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’M RAGING WHEN I walk out the meeting. I brought Freya partly wanting to scare her, and partly because I wanted her with me. So she couldn’t run away while I was gone.
Maybe I also wanted to see how she would fare amongst the vipers. I expected her to be quiet during the meeting. To realize that the world I live in will too often call for silence in exchange for survival. But she didn’t back down. Of course she didn’t.
And maybe I felt a little proud at that, too. My little Morozov, a formidable opponent.
She was doing well . . . until she let my father get to her. I know that fucker’s abuse too well. I may be a thorn, but he’s filled with poison. The bastard groomed me for this position, only to do everything in his power to undermine me. I don’t know what exactly he’s said to her, but it must have been bad.
Freya is a hellfire. She’ll never back down without a fight.
But now, I watch as she follows behind me, then opens the door to the car. Broken and numb, she just curls up in the front seat without a word.
When I slide into the driver’s seat, the scent of her fills the car and assaults me—sweet wine, black vanilla and raspberry. It goes straight to my cock, which is still recovering from when I pulled her into my lap, on impulse.
I don’t know whether I did it for her or for me. But the brat clearly took offense, because she was rubbing up on my cock while pressed up on me, and I could barely keep it together while Mancini accused me of his son’s murder.
I did murder his son, but still.
I shift my gaze to Freya, expecting her to mutter some smartass comment about how stupid the men at the meeting were, because she can’t keep her mouth shut. But she says nothing.
She’s always talking, always staring at me with some sort of heated emotion in her hazel eyes, but now . . . nothing. Her quietness is strange. Unsettling.
It makes my dick soft.
I turn the music dial down, and then glance her way.
She makes no move to turn it back up.
Clenching my jaw, I start the car, and back up onto the road. I drive for a while, my gaze catching the glint of the Morozov emblem and that heart locket around her neck. Both of them annoy me, but the locket brings out visceral hatred.
I’m itching to rip it off her, but I won’t touch it. It’s the only boundary I won’t cross. I remember the way she guarded it when I had my gun in her mouth. With her life. I get the feeling that she would hate me if I broke that fucking locket. And it would be an irreparable hate. There would be no going back.
Isn’t that what I want?
I don’t know anymore.
Fear controls most people. Not her. Trying to control her through intimidation only makes her more non-compliant.
