1

Freya

Consciousness returned in a slow drag, pulled awake by a strange, penetrating ache that spread through every limb.

I opened my eyes slowly. An unfamiliar crystal chandelier came into focus overhead, its warm light falling softly on the chaos surrounding me. Bedding lay crumpled at the foot of the mattress. Clothes were strewn carelessly across the carpet. The air still held the heated, intimate warmth of recent exertion.

The unfamiliar sensation against my skin brought memory flooding back.

I turned my head. A strange man lay beside me on the bed. His physique was impressive—eight distinct abdominal muscles—and in the morning, his penis stood thick and imposing.

He was still deeply asleep. His nose bridge was sharp and prominent, his jawline clean and severe. Even with his eyes closed, he possessed a kind of arresting, aggressive beauty.

Scratches covered his body in long red lines, as though he'd been clawed by a cat.

I glanced down at my own fingernails. My heart began to race. A thread of panic wound through my chest.

I eased myself out of bed carefully. My legs felt weak. Between my thighs, I could feel the friction of dried fluids against my labia, sparking a ripple of sensation so acute I felt myself grow wet again despite everything.

The memory surged back—

In dim lighting, we'd held each other and kissed, sucking liquid from each other's mouths. He'd kneaded my breasts, pinched my nipples, while his other hand slid slowly downward and entered me.

His fingers were long and strong. When they pushed inside, I'd let out a gasping moan of pleasure. He'd made a mess of me down there, fluids spattering everywhere.

I'd wrapped my arms around his neck, matching his intensity, stoking the fire on his body as I slid my hand down to grip his penis. The massive, burning thing grew even more formidable in my palm. We'd pleasured each other like combatants in some intimate contest.

His powerful arms had lifted one of my legs. He'd withdrawn his fingers and thrust his penis directly inside me.

Beyond the initial pain of entry, what I'd felt was mostly satisfaction and pleasure. His hips drove forward with force, practically pinning me against the wall as he plunged deep and fast.

I couldn't withstand it. I'd moaned and begged for mercy. This only seemed to ignite something fiercer in him. He'd scooped both my legs up entirely, leaving me no support except his cock itself.

I'd had no choice but to cling to his neck. Below, my fluids gushed freely. In moments I was reduced to a sodden, muddy mess.

He'd carried me to the floor-to-ceiling window. One of my feet touched the ground before he forcibly lifted my other leg. The entire time, his penis remained buried deep inside me, like a searing iron bar.

Before I could steady myself, he'd begun thrusting again. Half my face pressed against the cold glass wall, though the heat of our bodies soon warmed even that surface. He'd gripped my throat and penetrated me without mercy—

I snapped back to the present, realizing semen was leaking from between my legs. Mortified, I shot the sleeping man a glare.

Staying to shower would be a terrible idea. I grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped away the seeping fluids, then gathered my scattered clothing from around the chaotic room. From my bag I pulled out what little cash I had left and placed it on the nightstand.

His beauty had stunned me, no question. But last night had been an accident. I needed to get out of here immediately.

I tiptoed out of the room like a startled bird, stopped at a nearby convenience store to buy a clean set of clothes, and only then dared to go home.

The iron gates of Fergus Manor closed behind me with a dull, resonant clang—like the fall of a gavel.

Susie was waiting at the entrance. Her eyes, weathered by years of service, flicked me a warning glance. She took my things from my hands and dropped her voice to barely a whisper. "The master's in a foul mood. Watch yourself."

My stomach clenched. I took a deep breath and steeled myself before heading inside.

The moment I entered, I saw my uncle, Kelan Fergus, seated on the sofa.

He wore gold-rimmed glasses and stared down at a newspaper with a somber expression. But the slight furrow between his brows was a telltale sign—he was on the verge of anger.

I approached slowly and called out softly, "Good morning, Uncle."

He didn't lift his head. Didn't respond. The entire manor fell into silence so profound that all I could hear was the sound of my own anxious breathing.

I don't know how long I stood there. My feet had gone numb when he finally spoke. "You didn't come home last night."

Before I could answer, a sharp voice cut in from behind me. "Who knows where she's been whoring around? Probably spent the night in someone else's bed."

My heart jumped. Good guess, I thought bitterly, but I didn't dare let it show. I turned toward the speaker and forced a wounded expression onto my face. "Doreen, I wasn't whoring around. How can you accuse me like that?"

"Ha. Don't play the victim with me. Just like your dead mother—always seducing men."

My own aunt. Doreen Fergus. Blood relation, yet she harbored nothing but baseless malice toward me and my mother. The look in her eyes said she wished I would vanish on the spot.

I opened my mouth to retort, but Kelan cut me off with a low, sharp rebuke. "Enough."

He raised his head and fixed his gaze on me, then issued a command. "Come here."

The rules of this manor had been laid down by the Fergus family themselves—strict, rigid, and binding on everyone within these walls.

Doreen wore a gloating expression. I bit my lip and walked slowly toward Kelan.

"Kneel."

He gripped my chin and turned my face from side to side, his thumb brushing across my lips. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his hawk-like eyes were sharp and restrained, yet they seemed to devour every inch of me.

My heart pounded wildly. I was terrified he might lift my clothing and see the kiss marks scattered across my skin. That would be the end of me.

As his fingertips traced from my cheek down along my neck and continued their descent, I quickly forced out a few tears.

Kelan's hand paused. He let out a soft laugh, tilted my chin upward, and spoke in a slightly gentler tone. "Feeling wronged?"

I rushed to explain. "Last night at the party, Tracy told me to wait for her, but she never came back. I didn't dare wander off, so I waited until the whole event was over before I left..."

"Oh, so Tracy's involved in this too." Kelan's voice went cold as frost. His eyes flicked briefly toward Doreen.

Doreen glared at me and sneered. "Tracy came home early last night. You're the one who stayed behind at the party having fun. Now you're trying to pin the blame on her to avoid punishment."

She stepped forward and shoved me. I let myself fall forward, allowing her to strike me.

"If Doreen doesn't believe me, she can check the security footage," I said.

"Stop." Kelan frowned in displeasure and snapped at her.

He made a phone call to the person in charge of last night's event and obtained the surveillance video.

After watching it, he said coldly, "Go wake Tracy up."

After a long while, a bleary-eyed Tracy descended the stairs.

She saw me kneeling on the floor and smiled—a smile laden with meaning.

She put on a clumsy performance of surprise. "Father, what's wrong with Freya?"

Crack. The slap caught Tracy completely off guard. She clutched her face and looked at Kelan with wounded eyes. "Why did you hit me, Father? Freya's the one who did something wrong!"

Kelan's expression darkened further. He pulled up the surveillance footage and said icily, "The video shows you deliberately leading others to bully and ostracize Freya. You got her drunk. You left her behind on purpose."

"Before you left, I told you repeatedly to look after Freya. You treated my words like they were nothing."

Last night, the reason I'd ended up sleeping with a stranger in a drunken haze came down to one thing: Tracy's drink.

She'd set me up deliberately. She'd even tried to push me into the arms of that playboy Holt.

I wasn't the type to swallow every grievance. Why not use Kelan's hand to teach Tracy a proper lesson?

Kelan issued his verdict. "Your allowance is cut for three months. You're not to leave the house without my permission."

Tracy protested, her voice choked with tears. "Why are you punishing me?! I'm your real daughter! Why do you always side with Freya?"

"Because Freya is more obedient than you. More excellent than you. You harmed your sister out of jealousy. Your character is disgraceful. Is this how I raised you? If you're not satisfied, you're welcome to leave the Fergus family and make your own way."

Tracy seemed shocked that Kelan would say something so harsh. She froze in place, not daring to question him further.

Everything she had—everything she enjoyed—came from the family's protection. Without it, she'd be nothing.

Doreen stepped in quickly to smooth things over. "Tracy's just upset that you're being unfair. She's still a child. There's no need to be so harsh."

"Come on, Tracy. Apologize to your father."

Tracy wiped her tears reluctantly and mumbled an apology to Kelan. Doreen pulled her upstairs.

The hall was left to just the two of us again.

Kelan stroked my head, his voice gentle. "You've been wronged, good girl."

A chill ran down my spine. I watched as Kelan sat down and opened a box on the table. Inside lay a sleek, black ruler.

He smiled. "That said, you still didn't come home last night. You broke the rules. And when you break the rules, you must be punished. Freya, am I right?"

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, and nodded silently.

"Good. You're a good girl."

"Thirty strikes on the palm."

I extended my hand weakly and endured thirty strikes that were anything but light. The pain made me gasp.

Ever since my parents died and I came to live in this house, every mistake I made earned me punishment in this same manner.

Kelan clearly had a particular need to control me. In every aspect of my life—personal, academic—he coiled around me like a serpent, binding me to his side.

I wanted to escape this control. I wanted freedom.

"Hiss!"

Kelan squeezed my swollen palm, his eyes narrowing. "What are you thinking about?"

His hand was broad and thick, roughened by years of work. The calluses scraped against my cheek.

I forced a docile smile. "Nothing, Kelan."

He clearly didn't believe me. Smiling, he pulled me to my feet and pressed me down onto the sofa. He ordered the housekeeper to bring the medicine kit.

He knelt in front of me and carefully applied ointment with a cotton swab. Silence and oppression spread between us like fog.

He deliberately pressed the swab against the spots where the skin had split and blood seeped through. I couldn't help but cry out. "It hurts, Kelan."

He asked quietly, "Where did you stay last night?"