Chapter 38 38
FREYA POV
By the time we got back to the mansion, the "happy mom" act was dead and buried. My face felt stiff from the forced smiles, and my head was spinning. I’d try to rebuild the facade tomorrow—at least for Luna—but for now, I was done.
As soon as we stepped inside, Nana was there to whisk Luna away for her nap. I didn't even protest; I just watched them walk away.
I turned and dragged my feet toward my room, the only thought in my head, being that I wanted to crawl under my duvet and disappear. But as I reached for the door handle, Diana’s voice stopped me.
“Freya.”
I looked back. She was standing a few feet away, wearing an expression I hadn't seen on her before—something raw, as if she could see exactly how much I was breaking inside. Diana stepped closer. She didn't say anything at first, just searched my eyes for a long while until the silence became uncomfortable.
“I also hate him being alone on these days,” she said quietly.
Confusion mixed with a sharp spike of anxiety.
“What do you mean, Diana? Steve?”
She didn't answer with words. She reached out and grabbed my hand, forcing my palm open. I felt something cold and heavy drop into it.
Car keys.
“No. 12, Blackwood Drive. The old cottage near the cliff,” she whispered.
I stared at the keys, then up at her. “Diana, I don't—”
“Don't ask me questions, Freya. Just go.” She cut me off and glanced toward the stairs, ensuring Nana wasn't watching. “He thinks he needs to be alone. But he’s wrong. He has been doing this for years, but I think he needs you during this period.”
She turned and walked away before I could say another word, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. I stood there, clutching the keys so hard the metal bit into my skin.
Twelve, Blackwood Drive.
My head was still spinning, but I was already moving toward the back exit. I found the car in the garage—a sleek, dark sedan I hadn't seen before. I got in, and the engine purred to life with a low growl. As I pulled out of the estate, Diana’s voice looped in my head.
“I also hate him being alone on these days.”
I tried to focus, desperate to find out what was going on. I certainly wasn't driving like a sane woman; I pressed down on the gas, the world outside becoming a blur of trees and high-speed turns until I finally hit the brakes at the address.
The place looked dead—an abandoned, dark cottage clinging to a cliffside. A flicker of fear ran through me as I looked around, but I didn't stop. I shoved the door open and stumbled into the darkness of the main building.
The air inside was thick with the scent of stale whiskey and dust. I took three steps into the living room, my heart hammering against my teeth, until a cold click sounded right against my skull.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The voice was a jagged rasp, dangerous and low. I froze in place, the metal of a gun barrel pressing into the back of my head.
“Steve,” I choked out, my voice trembling. “It’s me. It’s Freya.”
There was a heavy silence while I stood there, terrified to move. Then, a sharp click echoed as he flipped the light switch.
The light was blinding. When my eyes finally adjusted, there he was.
Steve.
He was standing just a few steps away, wearing nothing but grey joggers. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were bloodshot and hollow. I looked past him. In the center of the room was a picture frame—the same one from the estate, featuring the woman I had once thought bore a striking resemblance to him. Next to it were leftover cakes and half-empty bottles.
The dots began to connect. Mourning. Could it be the anniversary of her death?
“Is that your mum?” I asked softly, turning back to him.
The look on his face made me falter. Steve didn't look touched; his face remained a mask of cold stone. He didn't answer. He just stared at me with those dead eyes.
“Why are you here?” he growled.
Before I could even breathe, he moved. He grabbed my arm in an iron grip and started dragging me toward the door.
"Steve! Stop! Let me go!" I struggled, digging my heels into the floorboards, but he hauled me along as if I were nothing.
"You should go," he snarls.
I tried to break free, but then something snapped. A rush of anger flooded me; I couldn't take the silence or being pushed away anymore. As he hauled me onto the porch, I leaned down and bit his arm as hard as I can.
He hissed, his grip loosening just enough for me to rip myself away. I stumbled back, my yellow dress wrinkled and my chest heaving.
"Fuck you!" I screamed, the words tearing out of my throat. "You bloody selfish brat!"
Steve stood there, his jaw ticking as he watched me explode.
“You poke your nose into my business, but I can’t do the same to yours? I should go, right? Fuck you again, Steve! If my business is none of your concern, what right do you have to interfere in mine? You share in my pain and fix it, but I can’t bloody do the same for you?”
He didn't move. He just looked at me like I was a stranger going insane.
“You are mourning… that’s what they said. Why can’t I mourn with you? Do you know how many times I have mourned? All I did was look up to you! I fucking ran to your gym when my deadbeat ex humiliated me! You were fucking there when he almost killed me! Was that not my business? You were always fucking there!”
I waited for a reaction. A spark. Anything. But his face stayed expressionless, even though I knew those words were hitting him.
“Fine,” I choked out, wiping my eyes. “Okay. Fine. I will go. I will freaking go.”
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.
“Freya”
I spun around, hope and anger clashing in my chest. “What? What do you have to say this time?”
Before he could even open his mouth to dismiss me again, his previous words—the ones he always used to stake his claim—flashed through my mind.
“What do you have to say, Steve?
“Let me guess”
“ because I’m not Mrs. Hayes yet?” I stepped toward him, the anger winning the fight against my tears.
“I can’t be here because I don’t carry your name? I can’t mourn with you because I’m not officially yours?”
Steve’s jaw tightened, his bloodshot eyes tracking my every move. “Since you seem so aware of the status you lack...” he started, his voice a low rumble, but I didn't let him finish.
“Then ask me to become one the right way!” I snapped, my hands trembling at my sides.
“Propose to me with flowers. Get down on one knee like a normal man. Write me a letter. Do something that doesn’t feel like you’re collaring me.” I lifted my chin, tears still wet on my cheeks. “Not just hold my damn neck with that thick voice and demand I become Mrs. Hayes like it’s already decided.”
A slow, dangerous smirk curled the corner of his mouth. The same one that always made my stomach flip and my thighs clench.
“You mean you hate it,” he said quietly, “when I hold your neck like this?”
“Like this..” The thought barely had time to form before he moved.
Before I could blink, his hand was firm around my throat—not squeezing to hurt, but possessive enough to make my breath hitch. With a sudden, controlled surge of strength, he spun me around and pinned me against the rough wooden wall of the cottage.
My back hit the wood with a soft thud, and my heart hammered against my ribs
I blinked up at him, wide-eyed, heart slamming against my ribs. Heat flooded low in my belly—shameful, instant, unstoppable. My nipples tightened under the thin sundress. My thighs pressed together on instinct.
I tried to look away - But he wouldn't let me.
I felt his rough finger hook under my chin, forcing my gaze back up to meet his. He maintained unwavering eye contact, that dark smirk still playing on his lips.
“Do you hate it, Freya?”
God, his voice.