5

FREYA pov

His fingers were still on my arm when the question left his mouth again, more rough and darker this time.

“You’re crying?”

The way he growled it, like the sight of my tears personally offended him, sent a violent shiver down my spine.

I tried to twist away. “Please. Just go.”

He didn’t.

His grip tightened, not cruel, but absolute. Like iron wrapped in velvet. His thumb pressed over the frantic pulse in my wrist and stayed there, reading me, claiming the beat of my heart…. I hate how he stares at me.

“Look at me,” he said.

Just two words. A command I felt between my legs before my brain caught up.

I dragged my eyes to his.

But that was my mistake.

Up close he was worse. Storm-gray eyes, blown black with something feral. The kind of face that made women stupid and graves shallow. A thin scar cut through his left brow, and the stubble on his jaw looked sharp enough to cut skin.

He stepped forward. I stepped back. My spine hit the doorframe.

“Tell me who made you cry, Princess.”

“Princess” The way he said it—low, deliberate, tasting every syllable—made my knees threaten to fold.

“I don’t even know you,” I whispered.

“You will.”

His free hand lifted, slow enough that I could have moved. But I didn’t; his knuckles brushed the tear track on my cheek, and the contact lit me up like a match dragged across stone.

“I don’t chase women,” he said, voice gravel and smoke. “I don’t beg or flirt. I don’t feel much of anything anymore.”

His thumb swept under my eye.

“But you opened this door looking like someone had ripped your soul out through your chest… and every dead thing inside me woke up snarling.”

My breath hitched hard enough to hurt.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. Not a kiss. A brand.

“I don’t know who the fuck Mark is,” he growled, “but he just ran out of time.”

A helpless sound escaped me—half sob, half moan. I hated myself for it.

Steve heard it. His eyes flared. The hand on my wrist slid up my arm, slow and deliberate, until his palm collared the side of my throat. No pressure. Just possession. His thumb rested over the frantic flutter of my pulse like he was counting the ways he could ruin me.

“I’m going to fix this,” he said against my temple. “Every tear he puts on your face, I’m putting on his and the rest on you. In my bed. On your knees. Until the only name you remember how to scream is mine.”

The words were vibrating down my bones.

I was fucking wet.

Shamefully, instantly, drenched.

He felt the tremor that ran through me—because of course he did—and the corner of his mouth curved, dark with a triumphant smile.

I tried to save myself by saying something to let him go.

“I—” My voice cracked like thin ice. “I’m married.” But the words were scraped out, small and desperate. “I have a daughter.”

He tilted his head, thumb still stroking that spot on my throat.

“Had a kid?” His gaze dropped to my stomach this time, but it was still dark with want. “Then your body did something holy. Anyone who could get on his knees needs to worship it like a fucking idiot.”

He leaned closer. “Lucky for you, I’m very good at kneeling.”

“But not today,” he said, pulling back just enough that cold air rushed between us. “Today you breathe. Today you decide if you’re brave enough to burn your old life down.”

His hand left my throat. I swayed like he’d cut the only thing holding me upright.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a matte black card, and pressed it into my palm. His fingers closed mine around it—slow, deliberate.

“Tomorrow. Eight. State-of-the-Art Gym. You walk through my door, Princess, you’re mine. And there will be more tears that belong to pleasure.

His gaze dragged down my body, possessive and unhurried, like he was already stripping me bare.

He stepped back.

One step. Two.

The absence of his heat felt like drowning.

At the threshold he paused, looked over his shoulder, and the look he gave me was pure predator.

“Lock your door, baby,” he said, voice velvet and venom.

The roar of his bike split a second later.

I slid down the closed door until my ass hit the marble, legs trembling, thighs slick, holding the black card so tight.

Tomorrow. Eight.

I was already ruined.

God help me…

I don't know how long I stayed on the floor.

Minutes. Maybe an hour.

The floor was cold against my thighs, but the rest of me was burning. My panties were ruined. Actually ruined. I could feel the proof of what that stranger did to me with nothing but words and one thumb on my throat.

I hated him. No. I wanted him.

Both at the same time, so violently my teeth ached.

Eventually I dragged myself upstairs on shaky legs, the black card still cutting into my palm. I dropped it on the bathroom counter and stripped for a shower. The hot water hit my skin, and I closed my eyes, trying to wash him off.

But guess what—it didn’t work.

Every time I blinked I saw storm-gray eyes and that scar through his brow. I heard that growl again:

“Once I start, I don’t stop. And I’m already starving.”

My knees almost buckled.

I slapped the tile wall so hard my palm stung.

“Get a grip, Freya. You’re married. You have a child. You’re falling apart, and some tattooed gym bro just mind-fucked you in your own doorway.”

I got out, wrapped myself in a towel, and tried to act like a functioning human.

I had three online meetings scheduled with my store managers—new inventory, supplier drama, and holiday displays. I threw on an oversized sweater and leggings, tied my wet hair into a messy bun, and opened my laptop on the couch.

Gladys’s face popped up first. The meeting started, and she was talking numbers, margins, and some shipments that arrived damaged. I nodded in all the right places, but the entire time my eyes kept drifting to the black card I’d carried downstairs like a lunatic.

State-of-the-art gym

Steve Hayes – Owner

address. a phone number and a tiny silver logo that looked like a broken crown.

Gladys asked me something twice. I blinked. “Sorry, repeat that?”

She gave me a worried look. “Ma’am, are you okay? You look… flushed.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, fanning myself even though the AC was on full blast.

Meeting two. Meeting three. Same thing. I was present in my body only. My brain was replaying the way his thumb pressed over my pulse like he already owned it.

At 2:17 p.m. my phone buzzed on the counter.

Honey: (Well, that’s Mark.)

Hey. Picking Luna up from school today. Taking her for ice cream and to the park so you can rest. Love you.

I stared at the text until the words blurred.

Love you.

The two words he's been saying to me while fucking his college friend behind me. And now he was using them like a hall pass to take my daughter to play happy family with his mistress.

I laughed. It came out ugly and broken.

I typed back before I could stop myself.

Me:

Funny. Always acting like you’re father of the year?

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.

Mark: Freya, don’t start. I’m doing something nice.

I almost threw the phone across the room.

Nice.

Another text.

Mark: Lila’s coming too. Luna asked for her. Don’t make this weird.

My vision went red.

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. My hands were shaking too hard.

I snapped back to last night at 12am. Mark’s iPad wallpaper. Him, Luna, and Lila laughing under sunshine, and Lila’s hand on my daughter’s shoulder. and Mark’s arm around Lila’s waist, and it’s funny they are having another moment again.

Just thinking about that makes something feral snap inside my chest.

I swiped out and opened a new message. My thumb hovered… then I typed the number from the black card before I could talk myself out of it.

Me (2:29 p.m.):

What happens if I come tonight?

I hit send immediately, and I wanted to vomit.

The reply came in less than ten seconds.

Unknown: (Steve)

You already know what happens, princess.

The door locks at 8:15.

Don’t be late.

Or do.

My breath left my body in one shaky rush.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

Then I stood up and opened my closet, shoved hangers aside like a madwoman, and pulled out the tightest black dress I owned—the one I bought two years ago hoping Mark would notice.

He never did.

Tonight someone else would.

I was done being the forgiving wife.

I was done being soft and apologetic and quiet.

Tonight at 8 p.m. I was walking into a state-of-the-art gym.

And I was going to let Steve Hayes ruin me in all the ways my husband never bothered to.

Mark wanted me fixed?

Fine.

I’d come back shattered in a brand-new way.