A Torment of Sin

by Charlotte E Hart

  I stare still, unsure why I thought it might have changed. Hardly likely to have, but that’s what comes of losing yourself in time for a while and living a life that isn’t yours. Perceptions change. Thoughts. Wants. Needs. My fingers reach into my inside pocket to pull the bottle of pills out to remind me of something I’m trying to forget. The moment I do, I feel the thread of the gold chain looped around it. Both get pulled into my grip and then tumble into my outspread hand.

  One lie, and one truth.

  I pick out the chain and run it through my fingers, winding it around my fingers as she used to. Smooth. Cool against me. I smile at it and lean my head back, closing my eyes even though I shouldn’t. The chain heats against my skin, warming as it clings to my fingers like she did me. I don’t even know what that means in the here and now. Nothing maybe, but it’s my memory and no one’s taking it from me, not even myself.

  Maybe it’s me that’s changed. Not this place that used to feel so familiar.

  I put both things back in my pocket and get out before I turn this car around and head straight back to the airport. More familiarity looms up on me as I approach James, the butler, who’s waiting for me under the porch.

  “Sir,” he says, nodding. “Welcome home.”

  I don’t acknowledge him or the words other than a curt nod. This isn’t my home. Hasn’t been for ten years and it wasn’t when I bought it either. Still, it is my life. It is all that I am and all that I work for. That work takes me straight along the hardwood floors and through rooms to get to my study, where I pick up the latest data so I can head back through the house to the east wing. Halls pass me by, their colours and the furniture in them ignored. None of it matters to me. It’s barren of connection, empty of true sensation other than anger.

  Footsteps mirror my own down by the orangery somewhere, heels clipping on the hardwood this time. I look towards them, at least feeling some sentiment to them alone in this detachment of logic and progression, and then carry on towards the east wing rather than acknowledge conversations I’m not ready to have yet.

  The housekeeper approaches me as I reach the music room, her smile as warm as anything gets here. “Sir, he’s out with the horses if you’d like to see him.”

  “Thankyou.”

  I stop and look through the window towards the red barns, steeling myself for that meeting when it comes, and then keep walking again. I’ve got things to do first. Guilt to get rid of, hide maybe.

  And a life to get back to.

  Chapter 21

  Hannah

  J ust wandering. Up and down. Down and up.

  I shrug the comforter around me and peer into rooms as I go by them, finally seeing some clarity in them with no pills to cloud me. It’s pretty, especially with light spilling into the rooms to highlight all the old canvases and details. Beautiful. I scowl at the thought of the word and walk into the dining room I was in one night. Beautiful. He called me that. Said I was. And then he made love to me. Softly. Gently. Fingers and whispered words. Lips ghosting compliments and praises. And now he’s gone.

  Not dead.

  Just gone.

  My fingers trail over my bruised lips, as I look at the huge table spread out in the middle of the room, enough seating for twenty or so. Men were here. Lots of men. And Malachi with his ‘Malachi says’. None of them were Gray. None of them were inside me, with me, understanding my needs like he does. They were vacant of whatever it is that he has. Just bystanders hoping to amuse themselves with my skin.

  I sigh and move listlessly, dragging the heavy length of this comforter around with me so I can sense weight and density around me. I feel too light, as if something’s missing from my skin. I don’t know what that is. Everything seems empty. I do. Maybe I’ll float if I let go of this weight, rise above whatever state I’m in and hover over it all. But it smells like him, and I can’t let that go even if I knew he would let me go.

  The view pulls me to it and I gaze upwards at the mountains stretched in out in front of me, as I listen to the footfalls in the main hall behind me. They belong to Malachi. He’s following me at a distance. He says it’s his job to look after me now. Keep me safe if I want to stay or get me home if that’s what I want. I don’t know what I want, but I do know that Malachi isn’t it no matter how attractive he is. Besides, he’s married. Not that that seems to make any difference here, but it does to me. I want a claim that is my own if I choose one, nothing in the way of it.

  “Come. Food,” he says, sharply.

  Food.

  I keep gazing. Not aimlessly this time. No. I’m not aimless. I am more than that. I’m not going to falter like I did with Rick. Hurt, whilst painful, is now invigorating somehow. I knew the feelings, the closeness would leave, knew he would be done when he was done. He told me enough. Made sure I understood the connotation of the few nights we had. And I felt it last night, anyway. Accepted it even when it hurt to think about it. But what’s confusing me, what’s riding over me and making me feel like I am lost and faltering, is that I thought I was going with him. When it ended for him, it ended for me. He was adamant. Immovable. But apparently, given my presence still in this castle and the fact that he is not in it with me, I’m not.

  I don’t understand that.

  “Hannah?”

  My head turns slowly at the sound of my name from Malachi’s lips, a sigh leaving me. “Now you call me that?”

  “I like you a little more than I did before.”

  “Really?”

  His fingers pinch together, creating an inch worth of space. “A little. Don’t get sentimental about it. I can’t cope with it in this mood.”

  “What mood is that?” I ask, moving towards him and smiling.

  “Blue. I miss him. And that’s your fault, so will you come and eat something before you disintegrate or I beat you to death for annoying me anyway.”

  My brows shoot up. “My fault? He’s the one that’s left.”

  “For good reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  Minutes pass as he mulls over answering that. He knows. Whatever it is that has kept Gray at a distance and whatever it is that has made him leave, Malachi knows. I narrow my stare at him and move closer, part determined to find out regardless of if anything changes or not. I mean why? Why would a man, who lives a reclusive life, making his millions while he does, choose to not be part of something that was becoming all consuming, needful, and desperate in some ways?

  I sag and then right myself at the thought of sagging. I will not sag. My chin lifts, hands wrapping the comforter tighter so I can use the strength of him still lingering on it. I just want answers this time. Reasons that make sense to me so I can move past whatever feelings I have for him. They’re here, both buried and erupting because of last night and his words. I didn’t get the chance with Rick to understand.

  This time, I’m getting my answers.

  “Why are you so against eating food?” Malachi eventually asks.

  “I’m not. Why are you hiding something from me?”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just not telling.”

  “Malachi.”

  “Hannah,” he mirrors, smirking slightly.

  “Are you not allowed to tell me, or are you choosing not to tell me?”

  “Both.”

  “Asshole.”

  His smile spreads, finger crooking at me to follow.

  I sneer at it and his attitude, but follow languidly anyway because why not? Maybe if I keep asking I’ll get my answers. And even if I don’t I’m not sure what else to do at the moment. I could leave. He told me I could this morning when I found him sitting in the bedroom window. I’d almost cried when I woke and found Gray gone, but I think I knew that might happen so instead I just stared at the spot he should have been in and pulled this comforter closer. Gold chain gone – Gray gone with it. And then Malachi spoke.

  I listened without turning to face him, not overly surprised that he would be in there for some reason. I
listened to the dark tone of his voice murmuring and the quiet morning chirps of birds outside the room, as he spoke about the meaning of love and whether it was worth fighting for or not. And then I listened as he left the room with another few sentences that I can still remember now.

  “I can organise for the plane to take you home, Mrs Tanner, or you are welcome to stay for as long as you’d like. Better to go too far than not far enough.”

  I wish I knew what that last bit meant.

  I end up following him through empty hallways and down back staircases into what seems to be old staff quarters. Dust and remnants of living lie around, the occasional piece of clothing that seems as if it was made a hundred years ago. I watch his body clad in jeans and a black shirt move decisively, wondering who he really is, or what this place used to be, until we end up in a pristine, large kitchen decked out with all the usual things modernity requires.

  A maid walks passed him, nodding, and then disappears into another room before coming back out. “Sir, what can I get for you?”

  He turns to look at me, a brow raised in question. “Food?”

  “Oh. Eggs. Scrambled please.”

  “Of course, Mam,” she says, looking back at Malachi.

  He shakes his head, muttering words about the morning room, and dismisses her to move us through the room towards another one. More old things, more clutter and disused remnants of a time before now, and we climb back up into the grandeur.

  “How do you own this place?” I ask, eventually following him into a bright airy room.

  My eyes glance around, taking in the feel of old and new mashed together. It feels lived in, unlike some of the other rooms, as if he spends normal days in it. A book lies face down, its pages open to keep the reading spot secure. Reading glasses. A vase of flowers in the window – red roses. Several newspapers stacked on top of each other. A jacket hung on the back of chair by a small dining table. I smile at it and loosen the comforter wrapped tightly, comfortable in the space around me.

  It all seems so normal, but for the high ceilings and huge windows and possibly silk wallpaper depicting Chinese themes of war. I turn to look at him and find him looking me over, a wry smile on his face about something. I don’t know what, nor do I care in reality. Everything here is quirky, unusual, and him being a conundrum I wasn’t ready for is anything but surprising.

  “Family,” he eventually says. “Oil.”

  “Oil?”

  “Hmm. It’s worth a lot of money.”

  “And so you run a sex club for millionaires that haven’t got anything to do to relive your boredom?”

  He chuckles and moves to sit at the dining table, waving me over to sit opposite him. “Not quite. Are you trying to delve into me? I wouldn’t. We’re not friends, Hannah.”

  I shrug, unsure if I am or not. “And yet you’re using my name and bringing me into your actual home for the first time.”

  I look out at the snow again, wondering why he would do that, and then look around at all the things that show a side of Malachi no one would see unless they were here in this room. There’s no need for me to see this. No reason for him to show this about himself either. Maybe Gray asked him to be nice to me, to look after me now that night has turned to day in more ways than one.

  Another sigh leaves me at the thought of night being over, of Gray being gone, and I linger by the window rather than sit. My wrist seems bare and my heart seems weak, perhaps missing a beat somehow. I rub at the spot the chain has been wrapped around, missing the feel of the strand that kept us linked in some way, and tap the area slowly.

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  “If it helps, he didn’t want to leave.”

  My eyes come back to him, some amount of pleasure taken from the words. “He didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why did he then?” I take a seat in the chair, easing slowly into it to relieve the sharp pain still flaring on my raw skin and trying not to wince.

  “Did he cream you?” he asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “On your skin? Cream. Ointment.” My head shakes. A derisive snort comes from him, his arms folding as he keeps looking at me. “Cruel bastard. Always knew he would be. That should help you understand him more.” It doesn’t, but I listen on in hope that it might. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.” It does. Everything does. I’m raw and bleeding and so sore I feel like my muscles might give up the will to keep me upright soon. I ease sideways in the chair, shifting my weight off the holes that took so much passion from him, and pull the comforter closer to me.

  “It wouldn’t have done so much if he’d creamed you,” he says, snarling about something. “He meant for you to remember it for as long as you could.” His brow arches, as he picks up a paper, as if that should be enough for me to understand everything. I still don’t.

  “He wants me to hurt?”

  “He couldn’t stay, but he wanted you to feel him on you as long as you might?” He snorts again and flicks the paper wide, looking at me over the top of it. “Cruel and possessive. Also, idiotic.”

  Oh.

  The maid comes in carrying a tray of food covered in a silver cloche, two glasses of juice beside it and another small vase of flowers.

  “I didn’t know which you preferred, mam. Orange or apple juice,” she says, putting the tray in front of me. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing vitamins pills for you. Please call through if you’d like anything else.”

  She hovers, as if waiting for something. “Thank you,” I reply.

  Still she doesn’t move. Just smiles at me. And then I hear Malachi dismiss her, quietly, and she’s gone in an instant, barely a trace of her ever being here.

  I lift the lid and look over the food, part ravenous and part disinterested in any of it.

  “You will eat it one way or another. I suggest you take the easy route,” Malachi says.

  I look up at him and find him still hidden behind his paper, but the threat is heavy enough in his tone that I can hear the smile from him regardless of seeing his face or not. I keep looking at him, unmoving, and wait until he looks at me across the top of the paper again.

  “Did he tell you to make me eat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that?” Nothing but his eyes and them continuing to look at me. Hard, focused, ever presently half amused at me, or anything. “And why, if he’s left me and can’t offer me anything but the time we had, would he leave me in so much pain that I have no choice but to remember him?”

  Still nothing. No words. No help.

  “Malachi.”

  “Hannah.”

  “Help me understand.”

  “I might. But first eat your food before I force it into you in some way.” His head dips behind the paper again, the crinkle sharp as he straightens it out and huffs. “So many holes to choose from.”

  I sigh at the non answer and pick up my cutlery, not able to deny the smell of it wafting beneath my nose any longer. I am hungry. Regardless of pain, or hurt, or feeling lost in the middle of conundrums I can’t find reasoning for, I need food and then more time to think.

  I chew and swallow, savouring the taste and yet barely tasting it over the memories of his hands and his mouth and his scent. Everything seems insipid in comparison. Lacking. Even my own tongue feels like an invader inside a mouth that’s always belonged to me. I roll it around the food, attempting taste and palate again, but it continues to hold nothing but movement and action.

  Still, I eat until the food’s gone and the plate is clear, picking up the juice soon after to drink them both down, too.

  “Good,” he says. “And the vitamins.”

  My eyes roll and I pick up the small pills, swallowing each one like a good little girl. I feel like Mr Vanciter is watching my every move and I’m back at school again, enough so that the thought of orders takes me straight back to feeling annoyed and belittled. I was good at that – teaching. I enjoyed it. And then Rick and his fucking
career came and blew my life away, as if irrelevant to forward momentum. No more. I’m not having men make me feel irrelevant.

  “I’m done,” I muse, standing.

  In more ways than one.

  My feet walk me away from him, heading in any direction but him and his non answers. I need them. I need more. I’m hollow and empty and filled with thoughts I have no reply to. He couldn’t have said goodbye? Thanked me for our time at least?

  Asshole.

  The comforter gets loosened on my shoulders, eventually falling to the floor behind me, and I walk through the now familiar halls again in nothing but my underwear to consider my options. Left or right? Forward or back? Stay or go? Maybe I should stay, have more men so I can banish these bruises and find new ones to temper these current ones down. That might work. I could stay and fuck him out of me, evolve passed him just as I did passed Rick.

  Not sure.

  I want my answers, though. I do. I want to stand in front of him and find out things he wouldn’t tell me, and maybe then I can accept the fact that his chain is no longer around my wrist and his body is no longer next to me.

  “Are you ready to play a new game?” Malachi asks from somewhere.

  I stop at the entrance to the old library and look over the grand piano, thinking about those words and his idea of games. Malachi says. I’m not high now, though. I’m alive and breathing and remembering everything. Every touch, every smell, every nuance of his face.

  Games? This isn’t a game. This is real. Actual reality, irrespective of these walls or this castle or the dark, murky time we’ve shared. My Gray is real. The feeling on my skin because of him is real, and the feeling in my aching heart because of our time is real.

  This man behind me knows that as well as I do.

  “What’s the game, Malachi?” I murmur.

  “Hunt the truth, Hannah,” he says. “Seek and you will find.” I turn to look at him and find him smiling, his hand reaching for mine to lead me somewhere. “Better to go too far than not far enough.” I nod, understanding those words now.