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 WAKE UP LATE. It’s the first time I’ve felt some sense of ease while in the penthouse, and for once, I enjoy the softness of the bed, the fluffiness of the pillows, and the gentle light that spills through the drape curtains into the room.
It’s the peak of summer, and everything I wear seems to stick. But I don’t like cranking up the AC, so I just sleep with a loose t-shirt.
I miss the rink.
It’s been a few days too long since I’ve been, I miss the speed, the cold bite on my cheeks, the rush of adrenalin that comes with gliding through the ice.
Last night, I spent some time mulling over my father’s proposal of moving to Russia with the older Volkov brother, and I came to the slow realization that it wouldn’t be so bad. I wanted to move out, anyway, right? And maybe Russia could give me what I want. I’d have the freedom to join a real skate team and get trained by the world’s best.
I entertain myself with the idea as I drag myself out of bed. Honestly, I’m not in the mood to go anywhere. I just want to sleep in, but my to be (or not to be?) husband’s important criminal meeting is today, and I promised him I’d attend and be on my best behavior.
Ugh.
I hate being told what to do. It’s a different kind of annoying, like when you were going to wash the dishes anyway but then your mother tells you to do them. Suddenly, you don’t want to do them anymore.
Barefoot, I make my way out the room and up the stairs. I could just use my own bathroom, since I have little incentive to purposely try to piss Torren off now that I have an actual plan, but…I’m used to using his bathroom. And my toothbrush is in there. Along with my bath washes and shampoo.
Besides, he’s never in his room anyway. He’s always gone by the time I get there.
I enter his room, and freeze.
Because I assumed wrong.
He’s here. There’s no mistaking the faint sound of the shower running in the ensuite.
Technically, it is his room, but why is it that all those other times when I wanted him to be here and get annoyed by my presence, he was missing, but the one time I don’t want him to be here, he is?
Why do I suddenly care so much about being in his room, anyway? Gritting my teeth, I stay rooted to the spot, no matter how strong the instincts urging me to sprint in the other direction are.
The shower draws to a stop, and my stomach drops.
There’s a ruffling sound from inside the bathroom, and I steel my spine, gathering my frayed ends. It’s like I can taste the change in the air as he gets closer. Like he’s a vacuum, sucking in the energy of everything within his radius.
And then he walks out, steam billowing around his figure.
My heart floats to my throat.
Just like that first morning, I get the view of his body.
