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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trigger warning: blood, depiction of suicide
I WAKE AS THE car slows. It’s dark inside the car, and the fluorescent lights of the garage hurt my eyes as I blink them open. The hushed, distant sound of rain echoes through the garage as the fog on my mind lifts.
The scene at the beach flashes in my mind. Torren seemed . . . different. Sitting on the sand with him like that—it felt like a momentary truce. I know he wasn’t actually meeting someone at the beach. He took me there because I asked.
I’d felt lighter for a moment, and I’d wondered if I was wrong to consider my father’s escape plan. If, somehow, I could learn to live with the devil. I can’t deny that it would be easier. I wouldn’t have to uproot my life in New York. I could just . . . stay.
After all, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.
But as soon as the car stops, I know something has changed.
I feel it immediately.
I follow my gaze to the dark silhouette in the driver’s seat. Torren’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he trains his gaze straight ahead of him. Anger seems to seep from his pores, thick like molasses.
Something happened between the moment I fell asleep in the car and now. I just don’t know what.
My breathing grows heavy as I stare at him. He ignores me, opening his door before sliding out of his seat. And just like that, he leaves me in the car.
I watch as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his pants and walks toward the elevator, and I just . . . wait. I don’t make a move to get out. And then, he draws to a stop. A ripple of anger rolls through his shoulders and he turns, his gaze blazing. He stalks back to his side of the car.
My heart leaps out my chest as he opens his door and leans against the doorframe, narrowing his eyes at me.
“I’m tired,” I say, testing the waters, “Will you carry me?”
He deadpans, and his jaw twitches, an unrestrained anger lurking in his eyes. “Are your legs broken?”
“No. But I wore heels. And now my feet hurt,” I quip. “Can I at least get a foot massage?”
Something in his jaw twitches.
“Get out of my fuckin’ car,” he says, “Unless you want to be locked in.”
I roll my eyes, not doubting for a second that it’s exactly something he would do. “Fine.”
What the hell crawled up his ass and died?
I slip on my heels, getting out the car. True to his promise, Torren locks the car less than a second after I shut my door. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again.
I wasn’t joking about my feet hurting. Every tap of my heels on the polished cement floor sends a sharp pain shooting from the balls of my feet to my calves. Wearing stilettos should be considered an extreme sport. Wearing them for even thirty minutes is infinitely more painful than wearing skates for hours on end.
