Scorch (Virtues & Lies Book 2)

by Alexandra Silva

  “If you touch him, neither of you will live to tell the tale. There will be no justice for anyone.” Stopping at the door, he looks back at me. “And I want it just as much as you do.”

  “Stop fighting me, then.”

  “We’re not fighting you, Christopher.” Dad moves for the door just as another knock sounds. “There’s always a bigger picture. You’re just too close to see it.”

  Benedict opens the door, and as Julian walks in, he pauses, searching between the three of us. His face pales, and I know exactly what’s going through his mind.

  What now?

  “Jules.” Smiling at him, Dad pats his shoulder. “Good to see you looking well.”

  He doesn’t look well. He looks heartbroken. But maybe I’m missing the bigger picture there too.

  “Francis. Benedict.”

  “Julian.” Benedict nods as he and my father leave the office.

  Glancing at me as the door shuts, Julian remains frozen in the middle of the office.

  “What’s going on? Henry said it was urgent.”

  He starts toward my desk as I shuffle some of the files that were waiting for me.

  “I need divorce papers drawn up.”

  Coming to a sudden stop, he stands a couple of feet from my desk. “For who?”

  “Who do you think?” I don’t bother looking up to see the expression on his face. I already know what it’ll look like. Pity. Shock. Disappointment. Trepidation.

  “If it’s a problem, I can go to someone else.” I don’t doubt for a second that he’s warring with himself over his loyalty to Arabella. Even if it’s because of his sentiments toward Kit, his dead boyfriend.

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Good. The sooner you can have them done, the better. No point in dragging these things on.”

  Chapter 8

  Arabella

  There’s something in the air. It feels too thick and congested as I walk up the concrete steps to Heath House. The security on duty tonight opens the door as I reach the top step. His eyes skim me from top to toe, and when I take my coat off to reveal the little black dress beneath it, he gives me a nod to walk through.

  The place is very particular on the dress code. The clientele it hosts doesn’t do casual often.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Sinclair,” the hostess at the front desk announces loudly.

  “Arabella,” I tell her one more time. All the other girls seem to have gotten the message. Not this one though. No, she likes to live up to the blonde bimbo stereotype.

  “My apologies.”

  Whatever.

  Adjusting the short hem of my dress, I walk through the small passage to the bar. The air feels too tightly packed into the place. My hair sticks to my neck as sweat begins to mist my clammy skin.

  It’s ludicrous for it to be this warm; the place is practically empty. In fact, apart from the bartender, there is nobody here. Thursdays are normally the busiest nights. People can’t wait for Friday to see the weekend in.

  Folding my coat on top of the bar, I take a better look about the room. Maybe I missed something?

  “Tonic?” Peter asks with his usual smile. He’s waiting for the day that I give him friendlier answers.

  Today isn’t that day.

  “Please.”

  “Solo tónico?” Only tonic?

  “Yes.”

  “Segura?” Sure?

  “Yes.” He’s not actually Spanish, but because he knows who I am and my mother’s heritage, he keeps dropping it into our conversation. It’s so silly that Oliver has started calling him Pedro as a joke.

  Sitting on one of the tall stools, I try to shake off the ominous feeling that’s clinging to me. There’s no reason for me to feel like the world is about to implode. The piano music is soft with trailing notes of Tchaikovsky’s “Autumn Song,” the chords echoing around me with their melancholy voice.

  One minute it’s sad, the next it’s climbing to an exhilarating climax, and much like life it collapses on itself with heartbreaking pangs and jarring punches.

  Taking a sip of the soft pink hibiscus tonic, I inhale deeply. I can barely fit the smallest gulp of air in my constricted lungs. My ribs ache like they’re being squeezed to a pulp.

  “We’re closed.”

  Oliver takes my glass from my hands, placing it on the bar.

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  Picking up my drink one more time, I take a healthy sip of it, focusing on the way the floral notes fizz on my tongue.

  “You can’t be here tonight.” His rushed words are accompanied by grasping hands as he takes me down from the bar stool. “It’s a private party.”

  The panicked edge to his voice is far too high-pitched for it to be the truth. Oliver has always been a shit liar. And as if to confirm my suspicions, Christopher and Freddie waltz into view.

  “Really, Oliver?” Pulling myself from his grasp, I put enough distance between us that I can get a better view of the man haunting my every thought and nightmare. “You said I could come here whenever I needed to.”

  “You can, Bella. Just not tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want trouble in my club,” he snaps back at me, just as my gaze clashes with Christopher’s.

  He’s come for me.

  Every part of me wants to jump ship and run to him, but then all the faces I’ve imagined of our daughter flit through my mind. The honeyed eyes and perfectly dipped cupid’s bow. The wild messy hair that looks rough but feels so soft.

  I took that away from him. From me. From us.

  He’s looking at me with that arrogant intensity that makes my insides buzz and heat and yearn.

  Pain lances through me as his lips purse and his brow creases. He looks so angry. Like he could destroy me for good. But there isn’t anything left to ruin. And although he doesn’t know it, I’m doing this for him. It’s all I can do now.

  Taking a step back from Oliver, I drop my gaze to the black-and-white chequerboard floor and head towards the piano lounge. I feel the fire of Christopher’s stare scorch my skin with every step I take. The closer I get to where he’s standing, the more my insides tighten and ache.

  The music barely makes it through the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. Every step feels shakier. It’s like my entire being is shrinking and I’m lost, completely and utterly adrift in Christopher’s presence.

  I have to continuously remind myself to keep moving.

  Don’t stop. Don’t look. Just move.

  This mantra keeps repeating in my mind over and again. Until I’m about to walk past him.

  When he steps in front of me, his arm grazing the side of my face, I pause. My sight never strays from the dark grey weave of his wool suit, his peppery scent fuzzing my senses.

  “Leave,” he rasps darkly.

  When I look up, it takes me a moment to find my voice. And another to swallow down the lump that swells in my throat at his contemptuous glare. By the time I’ve got myself in check, it’s too late for me to say anything at all.

  Walking around him, I take a long, steadying inhale.

  I’m sorry. I miss you. I’m so sorry.

  It’s all I can think as I walk away, his scent burning my lungs. My mouth waters and my sex clenches with my relentless need for my husband.

  I walk through the dark passage leading to the piano room with my heart in my throat. The lights at the end are a deep violet, and before I’m engulfed by the decadent space, I pause at the mouth of the tight corridor, composing myself with deep inhales and steady exhales as I hold my belly.

  I’ve grown so used to feeling empty that I have no idea how to contain and control the severity of my longing. I might actually burst.

  The music morphs into something more mainstream. Still Tchaikovsky though, and that is enough to confirm that he’s here. Swan Lake is probably my least favourite of Tchaikovsky’s compositions, but it still holds so many fond memories that I actually manage to relax somewh
at.

  Sticking to the shadow, I search the room. The place really is empty. There are a few girls in barely anything around one of the tables where Tomasz is sitting. He has guests, and I hope that he doesn’t see me as I watch them. I want to memorise their faces.

  Every. Single. One.

  The men he’s with are all new to me, barring one. Charles Winterbourne. The Foreign Secretary. I recognise his sharp features like I only saw him moments ago rather than months.

  Last time I saw him I was lying in a hospital bed with my body threatening to give up.

  Maybe I should never have woken up.

  That thought crosses my mind far more than it should. I should be grateful I made it. That I’m here now.

  I watch as they talk, and I wonder if he’s getting something more than I have. Tomasz is a fort of secrecy. Trying to see if anything has come from their conversation, I focus harder, but it’s too late. Before the song is over, they all stand—except for Tomasz, who doesn’t move a single muscle—and leave without so much as a parting word. They disappear through one of the private passages that will take them to the closed-off entrance at the back of the building.

  “I did not say stop,” Tomasz tells the pianist as he makes to leave also.

  His words are a slurred, unspoken threat.

  The pianist has barely sat back down as he demands, “Balakirev.”

  He doesn’t bother looking to see if the man is doing as he tells him to. Clicking at one of the half-naked girls, he points down at his empty shot glass. Head down, back straight, and long legs barely able to balance in her ridiculous heels, she follows his wordless instructions as the piano fills the air again.

  Shooting back the vodka, his hand rounds the curve of her arse. She doesn’t look up while he gropes her. There’s no flinch. She’s passive.

  “Again.”

  Pouring him another shot, her hands tremble as she tries to balance under his rough touches. Just as she’s straightening, he slaps her arse so hard that you can hear the thwack! bounce between the walls and over the music.

  “Clean it, sooka.” Bitch. Grasping her at the nape, he forces her down, until her face is pressed to the table. “With your tongue.”

  She does. The girl licks up every last drop, and when she’s done, she doesn’t stop licking the table until he releases her.

  My heart clangs against my ribs, disgust filling me with rage. I’ve always known the kind of man Tomasz Vassily is. Dad made sure I understood everything he was capable of. It’s why I’m here, because I won’t let him hurt Christopher.

  But it’s the here and now that cements his fate. His father might’ve given the order that killed my baby, but he is the same kind of man. He is his father’s son. Cruel and vicious. And for that alone he deserves to die.

  “Leave the bottle and get out!” Pushing the girl away, he makes no effort to catch her as she falls to her arse. There’s not the slightest move to try and help her. “Polzti ty gryaznaya shlyukha,” he snarls at the girl as she crawls towards where I’m standing. “Vrediteli! Bystryy! Izmennik!”

  Moving faster on her hands and knees, her whole body trembles. I have no idea what he’s saying, apart from that he called her a whore. But before she’s reached halfway across the room, he turns to the security guy that’s been standing beside him the entire time. I sense what he’s about to do as he reaches into his bodyguard’s jacket.

  No! Lunging forward when he pulls out a gun, aiming it straight at the girl’s head, I lose my balance. I only just manage to stop myself from ending up beside her on the floor. And when I look up, cold blue eyes meet mine.

  Tilting his head to the side, Tomasz gets up and strides to me, heavy, purposeful steps that put me on edge.

  My breaths quicken with my racing heart, and finally I understand what it feels like to be a deer in the headlights. I’m not startled. I’m scared. I see death coming again, and this time I’m his target.

  Fuck, what was I thinking?

  I’m trying to get my breathing under control, trying to calm myself, but as he powers to me, all I see is darkness and that gun—the metallic glint of it in the purple light—becomes a knife. A sharp knife that could kill.

  Everything tells me to run. Everything tells me I’m in trouble. But still, I’m paralysed. I barely manage to swallow down my panic when he towers over me.

  Christopher’s here. He’ll protect you.

  It’s that thought that keeps me from ruining everything. The crux of the situation. I want to protect him, and myself too.

  Narrowed stare focused on me, he pays no mind to the girl scurrying past us on the floor.

  “Are you stupid or brave?” Stroking the cold gun over my cheek, a taunting smile cuts his face. He rattles something else in Russian, and his bodyguard is quick to act.

  The music comes to an abrupt stop. The already thick air congeals, and I daren’t look away from him. Not even when my lungs start to hurt and my head starts to spin.

  Purposefully fumbling on my feet, I grab hold of his black shirt. He’s drunk—he’ll probably think I am too.

  That’s what I’m hoping as I force a laugh past my lips. It’s high-pitched, and in the silence it sounds shrill.

  “Come, devushka.” Fuck, his hand tightens around mine, pulling me behind him toward the abandoned grand piano. “Sit.”

  I do exactly as I’m ordered. Falling to my arse on the piano bench, I swivel to face the keys. I’m hoping this is all he wants as his hand closes around the nape of my neck.

  Squeezing, he says, “Play.”

  My mind goes blank of all the songs I’ve memorised over the years. My fingers trip over themselves on the keys.

  Fuck.

  “Play,” he repeats, pressing the muzzle of the gun between my shoulder blades.

  I can remember every single note to the music I’ve heard tonight. They seem to be the only ones I can recall right now, but I know it’d be beyond stupid to play any of those. I don’t know what he suspects or what he knows. Maybe this is a trap. A test to see how much I’ve witnessed.

  Holy shit, Arabella, come on!

  Shaking my head, I focus on the pale line on my finger. The one belonging to my engagement ring. The absence of it is heavy with that of my wedding ring, and I really wish that I hadn’t been so hasty in my decision to leave them.

  But it was the only way I could think to hit Christopher hard enough that he would be staggered for what to do. Nothing else would’ve worked.

  My fingers tinker the familiar notes until I’m hammering keys so hard that my wrists and arms begin to protest. My knuckles hurt like they’re about to pop or bend backwards.

  When Tomasz sits beside me, it doesn’t faze me. All I can think right now is all the things I want to scream at everyone. Every person that I have ever met and ever known.

  All the things I want to say and can’t ball up in my chest, burning through me, and the more I think them, the harder my fingers work the keys. And I hope to God that it’s loud enough for the one person I truly care about to hear.

  The only person that matters. The one I’m doing this for.

  Christopher might hate me, but I’d rather have him do so than live my life knowing that I destroyed him and all the things he can be.

  This is my choice.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m another pawn in the hands of the people who brought us to this. All that matters is that in the end, I can look back and say that I at least tried to make things right. That I’ve tried to make up for my failings and sins.

  “I think you are brave.” Leaning into me, Tomasz murmurs in my ear, his hot breath soaking into my hair and clinging to my skin all wrong. “Brave, beautiful, and very, very stupid.”

  My fingers fumble over the keys as he runs the gun from my knee, up my thigh, to the bottom of my belly.

  Oh God.

  This feels different to all the other times he’s sat beside me, and not because of the weapon he’s holding. He’s finally making his i
ntentions known as he crosses his arm around my back, settling his free hand snug to my arse. He’s breathing me in like I’m a fine wine he’s about to drink, and just the thought repulses me.

  Thigh touching mine, he leaves no space between us. Every one of my cells protests at the contact. Every breath catches in my throat like barbed wire, cutting me up and leaving me raw.

  I can’t do this. I can’t…

  Before I can stop myself, I’m running. I have no idea what I’m running to or from. All I know is that I’m so tired, so fucking tired, and I can’t betray Christopher like that.

  I thought that I could do anything for him. But it’s another failure I have to stomach.

  Pushing through the toilets door, I slam it behind me. There’s no one here. The dim lights are red and dark. My heels slip on the polished marble as I race to the sink a retching mess.

  Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  I don’t know what’s worse—the mistake I’ve already made or the fact that I can’t go through with fixing it.

  I can’t sell myself to the devil when I’m already married to a god.

  This place might as well be hell. I’m burning and all the hate inside me is threatening to erupt, and I can’t physically contain it any longer.

  I can’t look at myself without hating everything I see. Without seeing all of my mistakes. Without feeling the weight of all my sins. It’s crushing.

  “I hate you!” Picking up the heavy soap bottle, I throw it at my teary reflection. And it feels so good to break something outside of myself that I don’t stop. The flower vase. The hand lotion. Everything I can get my hands on, and when that’s not enough anymore, I use my bare hands.

  My black blood smears in the red-tinged mirror as it runs down my hands and my wrists.

  The more I stare at it, the more I’m taken back, and all I can see is darkness. Dim streetlights barely lighting the street ahead…

  Chapter 9

  Arabella

  “Stop, Arabella!” I can hear Christopher’s footsteps behind me quicken as he jogs after me.

  Picking up the hem of my dress, I try to run a little quicker, even if it makes all my insides shake and the baby kick like mad. I’m not even going that fast, but with the extra fabric of my dress and my flip-flops, I can’t balance myself when I trip over.