over. Torren picks up the cover, bundles it, and chucks it into the laundry basket.
When he turns back to me, his gaze snags on my naked form for a second, his eyes darkening with carnal want. Then he blinks, and it’s gone. He places the rough palm of his hand into the bare skin of my midriff, pushing me towards the shower.
“Wait—” I murmur, but he leans over me, pushing the handle, and the spray of water hits me. I shut my eyes as water slides over my skin. It’s a millisecond of shock before the warm water starts to feel like heaven. Immediately, the shower starts to fog up with steam.
Torren sheds his boxers and steps in the shower. I avert my gaze, cheeks flaming.
God, he’s so perfect. I hate how perfect he is. Tall, broad shoulders, thick arms, olive skin. And I’m intimately aware of what that powerful body feels like around me, inside me. Everywhere.
He squeezes a healthy amount of his body wash into a sponge. There’s something so strangely erotic about seeing him fist the sponge in his giant hand.
He’s naked, but my gaze is glued to his hand.
I’m still busy fixating on the sight when he reaches out, grabbing my wrist and tugging me out of the spray of water and closer to him.
I stumble against him, my hands finding purchase on his stomach. My nipples brush against his wet skin, and the muscles of his abdomen tighten under my fingers. He grows hard, his length prodding into my thigh.
I glance up at him. His hair is pitch black, wet against his forehead as he looks down at me with a distant kind of scorn. He’s ignoring his hard on.
“That’s your body wash,” I say.
Something jumps in his jaw, and sarcasm drips from his words when he speaks. “You don’t say.”
“I don’t want to smell like you.”
“Tough shit,” he says.
And despite myself, despite everything, my lips twitch upward. I try to chew back my smile, and thankfully, he’s not looking at me when he drags the sponge over my collarbone.
He applies pressure without even seeming like he’s trying, and it feels . . . good. Too good. I’ve never had someone wash me before. Ever. I resist the urge to sigh and fall into him.
He washes the entire length of my arm, and then the other. And then he drags the sponge over my breasts, and then under.
He circles the expanse of my stomach, and I have to hold onto him to stay upright as he pulls my leg up and grips my ankle, scrubbing me from the apex of my thigh to ankle.
He repeats the action with the other leg, then he squeezes the sponge free of any traces of soap, then runs it between my legs. My breath flutters in surprise. His gaze is dark, heavy, and angry, almost. His fingers brush against me now and then, but the touch never morphs into something sexual.
When he’s satisfied, he pushes me up against the wall so that my breasts are pressed against the cool dark tiles, keeping me pinned in place with his palm pressing into the small of my back. He adds more body wash to the sponge, and washes me from my shoulders to ankles. I don’t miss the way he stops for a second when he reaches the curve of my ass.
When he’s finally done, he pulls me back under the spray of water, so that it sluices all the soap off my body. While it happens, he lathers himself next to me, and I watch as he runs the sponge — the same one that touched every inch of my body — over his arms to clean himself.
The way that the water slides over his tanned skin, over each cord of hard muscle in his shoulders, stirs something twisted inside me.
He’s still hard.
When he turns his gaze to me to check if all the soap is rinsed off me, I take a step closer to him, and lower until my knees are digging into the tiles on the floor of the shower.
Heʼs deathly still, and his voice is low and dark when he says, “What are you doing, Freya?”
“Pretending,” I say.
Pretending that you’re mine. Pretending this can last.
When he makes no move to stop me, I take his length into my hand, and he goes rigid. I’m not doing this to absolve myself of any guilt — I’m doing it because I’m greedy.
I lick the slit —once, twice, until he’s twitching in my hand and leaking pre-cum— and then take him into my mouth. He grunts and swerves into motion, threading his hand through my wet hair and tugging so hard that I’m forced to look up at him as I suck in a breath.
“How much can you take?” he huffs out.
I shrug, testing the waters as I take him down my throat. My eyes water, and I pull back and try again. I repeat the motion, a slow give and take of my mouth on his flesh until he hits a spot in my throat that makes me splutter, tears springing to my eyes.
And then he takes charge. He starts fucking my mouth—slow and languid at first, then speeding up until it’s so rough and fast I grow dizzy.
He doesn’t push past the limit I seemingly created, so although I get close to gagging a few times, I never really do. His movements grow faster, and more distracted, when he glances down at me and asks, “Swallowing?”
I blink once, managing a nod.
His gaze flares. He thrusts into my mouth shallowly, and when I tongue his tip, he groans, tugging on my hair so a sweet burn spreads across my scalp as he empties himself down my throat. His cock quivers in my mouth, and when he pulls out, I swallow.
Running the back of my hand over my lips, I stand.
His gaze flickers down to my swollen mouth. Hungry. Starved. Something twitches in his jaw. His fists tighten at his sides, and he broods under the water, his chest rising and falling steadily.
He turns to me, and his gaze rushes to my lips again, and it’s pained, almost. My heart rises to the top of my throat, and I instinctively take a step back. He makes an agitated sound, then brushes past me and out of the shower, grabbing a towel.
I stay in the shower for a while longer, allowing myself to wallow for minutes before I step out, grabbing a fluffy white towel to dry myself off.
The heavenly scent of butter and garlic fills wafts into his room from downstairs. I button on one of his shirts and walk downstairs, fully expecting it to be Giulia. But it isn’t. It’s Torren.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Rhaegar is lounging sleepily on the floor next to him. Something jumps in my stomach, and I shuffle on my feet, my palms growing clammy.
I’ve never seen him in sweatpants. I just had him naked in the shower — had his dick in my mouth, but somehow, seeing him in different clothing feels a million times more scandalous.
While I’d suspected that he’d made that pasta himself from scratch the other time, he never really confirmed it. But now, as he rolls out perfect sheets of hand-made pasta, it’s clear that he knows how to cook.
He does everything with psychotic precision. His working area is clear except for what he’s using, and instead of getting messier as time passes, the granite counter only gets clearer.
It’s fascinating — seeing him this way . . . domestic, almost. And it makes my breath hitch a little.
Torren looks up, his gaze clouding as he takes in my attire — just his shirt, nothing else. He lowers his lids once, gesturing for me to get closer. “Come here.”
I hesitate for a second, then walk to him. He pulls me into him immediately, enveloping me with his body. And since I showered with his products, the scent of him is everywhere.
“Stir the sauce,” he says, his voice thrumming behind me as heat spreads from his chest into my back.
I blink, staring blankly at the steaming saucepan in front of me like.
Torren sighs, placing his right hand over mine, and taking it to the wooden spoon before guiding it around. “Yeah, see? That’s how you stir.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I growl.
I can almost feel the lift of his lips. “I’m not patronizing you, baby. I’m educating you. Now keep stirring.”
He drains the water out of another steaming pot of pasta, pouring the rest into the sauce I’m stirring. Then he sets the pasta down, turning his attention back to me.
He’s quiet for a while, watching me stir. “I like you like this,” he says, “wearing my clothes, making me food.”
Heat bubbles inside me at his words. “I don’t know how to cook,” I murmur, “Maybe you should reconsider your choice.”
I’ve never cooked a day in my life. We had cooks at home, and in college, Sal used to cook and I would be notoriously unhelpful.
“I’m not reconsidering anything,” Torren says, taking the saucepan off the heat.
His body is wrapped around me again, and he lowers his mouth to nip at my neck. “I don’t need a cook. I need a wife.”
My breath hitches. “Don’t you have work?”
He lowers his hand to presses his shirt between my legs, the heat from his palm pressing through the cotton material. “Took time off so I could vacation in this pussy.”
My cheeks heat.
At the sound of the word pussy, Rhaegar perks up. Guess I’m not the only scandalized one.
Torren’s hand pushes harder into my aching clit through his shirt.
I squirm. “Not in front of Rhaegar.”
“He’s a dog,” Torren says flatly.
My mouth drops. “He’s like a son to me.”
He gives me an empty look. “If he’s anyone’s son, he’s my son.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lift a brow, turning to prove my point. “Come here, Rhaegar, come here, boy.”
Rhaeger rises on his haunches, about to gallop to my side when the sound of ruffling stops him.
Torren is filling up Rhaegar’s food bowl with his favorite beef-flavored snack.
My jaw drops in disbelief. “Don’t do it, Rhaegar.”
But Rhaegar just whines, retreating to his bowl.
I glare at Torren, but he just takes the sauce off the stove pouring it over the pasta, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“You cheater!” I exclaim. “You can’t just—”
He twirls linguine around a fork, pushing it into my mouth to shut me up.
The sad thing is that it tastes so good that it actually works. There’s a burst of butter, tomato and garlic on my tongue. I let him feed me another bite. And another.
He eats with the same fork. For every two bites he gives me, he takes one of his own.
And somehow, I go from arguing with him to letting him feed me in the middle of the kitchen.
When I’m full, I shake my head, and he takes the bite for himself. I watch as he does it, my gaze tracking his Adam’s apple. His eyes fall to my chest, where the outline of my nipples are clear through the white of his shirt.
Wordlessly, Torren turns to collect Rhaegar, scratching the nape of the dog’s neck as he leads him to the door.
I frown, calling out, “Where are you taking him?”
“Luca can babysit,” he says, “Stay where you are. I’m coming back to fuck you.”
*
DAYS PASS. Torren fucks me like he owns me. Feeds me like he owns me. Somewhere along the way, I lose my mind.
The kitchen counter, the living room window, the couch, the pool table, the floor, the bed, the wall. He said he’s afraid of God, but he fucks like he is one.
He fucks me from the front and raw – two ways he says he’s never fucked another woman before. He only ever enters me from behind in front of the mirror in his bathroom, so he can see me while he does it.
I move my things back into his shower. There’s even a drawer in his wardrobe for me, so I can change into a new pair of clothes after showering. I tell myself it’s just easier. He says it makes no difference to him.
But even though my clothes are right there, I always end up in his.
The only time I feel like myself is when we fuck. If I have too much space to think, the guilt starts to set in, and I don’t want to be near him.
I’m so touch-starved — so needy, and he knows it. He uses it like a weapon and plays my body like an instrument.
We’re wretched. Doomed. It’s too late to save our souls.
I want it to hurt. I want him to hurt me, so I can justify what I did.
But he never does.
He likes doing things for me. And he’s slow and deliberate with everything he does. Like washing every inch of my body, brushing my teeth, buttoning his white shirts on me after sex.
He rips all my black clothes — t-shirts, dresses, lingerie —off me. He breaks me. And then he patches me up with white.
He tells me things — crude, vulgar, obscene things.
Things that I secretly love.
He pushes his hand into the lowest part of my stomach, and says, “I love feeling my cock move inside you. I want to fuck you over and over. Come inside you again and again. Fuck, I want to fill you up.”
I’m on the pill. He knows this. But it’s like he’s trying to compete with it.
I bring up the topic one day, pacing in the kitchen with his come running down my thighs.
“What if I actually get pregnant?”
His eyes flare. “I don’t see the problem.”
I stop breathing for a second. And then I fill myself a glass of water and down it.
“I’m not having your babies,” I say, slowly, not meeting his gaze. “It wasn’t in the contract.”
“Neither was you coming seven times on my dick last night.”
My lips part in shock as I turn to face him. He was keeping count?
“You don’t want children?” he asks, casually, as he spoons Giulia’s casserole into his mouth.
My chest constricts to the point of pain. “I’m not ready.”
His stance is casual. Almost too casual. “But you do want them?”
I stay quiet. I know how important it is to be a good mother. And if I ever become a mom, I want to be a perfect one. And that terrifies me.
He tilts his head, his dark eyes full of intrigue. “You’re scared.”
I cut him a glare. “Just because I’m not afraid of you, it doesn’t mean I’m fearless.”
His lips lift. Like he’s someone everyone fears, so it actually is something he assumes.
“Tell me all your fears,” he says, “I’ll scare them away.”
I avert my gaze. “There are some things even you can’t touch.”
He takes a step closer to me, his arms coming around my waist. “Let me try.”
Why does it hurt so much?
“Stop it!” I cry. Tears spring to my eyes as I turn to face him. “Look at me, do I look like I could be a good mom? Do you think you could be a good father? We’re dysfunctional at best.”
He growls. “We’re fucking made for each other, Freya. You were made for me.”
My heart is bleeding in my chest.
“What about your revenge?” I ask weakly.
He shakes his head. “It never had much to do with you. It was always your father. You just made it more difficult than it had to be.”
What? So it’s that easy for him to turn the tables and decide that I’m not his enemy after all? I resist the urge to scream out loud.
“I had to fight you for seven minutes of control!” I exclaim. “I could get way better with someone else, and you know it.”
He snarls, a vicious rage taking over his features. “Seven minutes with me is worth more than a lifetime with anyone else,” he says, “And you know it.”
I scoff. “You’re so full of yourself.”
I turn to leave, but he lunges for my arm, stopping me. His gaze is serious, and his voice is deadly. “Don’t walk away from me, Freya.”
I stay rooted to the spot.
“I won’t force you to have my children,” he says, “It’s your body. But don’t stand in front of me and pretend you don’t want the same things I do. Don’t stand in front of me and act like you didn’t let me come inside you again and again.”
I swallow, the weight of his words sinking in. If he’s right, then I’m a liar and a hypocrite. And fucked up, and selfish. I’m just like him.
But I knew it from the start, didn’t I?
I knew it from the start.
Weʼre so alike.
His hands come up to hold my face.
“You don’t have to walk around like a cardboard fucking cut-out and do everything your father says. You can be more than one thing at once. And one of those things is my legally wedded wife,” he says, his voice hardening. “In three days.”
My heart sinks in my chest. Three days.
“What about a dress fitting?” I say lamely.
“Unnecessary,” he mutters, “The dress will fit.”
I frown. “How do you know?”
“I checked the measurements.”
My frown deepens. “You know my measurements?”
His expression is remorseless. “Off by heart.”
My mouth drops. “You’re a psychopath!”
He gives me a blank look. “How do think that Westwood dress fit you so well? Not by chance.” He reaches out to cup my boobs with his big hands. “These are slightly bigger than usual.”
Gritting my teeth, I smack his hands away. “What is wrong with you?”
He returns to the casserole, amusement in his gaze. “I thought you said you don’t want to get married.”
“I don’t.”
He forks a morsel of food into his mouth. “Then why do you care so much about a dress fitting?”
I freeze.
“You want to know what I think?” he murmurs. “You do want to get married. But you think that marriage isn’t real. You think it’s a hoax. Daddy cheated, but daddy’s never wrong, so it’s marriage that’s the problem.”
“Shut up,” I snap.
“You think I’ll cheat on you, like your father did.”
I lift a brow. “And you won’t?”
There’s a spark in his eyes. “Your pussy’s like cement, baby. I’m stuck in it forever.”
My cheeks boil with heat. “I don’t care. I still don’t want to marry you.”
“Yes, you do,” he says, “You want flowers and chocolates and sex twice a day. I’ll give you all of it if you stop pretending you don’t want it. Own who you are. Stop lying to yourself.”
This time, I have nothing to say. I’m at staring at the empty kitchen sink and I can’t pretend that the image of him doing what he says doesn’t make me happy.
“Three days, Freya,” he says, walking out the apartment.
I’m getting married in three days. In three days, the promise I made to myself at sixteen will be broken.
I will never take a man’s name, and I will never marry.
There’s no ignoring the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me something bad is about to happen.
❖ ❖ ❖
authorʼs note:
4 CHAPTERS LEFT!!!
turns out i have covid yʼall, and my eyes are on FIRE so excuse any typos!
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see you next chapter <3