Page 55 of Scorch

Lydia

I am definitely nervous about today. While I might come across as a confident woman, it's something else entirely when you're about to meet your future husband's family.

What if they hate me? What if they've already formed preconceived notions about me? His brother certainly seems to have done that. There's hope, though, because I haven't met his sister-in-law, his sister, or his mother.

But as a woman, those are the ones I am most afraid of. What if I don’t fit in here? I’ve never fit in anywhere.

Who the fuck cares? Since when have I really cared about the opinions of other people?

I blow out a breath and look at myself in the mirror.

Yeah, I’ve cared about that since I took my first breath as a human being. Sure, I'm at least outwardly confident, and I've mostly gotten over the need for approval from others. But I still have an intrinsic need to belong.

How do I put this makeup on, anyway? I look at the array of makeup on my counter. While I thought I was pretty confident using it, I wonder if I could learn something new.

I pick up the new phone Viktor gave me, sleek and beautiful, in a soft purple matte case. I've never owned anything like it before. When I touch the screen, it springs to life, vivid colors filling the display so quickly it feels almost space-age.

I notice a tiny dot in the top right corner of the screen, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. It's a subtle but persistent red blink.

“What the hell is that?” I mutter to myself, my curiosity piqued. Leaning closer, I squint at the dot. It looks like a small camera or a tracking device, but I can't be sure. I tap it lightly with my finger, but nothing happens. It's just a tiny, blinking dot.

My heart rate quickens. If Viktor has been watching me, what else has he done without my knowledge? A mix of anger and fear churns in my stomach. Determined to find answers, I pull up a browser and type in, “What does the little blinking dot in the upper right corner of my screen indicate?”

The search results are filled with technical jargon and troubleshooting forums. I glance at several articles, looking for confirmation. Then, I find it—an article discussing surveillance software that can be installed on personal devices to monitor activity.

My blood runs cold. Viktor is tracking me.

Why would I think any less of him? Why would he handpick this high-end phone and not install something to spy on me with?

Future husband, my ass. Protection, my ass.

Well he can fuck. Off.

I lift the phone over my head and smash it to the ground. Nothing happens. Goddamn, these things are indestructible now. I look around the bathroom for something heavy to destroy it with. I see a ceramic vase, so I lift it and drop it as hard as I can on my phone. The vase shatters, but the phone is fine.

Jesus.

For the love of God.

“Lydia? What the hell are you doing in there?” Viktor's voice is sharp through the door. He turns the handle, but I’ve locked it.

“I'm shocked you don't know,” I snap back at him. “You don't have cameras riveted on my every move in here?”

“Lydia,” he warns outside the door. I stare at my reflection as if my monster of a future husband isn’t pounding on that door to get in and continue to apply my makeup. That's when I feel the little bump under the skin on the back of my neck.

What is that? It's a little itchy. I turn and try to look, but I can't see it properly. I assume it's a bug bite or something similar.

Oh my God, if he’s installed a fucking tracker on me—but when I look in the mirror, it just looks like a bug bite. Okay, maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’ve gotten way in my head about this.

“Lydia, if you don't open this fucking door…”

I smirk at myself in the mirror and give myself a little shrug. “What are you gonna do?”

And that does give me the upper hand with him. He could march in here and dominate me, but it will only turn me on. He can't control me that way.

“Open it,” he snaps, but he's clearly gotten the memo.

I finish getting myself ready, irritation rising with every second that passes. Finally, I open the door, and he stands in the doorway, filling it entirely as usual. He's wearing a black leather jacket that hugs his muscular frame, a fitted black shirt that accentuates his broad chest, and dark jeans. His shaved head and the scar running down his cheek only add to his intimidating presence. My pulse quickens despite my annoyance at the flash of anger in his eyes.

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