Freya Arsov sits on top of a world of diamonds and sports cars. Her father is a billionaire, head of a world-renown company, her mother, an esteemed lawyer. She attends the most prestigious boarding school in England. She has four amazing best frien...
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MATTHEW DIDN'T KISS HER. God, but did he want to.
And as he walked down the spiralling stairs into the lower part of the warehouse while she changed upstairs, he regretted not kissing her.
He had been going to. Every nerve in his body had told him to. But the problem was, if he kissed her then, he wasn't sure he would've been able to stop.
Last night had been difficult enough. But this morning, her eyes were clear and bright, glowing from the morning light that came through his windows, her mouth full and inviting and she had been sitting on the edge of his bed in his shirt.
So he'd restrained himself.
And she'd appeared upset at this, letting him know that she too wanted him to kiss her. This information was as confusing as his rampant desire to kiss her.
She was Freya, the girl who lived next door, in the cold halls of Westshire Hall. The girl he'd known all his life.
Little Freya, bratty and six years old, trailing after eleven-year-old Atalanta at one of his parent's night parties. The same Freya who pushed Karsyn into Matthew's pool when he was ten. The one who his mother used to bake macadamia nut biscuits for.
But she wasn't that Freya either.
She looked the same, laughed the same, smiled and scowled the same. It was all vaguely familiar, a memory that would never leave him from happy days past. But then, she was not familiar at all.
The sharpness of her tone. The daunting flame behind her eyes. The way her words seemed to wrap around Matthew like a rope and tug him in.
This girl he knew, this girl he didn't know, she confused him, enticed him.
"Do you need me to throw a pitcher of ice water over your head?" Grayson asked him as Matthew walked over to where he stood.
"Possibly," answered Matthew truthfully.
Gray snorted then asked, "Are you ready to talk about it?"
Matthew ran a hand along his jaw, prickly with a stubble he hadn't gotten a chance to shave in the past few days. Maybe he'd grow a beard and start looking like his uncle and father.
"Aren't we talking about her right now?" He wasn't sure yet how to tell Grayson that he had declared war against Kirova last night and all but signed their death warrants.
"I know you're not sleeping with her because you slept on the floor last night," said Grayson and Matthew made an apprehensive sound, eyes darting back to the stairwell to check if Freya had come down yet. "So, I have to ask, am I going to be seeing more of her around here?"
Matthew eyed Gray as he leaned against a column, arms crossed. He needed to sit down to say this, so he did, setting himself on a small wooden crate that contained god knows what, hands curling around the edge of the wood.
