Chapter 12

“Since you refuse to eat...”

His hands gripping my shoulders, Torin forces me down onto the chair, planting me before the mahogany desk that’s placed in a corner beside the closed balcony doors. The only thing on the surface is a black and red journal and pen on top, both sporting Zenith’s logo.

“Work,” he instructs. “Let’s see that photographic memory in 4k.”

“Eidetic,” I correct on impulse.

“Like I give a shit. Just get the job done.”

“The job requires me to rewrite four hundred and twelve pages of names, dates, complex illustrations, litanies of number sequences and digital codes.”

“Then you better get started.” He moves in front of me, swiveling to lean his rear against the edge of the desk, staring down at me. “I’m sure your mother would much appreciate the effort.”

“Threatening my mother?” A hot spike of anger. “I see there’s no limit to how low you will go.”

He brandishes his watch; Patek Philippe Gold Chronograph. Worth six point eight million. Saw an article about it once and like all things. I can’t forget it.

“I don’t care what you call it, Miss Moor.”

I pick up the pen. “And here I thought you were the nice brother,” I mutter.

He scoffs wryly. “I’ll be sure to add, pretty please, at the end of every threat.”

I sneak a glimpse of him. At first glance, he looks nothing like Orian. Torin has more of a triangular jaw and angular bone structure whereas Orian has a granite jaw, squarer with concave cheekbones. And not to mention, Torin’s skin is like a deep olive, the color of desert sand. And Orian’s ivory complexation is paler but as delicate as the dark side of the moon. Despite it, I see their uncanny resemblance; their sharp facial features, matching with a patrician nose.

***

Hours have gone by, aware of every torturous second and it feels as if I have barely started. Orian has been absent—thank God—and Torin has been drifting in and out, offering me food, each time with a different dish like it’s going to change my mind. The hell? I’m not gonna eat his food like this is a regular Tuesday.

Whilst mentally recovering every page I studied from Gaza’s book of treason. I have gone through every alternative, over each possibility. Every single one ends with me in a body bag. I rewrite the book. Dead. I give them the actual book. Dead. I do neither. Dead. Worse part is that it’s not only my life. I can dangle my own, just not my mother’s.

Torin enters the room again. I’ve even come accustomed to his gait; an assertive walk of a self-satisfied, self-obsessed jackass.

“Your dinner.”

He drops a plate of food on the desk. Pumpkin ricotta gnocchi with pancetta and seared radicchio. Fancy. It looks more like finger food than an actual meal. Hunger gnaws at me, but I can still ignore it.

“Try it.”

“Why?” I ask in a bored tone. “Did you make it?”

“Do I look like Gordon fucking Ramsey to you? No. Just eat it or you’ll piss off an already pissed Orian.”

Hmm… trouble in gangster paradise? “And why would he care?” I ask, still penning a series of incomplete codes. Only writing what I saw.

“He doesn’t,” he says with a small snort. “But you’re the key to finding the others.”

I pause. “Others?” I take a moment to look back at him.

He nods slowly. “There are five books in total, so the legend of the underworld goes. Magnus Quinque. It’s Latin for: The Big Five. The myth is that it was entrusted to the five bearers, passed on for generations, inherited by their descendants. Rewritten in old and new forms. It’s Old Testament.”

“And Gaza was one of them?”

“Wasn’t confirmed until little Miss Moor decided to play detective.” He shoves his hands into his pant’s pockets. “It means Gaza is a descendant of one of the bearers. Those books contain ancient secrets, like the beginnings of most corporate empires. And current.”

Distracted by a buzzing sound, he fishes out a phone from his suit’s blazer. Only to realize it’s mine. “Who is this guy? He keeps calling you like you owe him money.”

Calum. “A friend.”

He shoots me a disbelieving look.

This is my shot. “You should let me talk to him. Others, even my mom, might buy the charade that I’m just working abroad for a mid-term position. But Calum will know what’s up and will send people to find me. Former informant, remember? I know a lot of boys in blue.”

Torin eyes me suspiciously, doubt flickering in his gaze. “Just keep at it.” He makes a start to the door, pocketing my phone. He comes to a sudden halt. “Oh, and feel free to walk about the manor grounds that are swarming with guards and cameras at every point of entry. So you can’t sneeze without us knowing, let alone trying to escape. So you might as well be comfortable.”

“Are you always so kind to your victims?”

“Are you always so calm with your captors?” he throws right back.

The retort slaps a scowl on my face, thrusting my mind back to a place I dare not go. Buried memories trying to resurface. I push them back. Bottled up, building pressure slowly.

“You’d prefer I scream senselessly or cry helplessly?” Didn’t help me before.

“And would you prefer I toss you in a cage like my neanderthal of a brother did?”

“If it keeps me from hearing your damn voice. I’ll gladly return to lucifer’s pit.”

He grins, his face brightened by a megawatt smile. “Eat your food. Or I’ll force feed you.”

My nose wrinkles. “I’d only spit it in your face.”

He smiles again, a flash of light. “You say that like it’s supposed to put me off?”

“You’re disgusting.”

He looks away for a second, his tongue wetting his lower lip. “Pretty please, Miss Moor.”

The pen shifts between my fingers before I hold it right, resuming, basically writing my own death certificate. Torin snatches the plate and walks out of the bedroom, leaving the door wide open. Not even an hour passes before footsteps thud into the room again.

I bristle. Because they don’t belong to Torin.

“My brother tells me you refuse to eat.”

My eyes dart to my unsteady hand. I grip the pen, staving off the shakes.

“What’s the point? No matter what I do, it will end with my name engraved in a tombstone.”

“Not before I get what I want.”

I inhale a deep breath, rotating on the chair. “And what is that?” My fingers flick the journal. “A myth... long lost treasure?”

“You’re smarter than that,” he says as a fact. His expression etched in cold solemnity. “Those books have both old and new revelations. Old, dark truths and current crimes of dirty, high-ranks. Generational business owners, politicians, top tiers in foreign governments. If knowledge is power. Then those books are it.”

Confusion gathers my brows. “That’s impossible.”

“It always is… until it’s not.”

He saunters to me with his hands shoved in his pockets. The sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing ropes of profuse veins. He stops in front of me. He slants forward and my head snaps back. He takes hold of the chair and jerks it so I’m facing him fully. His fingers clutch the arms of the chair, leaning closer.

“And since you...” His eyes explore my face, tracing over each feature. “Your mind holds every page of that book. It makes you very valuable. And Gaza will do everything he can to get his hands on you.” A muscle pokes through his jaw. “Just wait until his enemies realize what you have stolen.”

My heart is pounding in my ears. I swear he can hear it.

“And what do you want? A thank you?”

“I want you to eat.”

“And I want you to fuck off.” The words flee from my mouth before I can stop them. “Guess we both can’t get what we want.”

Orian nods slowly, his plump lips peel back into a formidable smile. He lengthens his spine and turns, looking like he’s about to leave. He whips back around and grabs my jaw, pushing me back against the chair with a yelp. My breaths fall hard and fast from my nostrils.

“I can think of much better uses for that mouth, instead of using it to provoke me.” His nose grazes my cheek, trailing down my skin. Tingles crackling down my spine. “You won’t like what I’d do when I give in.” His voice thick with restraint.

My lips pressed together, my chest rising and falling erratically. He glances down. Then his gaze reunites with mine, his eyes like black suns, burning bright with unfettered want, brimming with unspeakable sin.

“You’re breathing so hard,” he says with a tint of amusement. “Do I make you nervous, Sakura?”

I don’t even know what Sakura is or what it means but the way he says it. His voice, the depth of ocean crags, deep and resonant. With every breath, he exudes an aura of undeniable dark magnetism, inexorably drawing any and all who crossed his path into his crushing orbit. His unyielding gaze betrays the depths of cruelties unknown. In their depths, a hunger, primal and fierce, igniting a fire within me that threatens to consume me whole. My hand lifts, running it suggestively along his forearm—his grip weakens—I reach his wrist. He releases my jaw. But I seize him, flipping his palm up, then twisting it at an unnatural angle, drawing out an animalistic grunt from him. I shove him away, and my foot strikes his stomach, causing him to stumble back.

I blast to my feet. “I’m not one of your damn toys,” I spit out, strength pouring into my voice. “I don’t care what you have on me. You’re not gonna turn me into yo bitch because of it. I will never again tremble before a man.”

The last of the charged intimacy between us simmers into scorching hostility.

“I don’t want you to tremble,” he roars, his eyes darkening with malicious intent. “I want you to submit.”

He storms at me like a beast unchained. I evade narrowly, moving away from the desk. But the second time I’m not so lucky. He rams me into the balcony door, my back slammed against the glass. His hand taut around my neck with a vice-like grip, choking the wit from my mind, rendering me completely useless. Screaming silently, gasping for breath. Both hands trying to pry off his wrist with helpless desperation, imprisoned by his sheer bulk on top of me.

“Your life is mine to keep or take,” he seethes.

Raw panic gushes through me. His calloused hand continues to clamp around my throat, cutting my breaths short. “You breathe, because I let you,” he utters as the epitome of darkness and depth, leaving an indelible imprint upon the very fabric of my existence. “I can do whatever the fuck I want because you’re mine.”