Miles is waiting for me outside the gates when I drive in. I ease the car to a stop, slide the window down and his face leans in quickly.
"What are you doing, Miles?" I ask casually, flicking my gaze from him to his car parked on the curb.
His expression tightens. "I didn’t want to go in and get…" His face drains of color, haunted by whatever memory just hit and I can’t help but smile.
"Freya isn’t a rabid dog, Miles. She isn’t going to bite you."
"You don’t know that!" he hisses. "You don’t remember the time she chased me around the house with scissors? The look in her eyes still haunts me."
I have always found the cat and mouse game between them amusing. Freya, bold and shameless as the predator, and Miles, forever prey. He’s grown to feel nothing but fear and resentment toward her,
