Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when someoneʼs 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 dark...
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AFTER I MANAGED to put on the diamond necklace, I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to properly apply any makeup, so I shoved some of the essential stuff in a black clutch and followed Torren out the apartment.
It’s early night, the sky a gentle black as the car glides on the road. I pull down the visor above my seat to check my reflection in the tiny mirror. My hair is in a centre path, left down, air-dried in loose waves.
I dump the contents of my clutch into the cup holder, ignoring the pointed glare I get from Torren as I apply some mascara, then a smidge of black eye pencil to smoke up my lids. I paint on a blush-pink lipstick and dab some of it on the crests of my cheeks, so it doubles up as blush.
Torren brings his hand over the steering wheel as he takes a turn. I feel his stare on me, heated and heavy, before it’s lazily dragged back to the road.
I press my lips together then smack then obnoxiously, turning to face his side profile. “What am I expected to do at this thing, anyway?”
“Sit still,” he says. “Look pretty.”
“That first part will be little hard for me.”
He reaches over me, slamming my visor back up. “The second part, too.”
I scoff. “Can you not be mean for like . . . two seconds?”
He stays quiet for a deliberate two seconds. Then he says, “Don’t cause any trouble. There’ll be cameras, and it’s bad press.”
I lift a brow. “Oh, so I’m bad press now?”
“You’re bad everything,” he mutters. My heart shoots up to my throat when he swings an arm over my headrest, glancing back as he reverses into a parking. “Little hellfire.”
Gritting my teeth, I get out the car before he can properly switch it off. A cool breeze leaps over my skin as I scan the tall, fawn building ahead of me— designed like Roman architecture, its entrance adorned with bright lighting.
Torren kills the engine and slides out the car. For a single second, his eyes drop to my dress slit, the part where the midnight black material splits to show skin. And then he drags it back up to my throat, where the diamond collar sits.
I brush past him and start walking.
We pass the colossal pinewood doors, wide open where the maroon carpet begins. There’s a buzzing in the air as people I can’t recognize mill around. Long, elaborate dresses and more suits than I can count.
Cameras flash. The largest chandelier I’ve ever seen hangs above us, the crystals shimmering.
He didn’t tell me it would be this . . . fancy. I feel strangely out of place. Me leading a normal life meant that I was never allowed to attend events like this. I got used to it eventually, but some part of me always longed to be invited. To feel like I was a part of something.
