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 HATE LETTING people see me cry.
Even those close to me. There is very little worse than the feeling of someone watching you cry. It’s dehumanizing. Debasing.
And yet, when Torren started to clean me up, touching me like I was made of glass — like I was something soft and precious and fragile — I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my cheeks.
I’m never soft. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve like Ana does. I’m the strong one. The bold one. There’s no space for me to be weak. To be anything but bitter and angry and mistrusting.
As if I wasn’t naked enough, he had to strip me to the bone and watch me bleed out in front of him.
And then he left.
I should have known that the softness — the gentle reverence — was only brief and fleeting. It makes me despise it. Or at the very least, despise myself for wanting it from him.
Because even if it was only for a few seconds, I wanted him to stay.
No one has ever held me that way. Touched me that way.
Why did he have to be the first?
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. I wanted it hard and fast. I wanted his hate, and everything that came with it.
Torren Costa’s kindness is jarring enough to make you lose your balance.
I can’t lose my balance.
Because when you lose your balance, you fall.
And I can’t afford to fall.
The morning sun peaks through the tinted windows of his room, casting a soft glow on the sheets. I drag myself out of his bed, everything smelling like his cologne. Like him.
I hate how much I love the scent.
I manoeuvre my limbs off the edge of the bed, wincing. My muscles are used to wear and tear from skating, but there’s still a heavy ache between my legs that magnifies every time I put pressure on my quads.
If I fuck you, you’ll feel it the next day. And the day after that.
I hate to admit it, but the cocky asshole was right. It hurts to walk.
All my things are in the guest bathroom downstairs, so I pull out a shirt from his drawer and button it on before heading downstairs, taking each step one at a time.
When I get to the bathroom, I glance up at my reflection. My hair is tangled, my face is flushed, and my eyes are bright and alert, though puffy from tears.
I don’t recognise myself anymore.
Who am I, anyway?
The girl who dared him to sleep with me walked in with a purpose. She was daring. Brave. The girl who walked out, lost and confused — suspended in disbelief, like she barely made it out alive.
