I’VE ALWAYS HATED HOSPITALS. The stark whiteness of the walls, the sterile smell in the air, and the forced, controlled quiet. The paparazzi are stationed outside the hospital, likely waiting my arrival. I don’t care. I’m here for show, anyway.
My hands are tucked in my pockets as I saunter down the hallway, heading for the room where my father’s being held.
When I enter the room, he’s on the bed, looking pathetic, and no doubt pissed that he wasn’t placed in a private room. I might or might not have had something to do with it.
His face is pretty fucked up. I might be an artist after all.
It’s a good thing I got my mother’s features, because swollen and bruised, Salvatore Costa is one ugly motherfucker.
“You know,” I say, by way of greeting, drawing to a stop at the side of his bed. “It’s a different kind of satisfaction, seeing you here, like this.”
At the sound of my voice, my father tilts his head in my direction. “Why are you here?”
“Have to keep up appearances,” I murmur dryly, “Isn’t that what you taught me?”
“I taught you a lot of things,” he mutters, “beating your own father to a bloody pulp wasn’t one of them.”
I scoff, shutting him down. “Ma took worse beatings from you.” I glance up at the monitor, feigning concern. “What’s the diagnosis?”
The side of his mouth twitches. “Severe concussion.”
A frown touches my lips. “That’s it? Thought I broke your jaw, at the very least.”
My father bares his teeth. “Don’t patronize me, son. You might be Don, but you’re still under my control.”
There’s a sour taste in my mouth. It hasn’t even been a few minutes, and I’m already annoyed.
“Now that I think about it, I should’ve just broken your jaw,” I mutter, “that way I wouldn’t have to listen to the bullshit coming out your mouth.”
His hateful face morphs further into distaste. “You’re deluded. Raising your hand on your own father? And for what?”
“You—” I clench my jaw, focusing my thought. “You hurt my mother. Again and again. You never gave a fuck about Sof—” I grit my teeth— “And now you want to break my—”
“Your what?” my father sneers.
I release a harsh breath. “My toy.”
He makes a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat. “You should have just gone with the blonde Morozov. At the very least, she’s legitimate.”
I clench my jaw. “I like my choice just fine.”
My father tilts his head as he regards me. “What do you intend on doing with her, really?”
“Ruling the fucking world,” I mutter, half serious.
He scoffs. “Your children will never be accepted. Your sons will never be Made.”
“Made? Like how you made me?” I huff a laugh. “Never.”
“There was nothing wrong with how I made you,” he says, “You are just like your mother. Weak.”
I grind on my molars. “Ma had more strength in her pinky finger than your entire fucking body, old man.”
He just sighs. “It’s not too late. Get a good, nice, Italian girl for a wife. Keep the Morozov girl as a whore.”
My blood boils at his words, at the fact that he thinks he has any authority over me at all. “No.”
My father’s eyes are filled with pity. “The girl will betray you.”
The words affect me more than they should. Still, I brush them off.
“She can try her best to,” I say. Then I turn, enough time having passed for an acceptable enough visit. “Goodbye, father.”
I get to the car, none of the reporters brave enough to approach me. I make a stop at the condo to finish up work and return to the apartment as the sun starts to set.
As I drive, I can’t help but mull over my father’s parting words. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t wrong. It’s only been three weeks, and Freya’s already slipping from my clutches.
When I get back to the apartment, it’s uncharacteristically loud. It’s because Freya and Luca are yelling at each other on the couch, I quickly realize.
They’re playing Call of Duty.
No doubt Luca set it up while waiting for me, like he had many times before, and Freya asked to join. She’s freshly showered with wet hair. Luca yells something, and she laughs, the sound echoes the space and carves into my chest, white-hot and pulsing.
“Luca,” I snap.
Both of them snap their heads up to me. Freya scowls. Nothing I’m unused to. I ignore her, narrowing my eyes at my cousin instead.
“Outside. Now.”
Luca sighs, lifting from the couch, giving Freya a brief glance. “See you around, baby M.”
I walk outside, the sky descending into darkness, a cool breeze sending light rippled on the fluorescent pool.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, turning to face him.
“You weren’t at the condo,” he says, “and I needed your signature on some shit.”
He waves a manila envelope in the air. I ignore it.
“With her, Luca,” I grind out. “What were you doing with her?”
“With Freya?” He waves a non-committal hand. “We were just playing around. She wanted some help to fix up the Mustang down in the garage. She’s actually pretty good, man. Knows her stuff.”
“I don’t care what she knows,” I snap.
“Damn.” Luca grins. “You’re wound up tight. When was the last time you fucked someone?”
My jaw tightens. “Mind your fucking business.”
But his grin only widens. “Shit, you haven’t gotten laid recently, have you?”
I don’t bother replying.
“Since when?” he presses.
Still quiet.
Luca’s eyes widen. “Since the engagement.”
My silence is confirmation enough for the idiotic fucker. He laughs. Out loud. “It’s been three weeks, man! You haven’t fucked someone in three weeks. Almost a month. If that was me, my dick would’ve gone limp and fallen off.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t already,” I murmur.
He pauses, brown eyes glinting. “You slut shaming me?”
My mouth curves. “Fuck off.”
“Val’s been on my case, you know,” he says.
My brows knit. “Who?”
He deadpans. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding?” I scowl. “Who the fuck is Val?”
Luca sighs. “Val as in Valerie, Torren. Your regular at the club.”
“Oh,” I murmur dryly, “Right. Val.”
I don’t particularly hate or like the girl. She dresses to my tastes, and most importantly, she’s obedient. Sometimes it’s just more convenient to fuck the same person than randoms.
“You told her your engagement wouldn’t stop you from fucking her.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I did tell her that. When I thought I was getting engaged to Anastasia.”
Luca narrows his eyes. “What changed?”
There’s a momentʼs worth of silence, in which he follows my line of gaze, and it seems to dawn on him.
I incline my head toward the apartment as I take out a cigarette, motioning for Luca to light up for me. “I don’t understand her.”
When he finally does, I wait for the flame to catch before I take a drag. “Says she never got nightmares in years and now she’s getting them.”
Luca rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no shit. She lives with you.”
I blow out a ring of smoke. “She’s not scared of me.”
“Really?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Maybe you really are made for each other.”
I brush aside the satisfaction that rolls in my chest at the statement, glancing up at Luca. “How do you do it?”
He frowns. “What?”
“Make her laugh.”
Realization dawns on my cousin’s face, before he shakes his head with a chagrined smile. “You are so fucked, man.”
“Give me the papers,” I grumble, “and then fuck off.”
Luca grins, passing me the papers. I sign the agreement in his hands— a merger between two of our smaller subsidiaries, then watch through the window as he walks out. But not before calling out an amused “Good luck” behind his back.
I resit the urge to go after the fucker and clock him.
There’s the dim sound of the TV coming from inside. Freya’s still on the couch, scratching Rhaegar’s soft spot around his chin. And—I narrow my eyes at the flat-screen. Is she watching Game of Thrones? The fuck? That’s my fucking show.
Thereʼs not a single doubt in my mind that Luca told her something, too. Fucking prick.
I frown when I hear the familiar intro as I walk in.
“This is where you got your name, Rhaegar!” Freya exclaims, pointing animatedly at the screen.
And Rhaegar, the traitorous little mutt, barks excitedly in response, wagging his tail and lapping at Freya’s hand.
I take a seat on the same couch as her, but the opposite end.
She’s in tiny red and black plaid shorts, her tits spilling out of a back cami with thin straps. She has nice legs. Not particularly long, or what I’m used to, but slender and toned. My blood heats.
“You need to attend a charity ball with me next week,” I tell her, my gaze fixed ahead of me.
“Okay,” she murmurs.
I frown. I thought she’d fight it more.
When I turn to glance at her, she’s fixated on the screen.
I sink back into the couch, getting drawn back into the show despite having already watched it a few times.
And just like that, episode upon episode plays, and the night delves into a thick darkness. We sit on the couch, not exchanging a word. Freya’s engrossed with the show, and when Rhaegar falls asleep at her feet, she seems to gravitate closer toward me.
It’s around midnight when her body starts to droop. I watch as her eyes droop closed, and just as she’s about to fall to the couch, I shift over, positioning myself under her, so that she falls to my lap, instead.
Her body jolts slightly, but she doesn’t wake. I exhale, not wanting to wake her up. Wanting nothing more than to sit there, in the space that smelled like her; like an amalgamation of berries and shampoo and watch her sleep. Peaceful. Undisturbed. Angelic. Her eyes closed, not filled with that bright fire that burned in them whenever she talked to me.
Up close I see the caramel dusting of freckles spreading from the tip of her nose to her high- set cheekbones. That plush mouth. Full lips.
She’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.
My favorite character’s on screen, but I can’t seem to draw my gaze away from the girl in my lap.
I don’t know how long passes. Minutes. Hours. I stay there like that until she stirs, finally opening her eyes.
“What?” she asks, her voice like a cloud. She frowns, cheeks flushed as her hazel eyes flick up to mine then down at my lap in confusion. “I swear I was on the other side of the couch. How’d I end up on you?”
“You practically threw yourself on me,” I say.
It’s only a half-lie.
Her cheeks flush, and lifts off my lap, glancing at the screen. “What did I miss?”
Bored, I list off the events of the scenes she missed, like I didn’t just spend all that time staring at her sleep.
“Oh,” she says, “Okay.”
Hesitation flashes in her eyes and vanishes as quickly as it had come. Keeping her eyes on me, she lifts her hands to her hair, to retie it, when she lets the hair tie fall to the floor. It lands at my feet, and I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out her play. She must know what I’m thinking, because her gaze darkens with a wicked glow.
But then she bends to reach for the hair tie, and I realize. I don’t miss the way the position highlights the perfect curve of her ass, and tits, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets and tear my gaze away.
Purposefully pushing the hair tie further out her reach, Freya slips off the couch, to the floor.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. Because as soon as I flicker my gaze back to her, she kneels in front of me, looking up at me through big, come-fuck-me eyes. My hard on is painful, and for a second, my mind numbs of any coherent thought.
I wonder how good her lips would feel around my dick. If she’d even let me fuck her mouth. And because I’m not thinking straight, I cant my hips forward, in the direction of the girl who hates me.
And give her exactly what she wants.
Satisfaction.
She picks up her hair tie, depositing it between her teeth as she crawls up on me, straddling my lap. I almost groan from the heat of it. My cock is pressed against her pussy through the thin material of her sleep shorts. My hands settle on her hips, my fingers brushing up the bottom of her camisole to feel the soft flesh at the sides of her stomach.
Soft. Her skin is so fucking soft, her heartbeat thrumming underneath her skin like a small bird set free. Her scent of jasmine and berry stills my breath.
The heavy rise and fall of her chest makes my gaze settle on the swell of her breasts. She arches her spine, pushing her tits up against me as she reclaims the hair tie from between her teeth, and lifts her arms to tie back her hair.
Fresh blood rises to the surface of her skin, to the dip of her chest. Her skin is unblemished, save for a small brown freckle, just above her cleavage. Numbness spreads through my core as her hand grasps my shirt.
It’s unfair —that my cock is straining against the fly of my pants, physical proof of how turned on I am. It gives her the upper hand, and she knows it. But I have a suspicion that I’m not the only one that’s affected. That if I just spread her open and play with her pussy, she’ll be writhing and mewling and moaning my name.
Behind her, the TV blares, the scene still playing out.
I drag my hands all the way up to settle under the swell of her breasts for a second and I have to hold in a groan, but the touch startles her, and she falls back a little, and then her ass brushes over my cock.
A groan rumbles out my throat, and everything I’d learned about control comes surging to the surface of my skin, threatening to burst through, and I have to wield a grip on it before I succumb, before I’m down on my knees begging for her touch—something.
Anything.
I grit my teeth. “Freya.”
“Yes?” she whispers, her gaze wide-eyed, her voice low and raspy.
“Get the fuck off me,” I grunt, “You’re blocking my view.”
❖ ❖ ❖
authorʼs note:
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