13. Freya

13

Freya

C armen's footsteps echoed down the hall, the sound growing fainter until it vanished completely. The door creaked shut behind her, leaving me alone in the manor's vast silence. I took a deep breath and decided to explore. This place held too many secrets to sit idly by.

I started with the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft light filtering through stained glass windows. Intricate patterns danced across the floor, leading my eyes up to a sweeping staircase. Polished wooden banisters curved elegantly upwards, inviting yet imposing.

The library was next, a place of knowledge with towering bookshelves packed tight with volumes of all sizes and ages. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of sunlight that pierced through heavy drapes. The smell of old paper and leather bound my thoughts momentarily, reminding me of the countless hours spent here trying to decipher contracts and find an escape.

Beyond the library lay a drawing room filled with overstuffed armchairs and velvet drapes. Portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes following me as I moved. Family history seeped from every brushstroke, a legacy that felt suffocating and foreign all at once.

The dining room was a stark contrast—formal and cold with its long mahogany table stretching out like an accusation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting fractured light that shimmered off polished silverware laid out with military precision. A sense of duty and tradition seemed embedded in the very woodwork.

I moved on to the parlor, smaller and more intimate, where plush sofas invited relaxation. A grand piano stood in one corner, its keys untouched for years, perhaps. It struck me as both a centerpiece for gatherings and an object of solitude.

Curiosity led me to a hallway lined with doors on either side. I hesitated before opening one at random—a guest bedroom, quaint but impersonal with its floral bedspread and matching curtains. Another door revealed a study cluttered with papers and maps pinned to corkboards. A sense of urgency hung in the air here, as if someone had left in a hurry.

I ventured deeper into the manor, finding a music room filled with string instruments hanging on walls like trophies. Their silent presence felt almost eerie without melodies to give them life.

Each room I entered added another layer to my understanding of this place—its history, its people, its secrets. As I wandered through corridors and chambers, I felt both overwhelmed and strangely connected to it all.

I stopped when I reached the west wing, hesitating. The shadows seemed thicker here, the air heavier. I knew I shouldn't go down there, but curiosity pulled me forward like a magnet. The silence was deafening as I tiptoed down the hallway, my heart pounding in my ears.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open cautiously. Inside was an office, old and dignified, filled with an air of gravitas that made me catch my breath. The walls were lined with dark wooden paneling, giving the room a somber yet stately feel. Heavy burgundy drapes framed tall windows, filtering the light into a dim glow that barely illuminated the space.

An enormous mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. Its surface was meticulously organized, every item in its place—an antique brass lamp casting a warm circle of light, a leather-bound journal, an ink well with a quill pen standing proudly next to it. Papers were stacked neatly in trays, their edges aligned with precision.

Behind the desk hung a large portrait of a stern-looking man with piercing eyes and a commanding presence. This must have been Henry's grandfather. His gaze seemed to follow me as I moved around the room, making me feel like an intruder in his private sanctum.

Bookshelves lined two walls from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes bound in leather and cloth. Titles ranged from legal texts to histories and classic literature. A ladder on wheels allowed access to the highest shelves, adding to the room's old-world charm.

A large globe stood near one corner, its surface worn from years of use. It invited exploration, as if spinning it might reveal secrets hidden within its geography. Nearby, an antique clock ticked steadily on a mantelpiece above a small fireplace. Its rhythmic sound was almost soothing amidst the room's stillness.

A pair of leather armchairs flanked the fireplace, their surfaces cracked with age but still invitingly comfortable. Between them sat a small table with an ashtray and a crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid—whiskey perhaps—and two matching glasses.

The scent of aged paper and polished wood filled my nostrils as I continued to take in every detail. Nothing seemed out of place here; everything spoke of order and control, much like Henry himself. Yet there was something deeply personal about this space that made me feel like I was glimpsing into the soul of his family history.

As I stood there absorbing it all, I couldn't shake the feeling that this room held more than just memories—it held legacies and burdens passed down through generations.

I moved to the desk, my eyes drawn to a small silver frame. It held a picture of two children, a girl and a boy. This must be Henry and Minka. The girl, with her light curls and mischievous grin, clutched the hand of a boy who couldn't be more than ten. His hair was tousled, eyes sparkling with laughter as he held up a fish he'd just caught.

I picked up the photo, examining the boy more closely. This version of Henry was so different from the man I knew. His face was alive with joy, his smile so wide it wrinkled his nose and revealed deep dimples on either side of his mouth. There was an innocence in his expression, a pure delight that seemed almost foreign now.

Anyone who looked at him would know he would be a good-looking guy. He had a strong jawline, the piercing eyes—but softened by youth and laughter. He looked carefree, so different from the stoic and serious man who had claimed me at the Imprinting ceremony. The memory of that day made my chest tighten, but this photograph offered a glimpse into a different reality.

I traced the edges of the frame with my thumb, lost in thought. Could I have liked this version of Henry? The one so full of life that even his eyes seemed to dance with excitement? It was hard to reconcile this image with the Henry I knew now—a man burdened by responsibilities and weighed down by expectations.

As I stared at the picture, I felt a strange pang of longing for something that might have been. What had happened to change him so drastically? Was it simply the passage of time, or had something specific stolen that joy from him?

The boy in the photograph looked so happy, so unburdened. It made me wonder if there was still a part of him like that hidden beneath his stern exterior. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Henry than I had seen so far.

“What are you doing here?”

The low voice startled me, causing the picture to slip from my fingers. It clattered onto the desk, the sound sharp and jarring in the otherwise quiet room. My heart jumped into my throat as I looked up to find Henry standing in the doorway.

He looked furious. His normally composed face was a storm of emotions, brows drawn tight over piercing eyes that seemed to bore straight into my soul. His jaw was clenched, the muscles twitching as if barely containing his anger. Even his posture radiated tension, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides.

“What… are you… doing here?” he repeated, stepping further into the room. Each step felt like it was squeezing the air out of the room, making it harder for me to breathe.

“I—I was just looking around,” I stammered, my voice sounding small and shaky. My eyes darted back to the photograph on the desk, but I didn’t dare reach for it again.

“This is my grandfather’s office,” he said, his tone icy. “I specifically said you couldn't be in the west wing."

“I didn’t mean any harm,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the growing panic inside me. “I was just curious.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to the picture frame I had dropped, then back to me. His expression softened for a brief moment as he seemed to consider something, but then his anger returned full force.

“Curiosity isn’t an excuse for invading someone’s privacy,” he snapped. “Especially not here.”

I felt a flush of shame creeping up my neck and cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

He took another step closer, closing the distance between us until he was standing right in front of me. The heat from his body seemed to envelop me, adding to the suffocating feeling that had taken hold.

“You should be,” he said quietly, but there was no mistaking the intensity behind his words. “This place holds memories and responsibilities you can’t even begin to understand.”

I swallowed hard, unable to tear my eyes away from his gaze. In that moment, I realized just how deeply rooted Henry’s connection to this manor—and its history—really was.

I looked away, feeling a wave of discomfort wash over me. The intensity of Henry's gaze was unbearable, and I shifted my feet, hoping to escape it.

“Did Carmen not tell you?” His voice cut through the silence like a knife. His eyes bore into me, making it impossible to move.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I closed it again, gathering my thoughts. “She did,” I finally managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. The last thing I wanted was to get Carmen in trouble for my curiosity.

“And you decided to ignore her?” He raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with incredulity.

“I…” Words failed me again as I struggled to explain myself.

“Of course you did.” He laughed, but it was a hollow, joyless sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

Fear tightened its grip on me. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. I needed to get out of here, away from his anger and the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

“I’ll just… I’ll go,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I moved toward the door, hoping he would let me pass without further confrontation.

But as I attempted to slip by him, Henry's hand shot out and grabbed my arm with a vise-like grip. Before I could react, he shoved me against the wall. The impact stole my breath away, leaving me gasping for air.

“No,” he said firmly. “No, you will not.”

My heart pounded as Henry pressed me against the wall, his thigh wedging between my legs, effectively trapping me. His hand clamped around my wrist, pinning it above my head. I tried to squirm free, but his grip was ironclad.

“What are you doing?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You have been ignored for so long, Freya,” he replied, his voice low and menacing. “Quite frankly, I tire of your insolence. I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

Fear surged through me as he yanked at my pajama pants, letting them fall in a heap around my ankles. I struggled against him, desperate to escape, but he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“No,” he growled. “You broke the rules. You’ll suffer the consequences. You need to learn who’s in charge.”

His fingers slid under my panties, and I gasped at the unexpected touch.

“Just as I suspected,” he said with a cruel smirk. “Wet.”

"Don't," I said firmly, my voice betraying the fear I tried to suppress.

My heart pounded not because of what he was about to do, but because of how I knew I would feel. My breath hitched as his fingers slid under my panties, sending a jolt through my body. We didn't break eye contact. His eyes bore into mine, challenging me to look away.

"I know this feels good, doesn't it?" His voice ghosted across my skin, sending shivers down my spine. "You ready to show me how good?"

"Go fuck yourself," I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended.

His eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. "Such a mouth on you," he said, his tone dripping with amusement and menace.

He continued to move his fingers with practiced precision, eliciting sensations I couldn't ignore. My body betrayed me, responding despite the turmoil in my mind. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Before I could reach my peak, he pulled away abruptly, leaving me on the edge of something both terrible and wonderful. The loss was sudden and sharp, a cruel reminder of the control he held over me.

With one hand, he slid down his sweatpants and pulled out his straining cock.

My eyes widened.

"I've been curious," he murmured, his voice low and filled with an edge I couldn't ignore. "To see how you would fit around me. If I would feel anything, knowing you didn't wait?—"

"Dan was my only?—"

"I don't give a flying fuck," he snapped, cutting me off. "You were mine. You are mine. You were supposed to wait."

"You didn't wait," I fired back, the words escaping before I could stop them. "You didn't wait for me."

"Is that what you wanted?" he asked, his tone almost mocking. "Me to wait? So we can fumble around together? Of course not. I know how to please you. I know exactly what to do to make you fall apart."

"And I know how to do the same," I said, my voice trembling but resolute.

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I was supposed to teach you. You took that from me."

He stroked himself before releasing my wrist and picking me up as if I weighed nothing. The look in his eyes was dark, filled with a mix of anger and something more primal. I could barely breathe, the intensity of the moment stealing all the air from my lungs.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” he asked, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine. His glare pierced through me, making it clear that this was a lesson he intended to teach thoroughly. “And maybe, for once in your spoiled life, you’ll fucking listen.”

Without another word, he slid into me. The sudden intrusion made me gasp, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming my senses. My body instinctively arched against him, a reaction I couldn’t control even if I wanted to. Every nerve ending seemed to come alive, each movement sending jolts through me that blurred the line between agony and ecstasy.

His hands gripped my hips with a bruising force as he moved inside me, setting a relentless pace that left no room for thought or resistance. Each thrust was a reminder of the power he held over me, both infuriating and intoxicating in equal measure. I could feel his breath hot against my skin, hear the ragged sound of it mingling with my own gasps.

“Do you feel that?” he demanded, his voice rough and demanding an answer I couldn’t form. “Do you understand now?”

I bit my lip to keep from crying out, my nails digging into his shoulders as I clung to him. The world narrowed down to just the two of us, every sensation magnified to an almost unbearable degree.

His eyes never left mine, holding me captive even as our bodies moved together in a punishing rhythm. There was no escape from the intensity of his gaze or the possessiveness in his touch.

I hated him for it—hated how he could make me feel so powerless and yet so utterly consumed by him at the same time. And somewhere deep inside, beneath the anger and fear, was a flicker of something else—a grudging acknowledgment that maybe this was exactly what I had needed to finally break free from the chains of my past.

But those thoughts were fleeting, drowned out by the raw physicality of what was happening between us. Each movement brought me closer to an edge I wasn’t sure I wanted to reach but couldn’t seem to avoid.

In that moment, nothing else mattered except the connection between us—the heat, the friction, the undeniable force that bound us together in a way words could never capture.

And for better or worse, I knew there would be no going back from this.