11
Luca phoned earlier to let me know that Freya was at home, and also that “Greta Morozov is a bitch”. I didn’t bother asking him to elaborate. The job was done. The little Morozov was in my home. Right where I wanted her. But somehow, I don’t know who’s being punished more — me, or her.
I finish work late on purpose, driving into the loft just before midnight.
I don’t want to see her face. Which works — because when I walk in, everything’s pitch fucking black.
Not a single light is on, and all the blinds are down.
I know she’s here. Her presence is like a black hole, absorbing all the energy of the place and infusing it with her own.
The brat got drunk out of her mind to get through the engagement and gagged —actually fucking gagged — like she was fighting the urge to retch out her insides when I had to hold her for the press.
It fucking infuriates me. No woman has ever rebuked me, let alone my touch.
And if they gagged, it was only ever on my cock.
The spare bedroom is never used. I’m not in the habit of allowing people into my home, let alone inviting them to stay for any length of time.
When I fuck, I do it at the club. It saves me the trouble of anyone getting the wrong idea.
So now the room is hers. Downstairs, where she’s separated from me and I see her face less than I have to.
It’s late, and I’m the last person she would wait for.
But her door is open.
And when I walk past, her room is empty. Bed untouched, blinds drawn closed. After looking through the other rooms, I finally find her, unable to stop a frown from pulling at my mouth.
I don’t know how she’s done it without him biting off a chunk of her flesh, but she’s sleeping with Rhaegar, in his giant cot.
Her hair is slightly damp, like she showered and didn’t bother to dry it, and the scent of her citrusy shampoo floods my senses.
She’s wearing the tiniest fucking pair of black sleep shorts on the planet, exposing her bare, tanned flesh all the way from the ripe curve of her ass down to her ankles.
Her feet are bare, too, and I can’t help but notice that her toes are painted the brightest shade of white.
She’s in a cramped position as she curls up next to Rhaegar, and as much as the cot is big for him, it’s not clearly designed for a fucking adult human.
I can’t see it because of her position, but I know it’s there. That fucking heart shaped locket she always wears.
I want to claw it from her — rip it from her neck with my bare hands
I want open it to find the face of the fucker inside, then find him and slit his fucking neck. Personally. I don’t care if it wasn’t my original intention. She’s mine now. If he has her heart, I want it back.I want it all.
Gritting my teeth, I crouch, reaching out a hand to move her, but there’s a low growl — Rhaegar blinks in the dark, like he’s warning me not to touch her.
The mutt doesn’t even bark like he normally would, and I’m guessing it’s because he doesn’t want to wake her up.
He’s too smart for his own good. I don’t understand how this rash of a girl managed to get my dog attached to her so quickly.
Fuck it.
If she wants to sleep with the fucking dog, that’s her prerogative.
Annoyed, I flicker the staircase light on and walk to my bathroom, where my irritation only grows.
All of the little heathen’s fucking shit—shampoo, bottles of cream and scented soaps, is scattered all over my bathroom.
For some reason, she insisted on using my bathroom when she has her own.
I grit down on my teeth and unbutton my shirt.
Just as I’m about to unbuckle my belt, my phone rings in my pocket.
It’s Haddon, my security detail. He never calls unless it’s urgent, and the thought that the security of the house was compromised with Freya staying here alone…
Clamping down on my jaw, I pick up. “This better be good.”
I can hear the fear in his voice when he says, “Sir . . . I think there’s something you need to see.”
“Send it to me,” I grunt.
Striding to my office, I switch on my monitor and click on the link Haddon sent my way. I have to narrow my eyes, because it just looks like footage of the couch in the lounge outside my office.
But when I look closer, someone’s on the couch.
Freya.
I watch as she sits on the couch, her chest moving steadily in and out like she’s breathing heavy. Then, she looks straight at the camera — at me— before lying back on the couch, placing her feet on the edge so that I’m given a flash of what’s under her skirt— she’s wearing lace underwear. Black.
I clamp down on my jaw, a visceral rage running though me as I feel the urge to punch through the fucking screen. But I can’t move. Can’t take my fucking eyes off the view. It’s a train wreck designed just for me.
I watch as she slips her hand under the waistband of her skirt. I can’t see anything now, it’s all covered by the skirt. Her wrist moves and I catch the shiny ring,myring, on the wrong hand as it slips to her pussy.
My intake of breath is sharp, but I don’t move.
She doesn’t take the ring off as she finger-fucks herself, and it makes my cock stir in my pants.
Her wrist flicks as she tips her head back, lips opening to form an O, spine curving off the couch.
The video doesn’t have any sound, and I can’t tell what the fuck she’s doing.
The angle conceals it. Is she rubbing her clit? Or pushing her fingers inside herself?
Her movements grow more frantic, and her body trembles. And then she crumbles. She smirks up at the camera.
“Fuck!”
I slam the laptop shut.
She clearly did this to piss me off. She knew I’d find out. And it worked, because I’m fuckingpissed. I’ve never been so ridden with anger and . . . lust. My cock is hard to the point of pain.
I clamp down on my jaw, storming back to the bathroom. Blood roars in my veins when I pass Rhaegar’s room, but I ignore it, ripping my shirt off and not bothering when buttons pop and scatter to the floor.
And then I’m in the shower, cold water sluicing down my back. It does nothing. All I can picture—all I can see, is her hand moving underneath her skirt, back arched, full lips caught in a moan. Playing over and over in my mind.
A growl resounds from the back of my throat.
My hand grips the base of my cock, and I fuck my fist to the memory of the tape, hard and fast, only lasting s few minutes before ropes of come spurt onto the shower tiles.
I can’t fucking believe this girl has me jerking off like a goddamn high schooler.
When I’m out the shower, I call Haddon.
He answers immediately. “Sir?”
“Delete it,” I say, “And I suggest you forget what you saw. Unless you want your eyes in a jar on my fuckin’ desk.”
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