I’M RAGING WHEN I walk out the meeting. I brought Freya partly wanting to scare her, and partly because I wanted her with me. So she couldn’t run away while I was gone.
Maybe I also wanted to see how she would fare amongst the vipers. I expected her to be quiet during the meeting. To realize that the world I live in will too often call for silence in exchange for survival. But she didn’t back down. Of course she didn’t.
And maybe I felt a little proud at that, too. My little Morozov, a formidable opponent.
She was doing well . . . until she let my father get to her. I know that fucker’s abuse too well. I may be a thorn, but he’s filled with poison. The bastard groomed me for this position, only to do everything in his power to undermine me. I don’t know what exactly he’s said to her, but it must have been bad.
Freya is a hellfire. She’ll never back down without a fight.
But now, I watch as she follows behind me, then opens the door to the car. Broken and numb, she just curls up in the front seat without a word.
When I slide into the driver’s seat, the scent of her fills the car and assaults me—sweet wine, black vanilla and raspberry. It goes straight to my cock, which is still recovering from when I pulled her into my lap, on impulse.
I don’t know whether I did it for her or for me. But the brat clearly took offense, because she was rubbing up on my cock while pressed up on me, and I could barely keep it together while Mancini accused me of his son’s murder.
I did murder his son, but still.
I shift my gaze to Freya, expecting her to mutter some smartass comment about how stupid the men at the meeting were, because she can’t keep her mouth shut. But she says nothing.
She’s always talking, always staring at me with some sort of heated emotion in her hazel eyes, but now . . . nothing. Her quietness is strange. Unsettling.
It makes my dick soft.
I turn the music dial down, and then glance her way.
She makes no move to turn it back up.
Clenching my jaw, I start the car, and back up onto the road. I drive for a while, my gaze catching the glint of the Morozov emblem and that heart locket around her neck. Both of them annoy me, but the locket brings out visceral hatred.
I’m itching to rip it off her, but I won’t touch it. It’s the only boundary I won’t cross. I remember the way she guarded it when I had my gun in her mouth. With her life. I get the feeling that she would hate me if I broke that fucking locket. And it would be an irreparable hate. There would be no going back.
Isn’t that what I want?
I don’t know anymore.
Fear controls most people. Not her. Trying to control her through intimidation only makes her more non-compliant.
I want her hate, yes, but I don’t want to push her so far that she doesn’t feel anything at all.
The turn for the beach comes up ahead. She probably thinks I didn’t notice the way she lit up when peering out the window at the beach on the way here. The girl has strange fucking tastes. Black clothes. Punk rock. Beaches.
I take the turn.
Freya doesn’t notice. Then, she finally does. She twists in her seat, lifting her head to stare at me with parted lips. But she’s still silent.
She doesn’t want to overreact, in case I’m just tormenting her—just dangling the prospect of the beach only to drive away. Smart girl. Because that’s exactly something I would do.
But not today. I want my little hellfire back.
I slow the car at the nearest parking spot.
Her eyes are wide. “Really?”
Her voice washes over me like victory.
“I’m meeting someone here,” I lie.
She’s out the car as soon as I park, pulling off her heels.
I slide out the car and stand on the promenade, salt permeating the air. She frowns at me. “You’re just gonna stand there?”
I don’t reply.
She frowns. “Fine. Hold these.”
And then she shoves her heels into my chest, but I don’t take my hands out my pockets, so they drop to the ground instead.
Freya doesn’t bat an eyelid, running down the steps, into the sand. There’s a huge smile on her face as her feet sink into the sand, and her hair flies behind her as she runs to the water. She comes to a stop, and then she walks into the low tide.
“Ah!” She shrieks, her voice echoing the empty beach. “It’s cold!”
She turns to stare at something in the distance, and she doesn’t notice that the tide is rising. I’m about to warn her, but it’s too late. She yelps, then laughs to herself as the water splashes her way higher than she anticipated, wetting the bottom of that tiny fucking dress.
She smiles down at the sand and water, and then for one second she turns to me, the smile still on her face. Fuck.
The smile on her face falters as she catches me watching her, and she averts her gaze.
I can’t look away.
There’s not much else to watch, anyway.
But even if this beach was stuffed to the brim, I’d still find her.
The sun sets on the horizon of the beach, as she walks away from the water she settles on the sand, leaning back to watch it. I can see her side profile as the orange hue of the sunset lights up her face.
Fuck it.
I pick up her shoes and chuck them into the car before walking down the promenade, sitting beside her on the sand.
She’s so fucking beautiful. I hate everything she stands for, but I can’t deny it. I’m not blind. Barefoot in the sand, in that tiny black dress, her legs going on for miles. I can’t touch her. She belongs to me, but I can’t touch her. I won’t.
Because once I get a taste of her, I’ll become a starved man.
I pull out a cigarette to occupy my hands, lighting it up.
She turns to face me. “You smoke?”
“Sometimes.”
Silence fills the air as the sun descends further into the horizon.
“What did my father say to you?” I ask her.
She’s quiet for a while. Then she says, “He told me how happy he is that I’m joining the family.”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “and I shit rainbows. What did he say?”
A line forms between her brows. “Why don’t you go ask him instead?”
I clench my jaw. “He won’t tell me the truth.”
“Like you care.” She rolls her eyes. “Save the act. You’re just like your father.”
The words hit me harder than I expect them to, and I feel the need to defend myself. “I’m nothing like him.”
To this, she says nothing. It aggravates me. I clench my jaw, my gaze burning a hole through her cheek as she refuses to meet my gaze.
“Stop staring,” she says.
“No.”
She lifts a brow. “You think I’m pretty?”
Yes.
I blow smoke through my lips. “I think you’re hideous.”
Freya rolls her eyes, a ghost smile on her lips. “What happened to the person you were supposed to meet?”
I offer up a half-assed lie for an excuse, tapping ash out between my fingers. “He bailed.”
She nods slowly, a slight lift to her lips. Her gaze is set on the push and pull of water in front of us.
“You can’t keep me locked up in the penthouse anymore, you know,” she says, after a while.
I lift the cigarette to my lips, taking another drag.
When I was younger, there was this toy I wanted. I can’t remember whether it was a toy truck or car, but I wanted it. Badly. Day in and day out. It kept me alive, waiting months for that fucking toy. One day, my father came home with it. And when I finally got my hands on the toy. . . I didn’t know what to do it.
My eyes fall on the girl next to me, and I get that feeling again.
Now that I finally have her, I don’t know what to do with her. How to deal with the chasm that seems to open up in my chest every time I hurt her.
I didn’t let her leave the penthouse because there was no way to guarantee that she’d come back.
But she did. After I let her leave. She came back. I don’t know whether it’s because she’s naïve or plain stupid, but she came back.
It’s a good thing she did, because otherwise I would have done something fucked up, like drive to the house and marry her right there. Just to have the right to drag her ass back.
She was not contractually obligated to return to my apartment. And since she was in her father’s territory, and I’m not married to her yet, there would have been little I could do to force her to return.
I would have to marry her.
I should marry her.
So why haven’t I?
If I kill her hope, then I can’t take it away. If I married her immediately, I have no doubt that it would break her. Her tantrums would be far worse than they are now. And she’s already tried to kill me once.
With her just as a fiancé, living in my house, I have just enough control over her for her to think that she still has a way out. For her to think that she still has hope. But that’s the thing about hope — it’s a cruel, miserable bitch.
Iʼve seen this film before, and it ends with her as my wife.
“Go where you want,” I murmur, “Just come back.”
She brings her knees up to her chin, hugging them.
“You said I could ask for whatever I want,” she says, “Except for an end to the contract. And guns.”
“I did.” I take another drag. “What do you want?”
She exhales slowly. “If I die,” she says, “you won’t marry my sister. She doesn’t deserve that.”
Fury bites at the edges of my vision, glowing red like the cherry at the end my cigarette. “And you do?”
She shrugs.
I don’t know why I’m so fucking angry. That she considers being with me as some eternal punishment, or that she feels that she’s more deserving of said punishment than her sister. I’ve forgotten how it felt to have something worth protecting, even with your life.
My teeth clamp together. “You can have anything. For any price. And you choose this?”
She nods.
I narrow my eyes. “And how can you be so sure I’ll keep my end of the deal?”
She lifts up her hand. “Pinky promise?”
I ignore it.
“You aren’t going to die,” I tell her.
She scoffs.
“I won’t allow it.”
She huffs a short laugh, and something inside me revels at the sound. “You won’t allow it?”
“No.”
“I’m going to die someday, you know,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“Yes,” I counter, “Someday, when you’re old and grey and can’t fuckin’ walk. You aren’t dying. Not for a long time. So shut up.”
She doesn’t, of course. Instead, she asks, “And what about when I am old and grey and can’t walk?”
“I’ll still be there,” I tell her, “Haunting you till the very end.”
She stares at the side of my face for a while. Then she looks away, and I could swear that her eyes are glossed over. “I want to go back now.”
The sun has set completely, and the beach has descended into darkness. Whatever brief magic had existed between now and the time we arrived has dissipated, revealing the setting’s cold, ugly truth.
I toss my cigarette as we walk back up to the promenade, slipping into the car.
Freya falls back into her silent spell, still not trying to turn up the music dial. I bite down on my molars. Why do I even give a fuck?
When I glance over at her, her chest rises and falls slowly. She’s falling asleep. I avert my gaze. I’ve seen her in the tiniest fucking dress on the planet, but somehow, it’s now, when she’s like this, that she seems most naked.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, stealing my attention. I fish it out to see that it’s Luca. It must be urgent, because he knows that I’m driving.
I answer the call, keeping my eyes on the road. “Yes?”
“Bad news,” he says, “Yuri has been talking to Volkov.”
“So?”
It’s nothing new. Freya’s father has been trying to form an alliance with Rune Volkov for years. With Volkov, Yuri would be able to separate from my clutches, strengthen his position, and keep his daughter. It’s a pot of gold for the Russian boss.
My face sours. “That old fuck’s always trying to talk to Volkov.”
“Yeah, well.” Luca sighs. “Volkov’s been talking back.”
Blood roars through my veins.
What? Since when did Rune Volkov give a fuck?
I shift my gaze to Freya.
She’s been different since last night. More carefree. Frivolous. At ease. I know it’s not because of anything I’ve done. Taking her to that meeting was the equivalent to feeding her to a pack of wolves.
No. She’s different after visiting her father.
It dawns on me hard and fast.
There’s a reason she feels more secure. They have a plan. Yuri is going to wed Freya to Rune Volkov. To send her away. Her—the girl with my ring on her finger.
And suddenly, I’m fucking livid.
With a single tilt of the board, I’ll lose it all—Yuri’s allegiance to my business, my revenge, and my fiancé.
But the potential loss of only one of these things truly infuriates me.
Freya shifts in the passenger seat. Still sleeping. Still blissfully unaware that I now know about their little coup.
When I was younger, my mother taught me how to play chess. I became so good at it that the no one bothered going against me. In reality, everything is a big chessboard—one big game of strategy. And it’s a game I’ve never lost.
Well played, Yuri.
It’s my turn, now.
❖ ❖ ❖
authorʼs note:
1 more chapter until weʼre halfway !!
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