Page 25 of The Devil's Torment

The low-lying muscles of my belly clench. The dichotomy I find myself in is an uncomfortable one. I still can’t bring myself to entirely forgive him for Beth’s murder, even though I know, deep down, he isn’t responsible. Nor can I forget that he chose her instead of me. Coming second might be something I’m used to, but it doesn’t mean I have to take it like a champ. Nor does it mean it hurts any less, because it doesn’t.

But the yearning I suppressed for so long knowing he was Beth’s flares to life, helped along by how he showed up at the hospital after that twat walloped me. Of course, it could have simply been because the incident occurred at a club owned by his family, but I don’t think he faked his concern, nor his barely contained rage. It’s given me a sliver of hope that this marriage won’t be as awful as I originally feared. If he didn’t care, at least on some level, he wouldn’t have shown up. He’d have left Andrew and Max to take care of me.

Acknowledging that makes me even more nervous about tonight. Me and sex… well put it this way: we’re not friends. See, the thing is, I can’t reach orgasm. Every time I get close, I freeze up. It’s like there’s this invisible wall, and once I hit it, any pleasure I feel vanishes.

Maybe sex will be different with Nicholas. Lord knows, it’s been a disaster with the two guys I’ve slept with—one was a brief fling in high school, the other a more serious boyfriend during my senior year at college. I live in hope I’m not broken just… a little dented.

And if I am incapable of climaxing, then I’ll fake it. I faked it with Matthew, especially after he got horribly impatient with me one night and asked if I was “frigid or something?” From that day on, I convinced him I was having the best time when the truth was, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. The sad part is that outside of the bedroom, I enjoyed spending time with him. He was funny, kind, and liked the same movies and music as me. We had a lot in common. Far more than Nicholas and I do.

I often wonder if Matthew hadn’t joined the military, effectively ending our relationship, whether my parents would have ever endorsed a marriage to him.

Somehow, I don’t think they would. They have loftier ambitions. Clearly.

My bedroom door bursts open at the exact moment I tug my nightgown over my head, leaving me in nothing more than a pair of granny knickers and my bed socks.

Eloise bursts out laughing. “Girl, if you’re planning to wear that outfit for your wedding night, I’m here to insist you reconsider.”

I chuck my nightgown at her. She catches it easily, tossing it on the bed.

“About time you got here. Where’s Briony?”

“About time?” She theatrically checks her watch. “Briony will be here any second, and I’m here one minute before you told me I have to be.”

“Yeah, well, I’m this close to a full-blown panic attack. I need my girls.”

Eloise cants her head, her eyes searching mine for evidence of whether I’m joking, or I really am close to a meltdown. She finds what she’s looking for, and the next thing I know, she’s hugging me. “It’s going to be fine, babe. Trust me.”

She lets me go, and I flop backward onto the bed. A T-shirt hits me in the face.

“Cover up, will you. I don’t need to be presented with your perfect titties this early in the morning.” She glances down at her flat chest, then back up at me. “I’m thinking of getting a boob job. All guys love boobs, right?”

“Not all. Some like peachy bums, too. And legs.”

“Wonder what Nicholas likes?” she murmurs. “I bet he’s a tit man.”

My stomach rolls, an entire colony of butterflies taking flight at the same time. None of my friends is aware that I held a torch for my sister’s fiancé long before he picked her as his bride.

My family have known the De Vils for years. Mum and Dad dragged me and Beth along to many a ball, most of the time under duress, but when I turned fifteen, something inside me changed. Hormones, probably. Whatever it was, the twenty-five-year-old Nicholas De Vil suddenly became a lot more interesting. Not that he’d have looked at me then and, as it turns out, he didn’t look at me when I grew up, either.

My chest pinches. If Charles De Vil hadn’t wanted Dad’s company, there wouldn’t have been a chance Nicholas would’ve agreed to marry me. But the De Vil children are nothing if not steeped in duty, which means I’m getting a man who’s marrying me under the same level of duress as I used to feel being unceremoniously dragged to another boring party at Oakleigh.

A few minutes later, Briony arrives, turning my bedroom into a hive of activity. The hours whizz by, and despite my misgivings, I get swept up in the fun of it all. I wouldn’t say I’m a girly girl, but I like a pretty dress, professionally applied makeup, and perfectly styled hair like anyone else.

By the time I slide into my wedding dress—a beautiful ivory gown in a sheath style designed to elongate my small stature—I forget I’m marrying a man who’ll never love me and stand, aghast, at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The team the wedding planner sent over has worked wonders, styling my dark hair in a way that frames my face, and applying eyeshadow that makes my hazel eyes dazzle. They’ve even managed to conceal the lingering faint bruise from the punch. I hardly recognize myself.

“Oh, Vicky.” Eloise clasps her hands to her cheeks. “Girl, you look incredible.”

Briony, with tears blooming in her eyes, points her phone at me and snaps goodness only knows how many pictures.

“I don’t scrub up too badly, do I?”

Briony screws up her nose. “Please don’t use words like ‘scrub up’. You look like an angel.”

“A fallen angel, maybe.” I hide the truth in my words with a bright smile. “I guess we should go downstairs. The cars will be here soon.”

My heart lodges in my throat as I pick my way down the stairs, convinced I’m going to trip over my dress and break my neck at any moment. But I make it to the bottom without falling and step into the living room.

Mum’s wearing a navy suit with a cream blouse and a wide-brimmed hat that’s sure to block the view of half the congregation. Dad’s dressed in a morning suit, as is customary for key male participants at high society weddings. In his lapel is a white rose, a nod to Beth’s favorite flower. Another little piece of my heart dies. He couldn’t go with my favorite, a pink peony, not even on my wedding day.

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