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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
MORNING LIGHT SPILLS into the room through the slats in the blinds like honey. I wake in sheets, feeling empty, feverish and sticky. And it hurts like hell between my legs. The bathroom door is open, so I have a full view of Torren leaning over the sink as he brushes his teeth.
He’s shirtless, his black Tom Ford boxers hanging low on his hips. Scratches from my nails are carved down from his broad, muscled shoulders to the base of his spine, like bloodied wings on a fallen angel.
I curl up into myself and groan to myself. The sheets are heavy with a mix of both our scents, and it goes straight to my head.
There’s movement from the bathroom, and then Torren is at my side, staring down at me with his toothbrush perched between his lips.
“What’s wrong,” he says, like a statement rather than a question.
The words tumble out of my mouth. “It hurts.”
He considers me for a moment, giving me an impassive look. Then he turns back to the bathroom. I hear the sound of water running and then rifling, before he returns. I sit up against the headboard and frown up at him as he sets down a glass of water at the bedside.
He knocks twice on my chin with the tattooed knuckle of his index finger. “Open.”
Frown deepening, I drop my jaw.
He places the pill on my tongue, then lifts the glass of water to my lips. “Swallow.”
And even though the order annoys me, I have little choice but to listen.
He pats my cheek with the back of his hand lightly. “Good girl.”
The action is condescending — degrading, almost, but it’s paired with praise.
An aggravated growl rises in my throat. Resisting the urge to bite off his hand, I sink back into the pillow and try to go back to sleep, but his voice stops me.
“You need to shower,” he says, “And eat.”
I let out a frustrated groan. “Tired.”
He’s quiet for a while, and for a second I think he left the room. But I should have known he wouldn’t let up so easily, because moments later, his arms come around me as he hauls me off the bed with the covers still wrapped around me.
“No,” I whine in protest, making sounds of complaint.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
He sets me down on the counter next to the sink, and I pull the sheets tighter around me. I don’t even want to bother to turn and see my reflection in the mirror. I’m almost certain I look like a mess.
He opens the cupboard below the sink, taking out an electric toothbrush, which I know is a spare from snooping around a while back. He squeezes toothpaste on the bristles.
