Chapter 35 35
FREYA POV
“It’s just a dream,” I keep murmuring just to steady my heartbeat.
“God.”
I sat up abruptly on the couch, still breathing heavily. I pressed my palm flat against my chest like I could force my heart to slow down. It was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my ears, even in the tips of my fingers. I had to look around to make sure I knew where I was.
Never in my life have I had a vivid dream that felt so real. I remembered before I fell asleep, my head was still mumbling over what Diana said about Steve:
“He kills…”
And after she left, I came to the living room and sat on the couch while I kept looking at the front door, expecting Steve to walk inside. At that moment, I knew my mind and soul couldn’t get what Diana said out of my head, and I just wanted to see him.
But God knows how, I can’t even remember when I fell asleep and woke up to such a dream.
I dragged my hands down my face, feeling the dampness on my cheeks.
I stared back at the front door, not sure if Steve was back. My eyes drifted in the direction of Steve’s wing, and just looking at that route made my head instantly flash to how I walked in that direction in the dream.
“Oh… God,” I whispered and quickly looked away. I pulled my knees up onto the couch again, hugging them tight. My thighs rubbed together, and—God—there it was again. That slick, shameful heat between my legs. Still pulsing like the dream hadn’t fully left my body. I clenched everything and hissed through my teeth.
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself. “Just… stop, Freya.”
But my mind wouldn’t listen. The more I wanted to accept this was just a dream and there was no reason to overthink, the more the flashes kept coming: black rope biting into my wrists, the crack of leather on skin, Steve’s voice—low and mean all at once—telling me I was his. Telling me to “Cum for the beast who keeps you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut so hard to get my mind straight. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t this person. I used to be the woman who only believed in marriage, who believed marriage was sacred even when it hurt.
And now? Now I was sitting here in a mansion at stupid-o’clock in the middle of the night, soaked from a nightmare about how my ex-husband had been murdered and how I’d been fucked senseless on a table full of torture toys.
“Unbelievable.”
I laughed once—short, ugly, broken. It sounded more like a sob. What the hell had my life become?
I sat completely lost in thought—no, not really lost in thought, but feeling that heat in my head and body—until I heard—
“Freya.”
I jolted, my body nearly launching itself off the couch. I was halfway to a run, my feet stumbling on the floor before I managed to catch myself against the furniture. My heart was slamming against my ribs so hard I could barely breathe, but I forced myself to stay still.
Trembling, I slowly looked up to see Steve standing there in the doorway.
My breath hitched. Looking up at him, he looked exactly like he did in the dream—the same heavy shadow over his eyes, the same predatory stillness. The only difference was his skin; here, he wasn’t soaked with water. Or was he? I blinked, my vision blurring, unable to tell if I was seeing the real him or if I was just forcing that terrifying “dream face” onto him.
He was wearing a black, skin-tight top that left nothing to the imagination. The fabric strained against the heavy slabs of muscle in his chest and arms, mapping out every ridge of his strength.
My eyes dropped to his right hand. He wasn’t holding a gun.
“Freya,” he called again.
His voice was a low vibration that seemed to hum right through my bones.
I couldn’t move. I just stared at the way his pulse beat in his neck, wondering if he could see the shameful heat still radiating off my skin. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck, terrified to stay but too weak to run.
“Freya,” he said again. His voice was quieter this time.
He walked closer to me in slow steps. Like he didn’t want to scare me.
“You’re shaking,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t speak. My throat felt too dry.
He stopped right in front of me. Close enough that I could smell his sweat and cologne.
His eyes went to the bandage on my forehead.
“You feel hot,” he said. He lifted his hand slowly and pressed the back of his fingers against my forehead.
His hand was cool. Steady.
The second he touched me, the heat came rushing back. Low in my stomach. Between my legs. Same feeling as right after the dream. My breath caught in my throat.
His throat moved when he swallowed. His eyes narrowed a little. Like he could feel the change in me.
For one stupid second, I wanted his hand to move down. To wrap around my throat the way it did in the dream. Firm. Holding me there.
I wanted the beast, not the man checking if I was sick.
What is wrong with me?
I snapped. I jerked my head away from his touch so fast I almost hit the back of the couch.
“Freya—”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. My voice came out shaky. “Just a bad dream. I’m okay.”
He looked at me hard. Like he didn’t believe me.
“You sure?” he asked. “You look like you want to run.”
“I—” I swallowed hard. “I need to check on Luna. She might wake up.”
It was a lie. But I couldn’t stay there with him so close.
His jaw tightened for a second. But he didn’t try to stop me.
I turned and ran up the stairs. I could feel his eyes on my back the whole way up.
But I didn’t look back.
I got to the room. Shut the door quietly. Leaned against it. Still breathing hard.
I stared at Luna; she was still sleeping.
I slid down to the floor. Sat with my back against the door. Pulled my knees to my chest.
My heart refused to slow down.
The spot on my forehead still felt warm where he touched it.
In between my legs still ached.
I put my forehead on my knees.
And I whispered to myself:
“What is wrong with me?”