Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when someoneʼs 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 dark...
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THIS WAS A MISTAKE. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. Oh god, I can’t.
After the devil slips the ring on my finger, the crowd goes wild. White petals burst into the air, and I startle. Torren feels the jerk of my body, his hand burning into my own. I wrench my hand out of his hold as discreetly as possible. No one notices that I’d given him the wrong hand. Or that I’m so drunk I can barely stand.
Vogue is doing an exclusive on the engagement and they want pictures. Lots of them.
Torren stands next to me as they click their pictures, close enough to clear any doubts but not close enough that I felt anything other than numbness and deep contempt.
Looking at us from the front it probably seems like he has his hand settled on the small of my back, but in reality, he never touches me. His hand only hovers over the small of my back to create the illusion that it’s there.
The ring on my finger feels like a shackle. I’m engaged to someone I hate. God, I hate him so much I could fucking strangle him. So much that the thought of living with him makes me want to strangle myself. And now I have to live with him?
His words keep replaying in my head. It is so obvious? How much Mama hates me? Me — the product of her husband’s adultery. And even worse — a product he treasures.
My stomach toils as I try to fight nausea.
I’m engaged. I have a fiancé, but I can’t stomach glancing at him for even a second. I’m still burning from when he dragged me inside and threw a glass of water into my face, demanding that I sober up. I want to rip him apart with my bare hands.
At my side, the heat of Torren’s body blankets me. I feel his gaze on me every few minutes, but I never meet it. Never give him the satisfaction of seeing me so perfectly miserable.
A woman I don’t know, Italian, by her deeper shade of skin and dark hair, walks by and offers me a warm smile. “What a beautiful couple. I can’t wait to see the babies!”
At this, a fresh bout of nausea claws up my throat.
She must be someone important or influential, because Torren clears his throat to reply. “You’ll have to wait a while. I want her all to myself.”
This time, he actually touches me, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of my dress. It’s a sensory overload to my already compromised system. The barf rises up my throat, and I gag. Torren notices, narrowing his eyes with a deep distaste amidst his gaze.
I’m about to throw up all that wine on this woman’s face, but she’s either too stupid or smitten to notice. She blushes before finally turning to leave. “Of course.”
When she leaves, Torren rips his hand away from my side like touching me was the equivalent of touching gum stuck under a table.
He looks down at me, and I’m itching to ask him why he even bothered touching me in the first place. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say that he’s somewhat… relieved that I finally meet his gaze. He’s staring at me with a blank expression — expectantly, like he’s just waiting for me to erupt.
