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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WHEN I WAKE UP, my head is pounding. It’s like the inside of my skull is a chalkboard, and misery is dragging her long, black nails across it. As the foreign scent of white musk and citrus envelops me, I realize that I’m not in my own bed. I’m in Torren’s. And one look at my body tells me I slept in his shirt.
Everything comes crashing down on me at once. Broken glass. Strong whiskey. Ruined shirts. The dim lights of a bar, and unwanted hands travelling up my thighs. Don’t look.
Across me, the floor of the bedroom is spotless in the aftermath, with no evidence of all the shirts I destroyed. I sink back into the pillow, drifting back to sleep when a voice cuts through my conscious.
“Miss Freya.”
I groan an inaudible response. It takes a few seconds for me to recognise that the voice belongs to Giulia, and I pry my eyes open to find her concerned face staring down at me. “You must not drink so much, Miss Freya.”
She places a giant glass of bright green juice on the nightstand. “This will help.”
Really, all I want to do is go back to sleep, but between the splitting pain in my head and the cramping in my stomach, I figure I really do need to take something. Grudgingly, I pick up the glass of juice, the cold surface numbing the pricks of pain in my palms.
I bring the glass to my lips, take a hesitant sip and then resist the urge to hurl. It tastes like grass. I twist my face as I look up at her. “What is this?”
“Good for you,” she says, giving me a pointed look. “Drink it all at once.”
Grimacing, I tilt my head back and gulp down as much of the vile green liquid down. It slips down my throat as my stomach churns. When all that’s left is the bits of pulp sliding down the sides on the glass, I hand it back to Giulia.
She starts receding towards the door but abruptly stops. “I have cooked,” she says. “Please eat.”
Right now, the thought of eating makes me want to throw up. “Maybe later.”
Her brows knit slightly, gaze lighting with suspicion. I’m too tired to analyse it or ask why, and she doesn’t elaborate. leaving me in silence once again. I stare down at my bandaged hands, and my stomach turns for an entirely different reason.
He wrapped my hands up.
I don’t know why. And I hate not knowing.
Slowly, I unwrap the bandages to find the cuts on my palms freshly scabbed over. The shiny diamond ring sits on my finger, glistening and perfect despite the damaged skin of my palms. Mocking me, almost.
Reminding me that even though he was the one who wrapped the bandage on my hand, he’s still the monster who shoved his ring on my finger and caged me.
I pull off the white dress shirt, wincing when the material presses too harshly on my hands and step into the shower. When I get out, I feel a hundred times better.
