Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when thereʼs someone dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the...
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GENTLE SUNLIGHT settles on me as I lower the window of the backseat. A cool wind drifts into the SUV, brushing against my skin. Sergei is driving me to the ice rink, and my heart already feels lighter. For a few brief moments, I can pretend that my life is normal again. That overnight, I wasn’t dragged into the world I managed to escape for most of my life.
My sister had five years to come to terms with her situation. I’m stealing one day.
“It’s a bad idea,” Sergei says, “To play with the Costas’ time.”
“I’ll die before I listen to their every whim,” I reply.
If they could be stubborn, then so could I. But I have a hunch that if I actually did die, Torren would step over my fresh, dead body and reclaim my sister as his wife. I doubt the devil has any moral reservations.
We draw to a slow stop at the rink parking. My hand reaches to open the door, but the lock clicks in again.
Drawing an annoyed breath, I glance to the front seat. “Yes?”
Sergei’s eyes catch mine in the rear-view mirror. “You will call if something goes wrong.”
I exhale an agitated breath. “Nothing will go wrong.”
Sergei swivels in his seat, light eyes ablaze. “That was before the Costas knew who you were, devochka. Your father allowed you to come today with little security. He is trusting you to inform us if something happens. Do you understand?”
I clench and unclench my jaw, not used to the restrictions. Is this how Ana felt all these years? “Yes, Sergei. Now can you open the door, please?”
He listens. Finally. I huff as I step out the car, shutting the door behind me. With my bag slung across my shoulder, I walk towards the rink doors. Only once I’m inside does Sergei switch the engine on and drive away.
I hate when they get like this — all clingy and overprotective. And I try not to think about how it’ll be if I actually do get married into that wretched family.
Sal, Pippa, and Ben are sitting on the benches, lacing up their skates. The girls were my roommates for four years while we studied at NYU, and we’ve seen each other though everything.
I was there, comforting Sal when her boyfriend of ten years cheated on her, and I walked Pippa into the store for a Plan B after a one-night stand, so drunk she couldn’t remember whether the guy used protection. Or whether he was even a he.
“Freya!”
I nearly collapse when Pippa bolts into me. With pink streaks in her short, strawberry blonde hair, she’s pretty in a manic dream-girl pixie kind of way.
Pippa may act like a klutz, but she always scored the highest of all three of us in exams. Everything I learned about sex, I learned from her — which is a frightening amount.
