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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FREYA MOROZOV IS a rash, and she’s everywhere. All her fucking shit is still in my shower, and everything smells like her. My shower, my room, my entire fucking apartment. Filled with her.
I can’t get used to it — to a girl trying so hard not to be amenable. A girl so willing to defy me. A girl who gets under my fucking skin like a custom-made knife.
I can’t make her do anything.
The only thing she seems to care about is seeing her family. So even though I told her that she could see them whenever she wants, I don’t keep my word.
It’s the only thing I have against her. A single shred of power. There’s other shit too. Like keeping Rhaegar at the business condo. And making sure she can’t make friends with my cook.
I do it to punish her. She’s defiant. Impetuous. And frankly, too fucking stubborn for her own good.
I leave the apartment before she wakes up and get back after she goes to bed. All to avoid any sort of contact with her. I know exactly what she’ll do if she sees me. She’ll provoke me into some sort of response. And like a goddamn fool, I’ll take the bait. Every. Single. Time.
On the first night, I came back to the apartment to her sleeping on the couch in the faint glow of the flatscreen. And fuck. I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch.
She was so quiet in that moment. So soft. That fiery gaze gone, replaced by peacefully closed eyes, the darkest brown lashes spilling over blushed cheeks. Her long hair was loose, fanning her shoulders. And she was still wearing those fucking sleep shorts that exposed every inch of her legs.
Stunning.
So fucking stunning that it took effort to switch off the screen and walk away.
It’s time to admit it: I have a problem. A serious problem. And ignoring it won’t make it go away. If I were to ask my father for advice, I know exactly what he’ll say. What he’s been saying for five years. Kill the girl.
And he’s right. When I look at the little Morozov, I can’t deny that she’s a sharp thorn in my flesh. A colossal inconvenience. I should bleed her father dry and then kill her in front of him to really make it hurt. But somehow, the thought of her dead body makes my gut wrench.
I give it a week.
All that fiery defiance should be thoroughly doused by then. She’ll be quiet. Won’t talk back or look at me with that fucking annoying spark of hatred in her eyes. Gone. It will all be gone.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
When I get back home, the apartment’s empty. My room is a fucking mess. My closet doors open, countless shirts ripped up on the floor. I should have known. The whole time, instead of taming the brat, I was only pushing her to more extremes.
