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.
I WAKE TO FREYA screaming for her fucking life in her sleep. My chest is tearing down the middle. I get up and cover her body with mine, my hands on the side of her face.
“Wake up,” I growl, “Freya, wake up.”
When she opens her eyes, they meet mine and widen, and she gasps for air, tears streaming down her cheeks.
But she’s not reaching for me. She’s pushing me away.
I hold her in place as shakes, keeping her pressed against the bed until she calms down.
“What?” I demand. “What is it?”
Her hands come up over her eyes and she hiccups, shaking her head.
But she doesn’t have to say anything. I know it immediately.
The dream was about me.
I was the nightmare.
I let go of her and go back to my side of the bed, not trying to pull her back into me.
I wanted her to be afraid of me when I first saw her. But now, I can’t stand the thought of her fearing me.
It feels like hours have passed even though I know it’s only been a few minutes. I close my eyes, and my breathing slows, but I can’t get any sleep.
I feel her body move next to mine. She crawls into me, tucking herself into my side, no doubt thinking I’m asleep. Her hand tugs on my shirt as she bunches the material in her hands and clutches on to it.
And then something wet lands on my arm.
A teardrop.
“Don’t hate me,” she whispers, “I don’t want you to hate me anymore.”
Something’s wrong.
I noticed it in the days leading up to her birthday. Every passing day, she becomes more and more a shell of herself. The Freya I know is a hellfire. And the girl I see these days is too often disoriented. Lost.
When I speak to her without my usual bite, her face crumples with pain.
The only time the look disappears from her face is when I’m fucking her. So I fuck her all the time.
It’s the only way she’ll let me have her. The only way she’ll let me in.
I’ll take what I can get.
Her outfits these days consist of my white sheets and my white shirts. The realization hits me suddenly — the only time she wears white is for me.
Each night leaves traces of her in my sheets, and I always want more.
I’m addicted to her pussy. Addicted to coming inside it. Addicted to . . . her.
But I don’t just want her body. I want her mind. Her heart. I want her fucking soul.
