Torture to Her Soul by J.M. Darhower

Author:J.M. Darhower [Darhower, J. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery & Suspense, Suspense
Amazon: B00NP4U422
Goodreads: 22021942
Publisher: J.M. Darhower
Published: 2014-09-28T04:00:00+00:00

Rome's quiet at night.

The city is bathed in a burning glow from the lights of the buildings, the only thing visible in the stark blackness. From my chair on the balcony, I can see for miles, but there's not much to look at this late.

Three, I think, maybe four in the morning. I've been out here for hours, ever since Karissa fell asleep. Insomnia is a bitch that stalks me in the darkness, making my surroundings more haunting than serene.

I feel dead most nights. The walking dead, except I still have a pulse, a faint heartbeat. It's hard to feel alive when you've been obliterated inside, hard to feel real when you no longer remember how to dream.

It's probably fitting.

The only people that seem to be out at this hour are the Italian police, the military force called the Carabinieri, wielding their machine guns, monitoring the streets. You'd think it would unnerve me, but I feel more at ease here than back in New York.

Nobody here is gunning for me.

The doors to the room are open behind me, a breeze wafting through, ghosting across my sweaty skin. I'm still dressed, my sleeves shoved up to my elbows, shirt halfway unbuttoned, and tie discarded. I stretch my legs out, crossing them at the ankles, when I hear movement in the room.

Her footsteps are subdued, like she's purposely tiptoeing, as she makes her way out onto the balcony. Her presence looms right behind me, shadows falling over me. She walks right around me, approaching the edge of the balcony to look out. She's wearing only a t-shirt and underwear, the white fabric illuminated in the darkness.

She gazes out at the city, taking in the view. "It's so… orange."

The peculiar description makes me smile.

"It is," I say. "The glow reminds me of flames, like the city's on fire."

She turns around to look at me, leaning back against the wall lining the balcony as she crosses her arms over her chest. "Rome burned once."

"It did."

"I heard the Emperor did it... that he burned it down so he could rebuild it like he wanted it. They say the jackass played the fiddle while it burned."

"Is that what they say?"

"Yep."

"Huh."

Her eyes narrow. "Is that wrong?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?" she asks. "You weren't there."

"Neither was the fiddle," I point out. "It wasn't even invented then. And while I'm sure he could've had his own city destroyed, it's not really logical, since he lost his palace in the fire, too."

"He built another."

"But he salvaged what he could from the old," I say. "A man desperate enough to burn his home to the ground wants a clean slate... he wouldn't carry anything over."

"Maybe it just got out of hand," she says. "Maybe he lost control of it."

"Unlikely."

"You sound like you know a lot about this."

I contemplate how to respond to that, or if I should even humor it, since it wasn't a question.

"I know enough," I say. "I was once that desperate."

She stares at me for a moment before uncrossing her arms and pushing away from the wall.

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