Chapter 79
**Torin POV**
I enter inside and I close the door behind me. The single front lounge boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the surrounding sea and sky. The open-floor interior is speckled with minimalist furnishings, and touches of island-inspired decor. Only separated by a glass sliding door, the living area flows seamlessly into a private deck where infinity pools seem to merge with the ocean beyond.
Hadassah stands in the slant of westering light, bathed in the blood orange hue of a setting sun.
I approach cautiously and I pause when I’m at a respectful distance. And I ask the question I dread the most.
“Did he touch you?”
“Not like that,” she responds quietly.
Just good old-fashioned torture then. I don’t even know if that's better or worse.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She just stands there hauntingly still like I’m not there like nothing is there.
***
It went from welcoming to flexing very fast. Abdul pulls out all the stops with a waitstaff. Hadassah and I are planted on the cushions on the floor with a low-lying table between us bedecked with appetizers. I immediately go for the falafel and dip the deep-fried balls into the hummus made from blended chickpeas, tahini, lemon juice, and garlic, garnished with olive oil, paprika, and fresh parsley.
With a full mouth, I say, “I’m going to need you to eat something.” I chew quickly and swallow to fix on a serious expression. “I really don’t want to execute drastic measures. I am pleading with you now, eat,” a smile slinks through, “pretty please.”
Her eyes pierce me, a fierce shift to tell me that was the wrong move.
“You need to eat,” I say more delicately.
She lays down her arms and tries the dolma, sampling it with a measly bite of the grape leaves filled with a mixture of rice and minced meat. A spark of light in her eyes like a glimmer of life. Even better, when we are served with platters of main courses. Invigorated, Hadassah devours into a shawarma, eating wolfishly as I watch, entertained as I peck at my mujadara, a hearty dish made from lentils and rice, cooked with caramelized onions and seasoned with cumin and coriander. Next, she goes for the lamb kofta, basically vacuuming in the food with velocities to even question if she’s even chewing, but drinking all the food.
Long after we’re finished, I don’t know what’s more loaded, our stomachs or the weight of the tension causing the air between us to rip apart slowly. From the uncorked premium vintage bottle, I pour myself a glass of wine, watching the silky robe fill until the brim. Even the waitstaff come by to clear out the plates and platters as well as the scraps left behind. Even long after they are gone we remain submerged in the too-still silence. When I finally find the will to take my eyes off her and look at the view beyond, the starlit scenery is reminiscent of the prime view on Orian’s superyacht. That realization makes me cut that shit out fast. Now wonder she’s looking out so entranced like she’s cast under a spell.
“We should probably get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
Her eyes flick up with a quizzical expression that prompts an explanation.
“Oh, you are due for shopping whilst I go handle business.”
Her brows slam together with a hostile look.
I raise a diplomatic hand. “And that sounded more misogynistic than I intended. I only meant that you need to take it easy. We both know how capable you are. I would never seek to undermine that. But you need to heal,” I amend earnestly. “There are various new factors I need to consider from federal to criminal. It’s a game of chess but a minefield. One wrong move, one wrong association will have us reunited with Gaza. And as I promised, first, we find Calum.”
She nods in agreement and rises haphazardly to her feet.
“Master Suite is that way,” I say, using my index finger to point and navigate. “And the other two rooms are down that corridor. Take your pick.”
She reorients herself toward the corridor and limps away. I pick myself off the ground before I move towards the master suite, stripping away as I go. I cast my top garments on the cabinet one by one before I untie my boots at the entryway. Once I’m in nothing but my briefs, I place my favorite handguns on my bedside table before I collapse on the bed, embraced by Arabian, lavish linen. Before I even close my eyes, a silhouette slips into the room and I snap upright with the gun already in my hand with my eye and barrel in single focus, following the skulking shadow with precision of the targeting sequence of a missile.
Hadassah’s bare feet whisper closer, emerging in the slantwise stream of starlight.
I put the gun away, sitting up even straighter. “Hadassah, is everything alright?”
She nods meekly like a child wandering into their parent’s bedroom after a nightmare.
“Actually, I… I don’t want—”
“Come here,” I say gently.
She moves to stand at the other flank of the bed. Hesitantly, she sheds off her pants and with a mind-boggling flourish, she does an expert maneuver and plucks out her bra with her top still on and drops it on the floor. In nothing but a tank top and dark panties, she eases herself onto the bed and faces away from me. I manage the wit-whirling yearning that propels me to the precipice of insanity—the hardworn restraint that makes my skin burn but even with the distance the current between us is electric.
That is the awe-inspiring wonder. I don’t need to touch her to feel her.
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