Page 76 of The Devil's Torment

As we board the yacht, the name catches my eye:The Devil’s Tormentor.A frown drifts across my face. He named the boat in CroatiaThe Devil’s Torment,and this oneThe Devil’s Tormentor. I wonder, who’s the tormented and who’s the tormentor?

“Ask me.” Nicholas wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. “I thought you might have asked in Croatia, but you didn’t. So, go ahead. Ask me.”

“Are you the tormentor?”

A low chuckle blows warm air against my ear. “How easy it is for you to think badly of me.”

“No, it’s not that.” I pivot and lean back, allowing me to get a good look at him. “I guess I assumed. You’re so…” I struggle for the right words. “In control. Powerful. I can’t imagine anyone being superior to you.”

“Did you just pay me a compliment?” He bumps noses with me. I adore this side to Nicholas. The relaxed, fun-loving side that he rarely lets out to play but when he does, I’m entranced.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” His eyes glaze over for a second, and he blinks. “The Devil’s Tormentoris my mother.”

The surprise of his admission snaps my head back. Whatever I thought he’d say, that wouldn’t have made the top ten. “How come?”

“Let’s get on board.” Taking my hand, he leads me up the gangplank.

As in Croatia, the bodyguards don’t follow, although Barron’s twisted expression, like he’s sucked on a particularly tart lime, is evidence of his displeasure. It’s heartwarming how fiercely he takes his responsibility for Nicholas’s safety.

Instead of heading to the helm, my husband leads me down a set of steps and into a living area with a small kitchen toward the back. This boat isn’t as big as the one in Croatia, although it couldn’t be described as small, either. Indicating I should sit, he heads into the kitchen, returning a couple of minutes later with two steaming mugs of coffee. He sits beside me on the squishy fabric couch, setting both mugs on the coffee table in front of us.

“As hard as this may be for you to comprehend, when I was younger, I was a bit of a mummy’s boy. I’d follow her everywhere, clinging to her clothes as though I was afraid if I didn’t hold on, she’d vanish. Xan and Annabel used to tease me about it, and we had several fights over which of us she loved the most.” The corners of his mouth lift up slightly at the memory. “Even when Christian, Tobias, and then Saskia came along, I convinced myself I was her favorite. I realize now that parents don’t have favorites, but that’s what the younger me thought at the time.”

I withhold a wince. He’s wrong. Parents do have favorites. I’m living proof of that. It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct him, but that will open up an entire can of worms I’m not ready to share. Besides, Nicholas is talking to me about something that is hugely personal, and I’m not about to derail that. This is the first deep and meaningful conversation we’ve had, and I hope and pray it brings us closer.

“Then Xan and Annabel were kidnapped, and my life fell apart.” He drops his head, his shoulders bowing under what I assume is the weight of loss. “All our lives fell apart, but at fifteen, I was pretty selfish, and all I could see was my mother withdrawing into herself. Away from me. I watched her transform from this vibrant, excitable, intelligent, amazing woman to a ghost. A shadow. An empty vessel.”

Leaning forward, he picks up his coffee, and I do the same. He only nurses it, though, as if he needed something to hold on to.

I wish it was me he turned to rather than a cup of coffee.

“After Annabel’s funeral, which was fucking horrific, Mum insisted she wanted to be alone. She took herself off to her rooms, even telling Dad he was not to disturb her. She withdrew from us all. From me.” He puts the coffee down without touching it. I follow suit.

“Nicholas.” I lay my hand on his arm. “You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

He slides an arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him. “You anchor me, Victoria. You know that?”

Hope spikes afresh, a spurt of adrenaline filling my blood, but by the time I’ve thought of the right response, he continues.

“Me being me, I couldn’t respect Mum’s wishes. I was the golden child, the favored son, the one who had the power to fix her, to make her feel better. I went up to her rooms and burst in without knocking. I found her in the bath, underneath the water. I tried to save her, I did, but it was too late.” His chest rises on a breath, his exhale shuddering through his body. “I’ve never forgiven her for leaving me.”

Jesus.It all makes sense now. His insistence he’ll never love me—never love anyone. It’s steeped in a hurt that’s bone deep, the kind of hurt that only heals if you let it. Nicholas has nurtured his hurt, cultivated it, and that’s why it’s still an open wound.

“When Mum owned this boat, it was calledLights of My Life.After us, she said. Once, when I was maybe nine or ten, I painted out the “s” at the end of lights so I could pretend there was only one light of her life: me.” This time his laugh is tinged with embarrassment. “What a dick. I’m surprised my siblings tolerated my fierce jealousy when it came to our mother. She was theirs as much as mine, but I guess we all have our flaws.”

“You’re human like the rest of us.”

He arches a brow. “You’d better take that secret to your grave. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“As long as you’re human with me, that’s all I care about.”

His hands cup my cheeks, and the kiss he gives me makes my toes tingle. We finish our coffees and head back up on deck. I take a seat near the helm, wrapped up in my hat, coat, and scarf while Nicholas steers the yacht out of the harbor. Yet despite the bitter wind that picks up as the boat gathers speed, I’ve never felt toastier.

Nicholas De Vil is capable of love. All I have to do is untangle the barbed wire wrapped around his heart and set him free.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

---