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...
authorʼs note: iʼm adding this because iʼve been seeing some hate comments — this chapter is darker than usual, and contains graphic sex and some psychologically disturbing themes. you have been warned. you should only be reading this book if you are over the age of 16. consume content responsibly.
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WHEN IT GETS DARKER, we head back to the car. I don’t say a word as the car glides into motion, the cool summer wind flying through my hair and caressing my cheeks. I can feel Torren’s gaze slide from the road to me, and I know he can tell that something’s off.
It’s all his fault. Why does he have to say things that are so unlike him — things that make me think he might not hate me after all? I hate his kindness almost as much as his cruelty.
My heart is beating slow, weighing heavy with guilt. I don’t know why. Papa promised that he wouldn’t hurt anyone — that he’d only use the flash drive to finally get our family out of the Costas’ clutches and get me out of the marriage.
Besides, I should be used to the guilt. It became a part of me, and after a while, I learned to wear it like a second skin. I was apologizing for my existence from the time I learned how to speak. Hazy and discoloured, the memory flashes in my mind.
We were at the park. Six-year-old Ana had fallen and grazed her knees, and Mama was fussing over her. “Oh, Anastasia, don’t cry!”
Their golden hair shone in the sunlight. Mother and daughter, so alike. “Mama loves you. Don’t cry!”
It was the first time I’d heard the word ‘love’, and even though I was just four years old, I was smart enough to understand what it was, and I knew that I wanted it. I walked up to Mama, tugging at the bottom of her dress. She turned to look down at me, displeasure marring her features.
“Can you love me too?” I asked.
Her face twisted with annoyance.
I swallowed and tried again. “I’m sorry for what Papa did, Mama.”
And the response was always the same, the look of disgust that accompanied it so harsh and cold it still makes my stomach twist after all these years.
“I am not your Mama.”
I shift my attention back to reality.
Iʼm usually the one to talk, and Torren is quiet until I say something to instigate or piss him off, and then it’s back to war and fire between us. But now that I’m quiet, he is too, and it’s . . . strange. It’s like we put our weapons away, and we’re standing in the ruins of a war-torn field.
When the car pulls into the parking of the building, I open my door and slide out. And I make up my mind to keep my distance from Torren until my father decides to play his cards.
