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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THERE’S A DRESS I made once. A reworking of one of Ana’s old gowns gone horribly wrong. It’s a monstrosity of satin and sparkly black lace, the hem knee-length at the front and long at the back. I was too embarrassed to donate it to any charity, so now it haunts the back of my dresser.
I’d planned to wear it for Halloween this year, but instead, I decide to wear it to lunch today with the Costas.
Other than a bare strip of my shoulders, I’m completely covered. The dress has thin straps and a straight neckline that shows zero cleavage. I’ve paired it with black tights, black satin Versace pumps and a pair of fitted black lace gloves that come up over my elbows.
I look like a witch. In the peak of summer.
I’m even going to opt for black lipstick, but Mama practically slaps it out of my hands and passes me a nude-pink shade instead.
She scrunches her face distastefully, moving her hand in a circle as she gestures to my dress. “What are you trying to accomplish with this?”
Glancing at my reflection, I paint on the lipstick and smack my lips. “I’m trying to scare off a hellhound.”
“Well.” Mama regards me faintly. “It is so ugly that your stupid plan might actually work.”
I try not to laugh as I apply an extra layer of mascara to my lashes.
Ana pokes her head into my room after Mama leaves, and a concerned look takes over her face. Her legs go on for miles in her short dress, the material a summery shade of buttermilk. It sits off her shoulders and makes her boobs look amazing.
I flash her a smile. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” She walks over, braiding my hair from the back as her green eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You don’t actually look that bad, you know.”
That’s . . . not what I’m going for. I need her to say I look so bad that any self-respecting man would immediately rescind his decision to marry me.
I frown. “What are you talking about? I look horrible.”
Ana shrugs, hands still working behind me. “Well, yeah. But also kinda hot. In a chic, goth, I’m crazy enough to wear lace gloves and black tights in ninety-degree weather kind of way.”
I make a face. “What does that even mean?”
She sighs, finally tying up the braid at the end. “Freya, this isn’t any different from what you always wear.”
My brows knit together. “Yes, it is. It’s ugly.”
She lifts a brow as if to say exactly, and my mouth drops. “You little—”
I lunge for her, and she laughs as she runs out of my room, only narrowly escaping me. Our fights are mostly trivial now, but when we fought as kids we almost always ended up with bruises. I always won, though. I’m pretty sure I broke her arm once.
