Freya stumbled into her chamber, her boots skidding on the stone as she slammed the door shut with a force that rattled the frame. The sound echoed, a hollow thunder in the silence, but it couldn’t drown out the storm tearing through her.
She sank against the wall, her knees buckling as she slid down, the frigid floor biting into her skin.
Her arms wrapped tight around herself, clutching at the leather of her tunic as if it could hold her together.
But it couldn’t—nothing could.
Her chest heaved, a searing, hollow ache swallowing the fire that had blazed in her just moments ago.
She had run after him, heart pounding, ready to surrender to the pull that had haunted her every breath.
And now—Lady Angela. A ghost from his past, a woman who’d been his f*cking betrothed before Freya
