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...
I’ve been through my fair share of women. But one arm and a leg and from this rash of a girl and —
Fuck.
I need a shower.
A cold one.
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I KNOW I’M NOT in my bed when I wake up. The sheets are wrapped two times over around my body like I’d rolled in them multiple times during the night.
Torren’s missing, and I’m on his side of the bed. Even though he’s not here, the scent of his cologne is everywhere. Inked into my skin.
I’m not sure how to hate it.
I don’t know why he woke me up from my nightmare last night. Or why he brought me to his bed. Or how I fell asleep so easily with a man who keeps a gun under his pillow—a man who’s made it clear that he hates me enough to want me dead.
I need a distraction.
I shower, then change into a pair of light wash denim and a Led Zeppelin tee. Then I fire off a quick SOS to the group chat, telling Pippa and Sal to meet me at our favorite café in Manhattan.
Our meet-up is long overdue.
Giulia’s downstairs, preparing breakfast. She smiles when I walk over.
“Morning,” I chirp.
She beams at me. “Good morning, Miss Freya.”
I lift a brow at the heap of croissants at the center of the table. “You made extra croissants?”
“Yes,” Giulia says, “Mr Costa says you like.”
I frown. How does he know? Lifting my gaze to Giulia, I motion toward the empty seat across me. “Where is he?”
“Gym,” she says, like it’s obvious.
Oh? Is that what he’s been getting up early to do? Work out? I must have been missing it because I never wake up early enough.
Intrigued, I saunter toward the gym, and sure enough, he’s there. On the pull up bar, the thick muscles in his back rippling.
A shiver runs down my spine, heat swirling low in my belly. I can’t help but notice that his back is littered with faint white scars.
Torrren stiffens, his back still to me, sensing my presence.
I don’t need to tell him that I’m leaving, but I’d prefer it if he didn’t come after me like a caveman claiming I disappeared from the house.
“I’m going to see my friends,” I call out to him.
It’s more of a statement than me asking for permission.
I wait for his response, maybe even a refusal, but he says nothing.
There’s only a moment’s pause before he continues his workout.
