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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I BROUGHT THE LITTLE MOROZOV to my home. Technically, Luca brought her home, because I couldn’t care enough to show up. The less I have to set foot in Morozov territory, the better. That family makes my fucking skin crawl. And now, somehow, the most maddening fucking member of it is living with me.
Luca phoned earlier to let me know that Freya was at home, and also that “Greta Morozov is a bitch”. I didn’t bother asking him to elaborate. The job was done. The little Morozov was in my home. Right where I wanted her. But somehow, I don’t know who’s being punished more — me, or her.
I finish work late on purpose, driving into the loft just before midnight. I don’t want to see her face. Which works — because when I walk in, everything’s pitch fucking black. Not a single light is on, and all the blinds are down. I know she’s here. Her presence is like a black hole, absorbing all the energy of the place and infusing it with her own.
The brat got drunk out of her mind to get through the engagement and gagged —actually fucking gagged — like she was fighting the urge to retch out her insides when I had to hold her for the press. It fucking infuriates me. No woman has ever rebuked me, let alone my touch. And if they gagged, it was only ever on my cock.
The spare bedroom is never used. I’m not in the habit of allowing people into my home, let alone inviting them to stay for any length of time. When I fuck, I do it at the club. It saves me the trouble of anyone getting the wrong idea. So now the room is hers. Downstairs, where she’s separated from me and I see her face less than I have to.
It’s late, and I’m the last person she would wait for.
But her door is open.
And when I walk past, her room is empty. Bed untouched, blinds drawn closed. After looking through the other rooms, I finally find her, unable to stop a frown from pulling at my mouth.
I don’t know how she’s done it without him biting off a chunk of her flesh, but she’s sleeping with Rhaegar, in his giant cot.
Her hair is slightly damp, like she showered and didn’t bother to dry it, and the scent of her citrusy shampoo floods my senses. She’s wearing the tiniest fucking pair of black sleep shorts on the planet, exposing her bare, tanned flesh all the way from the ripe curve of her ass down to her ankles. Her feet are bare, too, and I can’t help but notice that her toes are painted the brightest shade of white.
She’s in a cramped position as she curls up next to Rhaegar, and as much as the cot is big for him, it’s not clearly designed for a fucking adult human.
I can’t see it because of her position, but I know it’s there. That fucking heart shaped locket she always wears.
I want to claw it from her — rip it from her neck with my bare hands
I want open it to find the face of the fucker inside, then find him and slit his fucking neck. Personally. I don’t care if it wasn’t my original intention. She’s mine now. If he has her heart, I want it back. I want it all.
