Page 49 of A Touch of Dark
Hate must be the world’s best aphrodisiac. My skin burns, overheated. Every breath doesn’t feel sufficient. My eyes squeeze shut. Fingers curl.
There.
I only have the sense of mind to roll onto my stomach and smother whatever sounds I make into my duvet before everything inside me catches fire. Fuck Damien. I hate him. I swear I can hear him goading me on without an ounce of shame.Don’t tell me what you see, Ms. Thorne. Tell me what you feel.
Empty. And stupid. And…lonely.
Boneless, I lie flat on my bed as my final cries echo back at me. The silken material of my duvet did a poor job of muffling them. Every word is clear. Make that a name ringing out as I pant and remove my hand from between my legs.
I give myself only a second to recover. Then I roll from the bed and hunt for the bug. I carry the damn thing into the bathroom, held between two fingers like a dirty piece of underwear. Damien’s voyeuristic show ends with a splash as I drop the device into the toilet and flush it. After watching it disappear, I climb into the shower and scrub myself clean for the second time today.
Dripping wet, I crawl into bed without bothering to towel off. Before closing my eyes, I turn on every single lamp I own, flooding the entire suite with light.
And only now can I find some semblance of sleep.
Fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep, haunted by a man more terrifying than Simon.
Simon forced me to play his games.
I never initiated a round on my own.
Three days. That’s how long I last alone, locked inside my suite without even work to distract me. Each one ends with me having to field a phone call from Daddy. Odd. Before, his customary checkups came weekly, disguised behind the pretense of casual conversation.
Tonight, he’s far blunter. “I don’t want you going out alone without calling for an escort.”
I can tell from the background noise that he has the news on. A crisp-sounding reporter drones on about the latest headlines, but they’re too faint to make out. I take a stab in the dark and guess. The Borgetta case.
“What happened?” I ask. Yesterday, he questioned me about my habits. Why wasn’t I at work? Who knew that I had a detail following me? Why had I taken almost a minute to answer my phone?
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “They’re calling for a storm tonight, so I just think you should stay in. I have to go. Have a wonderful evening, darling.”
A wonderful evening. I’d laugh if the current state of my day weren’t so pathetic. Without a television to use as a distraction, I lugged my old laptop from the recesses of my storage closet and spent the past twelve hours attempting to do work on the ancient dinosaur. For all I know, Damien bugged it as well. Just in case, I type FUCK YOU into a blank document, hoping whatever spying software he uses allows him to catch it. As my computer sluggishly attaches my finished files to my email, I open the browser and find myself hovering the mouse over the search bar.
The first news site I venture onto reveals an inkling of why Daddy’s so on edge—and not just because of Damien. A witness in the Borgetta case was reported missing by his family and found dead hours later. No leads.
Not only that, but the article links to one with a headline that catches my notice:The Curious Case of the Villa Family—and Their Money.
According to the author, Damien immigrated to the US in his late teens with two younger brothers, Mateo and Mathias. Twenty years later, he’s amassed a small fortune, but the circumstances surrounding his finances remain murky at best, and rumors of crime have dodged the family for decades—the worst of which was solidified when his youngest brother Mathias was convicted of Emily Borgetta’s murder.
And my father was the judge who all but sentenced him to death.
I shouldn’t pry anymore. Besides, Daddy told me all I needed to know of Damien. The key takeaway being:madman. I exit the browser only to find myself on the same page seconds later.
My, my. The topic of Damien certainly triggers an avalanche of search results. Thousands, actually. Dominating the top of the list are articles headlining his art and alter ego Sampson. Apparently, he doesn’t go out of his way to hide that part of himself.
Most of the articles read as though they were written by sycophants who’ve never met the man in person, so different from the few cynical pieces regarding his family.Artist captures the morbid honesty with dangerous charm.That earns a snort from me. I’ve found more charm in a cactus than I could ever find in Damien.
Regardless, I keep clicking, determined to hunt down anything sordid. Bingo. He was at the center of a scandal once, which nearly tanked his investment business and dragged his name through the mud: the Borgetta murder.
Despite the fallout, he put the bulk of his fortune into his brother’s defense fund as recently as this year. Each appeal brought new disturbing faces to light: potential evidence tampering, rumors of corruption in the prosecutor’s office, and racial bias. In fact, the overturned conviction came almost entirely from Damien’s dedication.
But it wasn’t enough to save Mathias.
No wonder he hates my father.
I close my laptop and eye the view from my window while digesting the new information. So Daddy may have blurred a few of the facts. Why? I sigh rather than come up with an answer.
Gradually, darkness falls across the horizon, but I can’t muster the strength to turn my lights on just yet. It’s easier to face myself in the dark. How disgusting am I?
