17. Freya

17

Freya

I sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the coffee table cluttered with scattered papers and remnants of half-hearted attempts to sort out my life. The silence of the house felt heavy, wrapping around me like a thick fog. Carmen was long gone, and I couldn’t sleep. A knock broke through, sharp and unexpected. I hesitated, biting my lip.

What if it was Henry?

But no. Henry wouldn't knock at his own house.

My heart raced. Who else could it be?

I pushed myself off the couch, my bare feet making soft sounds against the wooden floor as I approached the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw him—Jensen. His tousled blond hair framed a face that was too handsome for his own good, sharp jawline and striking green eyes glinting in the dim light of the hallway.

My brow furrowed. What could he possibly want? Was this about Henry? Did Henry send him to check up on me? My stomach twisted at the thought.

I doubted it. I didn't know what the relationship was like between the two of them, but I'd wager it was contentious at best.

But why else would he be here?

With a resigned sigh, I opened the door.

“Freya,” Jensen said, his voice smooth and deep like honey poured over gravel. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound less curious than I felt.

“I heard things,” he replied, pushing off from the frame and stepping into my space with an easy confidence that made me acutely aware of how different he was from Henry. “Thought you might need someone to talk to.”

“Talk?” I scoffed lightly but stepped back to let him in. “What’s there to talk about?”

He took a moment before speaking again, his gaze sweeping across the disarray of my living room before landing on me again. “I know you’re going through a lot right now.”

“A lot?” My voice dripped with sarcasm as I folded my arms defensively. “What gave you that idea?"

I didn't mean to be petty. I wasn't trying to. But I couldn't help it. I hated it here. I hated Henry. I hated my parents for pushing this marriage, and I hated myself because it was hard to keep track of what I was actually feeling.

Jensen tilted his head slightly, studying me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. “Try me.”

The air between us crackled with unspoken tension as I considered my next words carefully, wondering if sharing would only complicate things further.

"You shouldn't be here," I said, crossing my arms tighter over my chest. "You should go."

"Do you want me to?" He cocked his head to the side, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Yes," I replied, trying to muster as much conviction as I could. "I'm not going to get between you and Henry and whatever it is you two are fighting over."

Jensen seemed surprised, his eyebrows lifting slightly. He looked away, letting out a soft chuckle. "You know," he said, glancing back at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "a good hostess would offer me something to drink."

Before I could respond, he sauntered further into the house, his presence filling the room with an unsettling ease.

"I never claimed to be a good hostess," I retorted, my voice sharper than I intended. "And anyway, I'm positive Henry doesn't want you here. You need to leave before he comes back."

"He won't be back for a while," Jensen said knowingly, an air of certainty in his tone. "He's with Amber."

The words struck me like a slap, the sting of them reverberating through my chest. My face must have betrayed something because Jensen's expression softened just a fraction.

I hated that I actually cared.

"Don't look so surprised," he continued, almost casually. "It's not like you didn't know this was coming."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "And what exactly do you want from me, Jensen? Sympathy? A drink?"

He shrugged, leaning against the back of the couch. "Maybe just some company."

"Company?" The word felt foreign in my mouth. "Don’t you have enough of that?”

"Henry and I," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "have our differences. And Rebecca—well, she's another story entirely."

I watched him closely, trying to decipher his motives. His nonchalance grated on my nerves but also piqued my curiosity.

"Why are you really here?" I asked.

Jensen met my gaze head-on. "Maybe I'm here because I see someone who's caught in the middle of a mess they didn't create."

I blinked at him, unsure how to respond. The truth in his words stung more than I cared to admit.

"So what now?" My voice was softer now, less guarded.

"Now," Jensen said, pushing off from the couch and closing the distance between us again, "you decide if you want me to stay or if you'd rather face all this alone."

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his question settle over me like an unwanted cloak.

The truth was, I hated that Henry was with Amber. The thought of them together twisted my insides in a way I couldn't quite describe.

What if he's lying? a voice in my head whispered.

And why would he lie? another voice countered.

It was petty, but if Henry was with Amber, I wanted... I didn't even know what I wanted.

Jensen broke the silence, heading towards the west wing of the manor. "You know," he said, glancing over his shoulder with a curious look, "when Henry and I used to hang out, we were never allowed in the west wing. I can't help but wonder why."

"Jensen," I called after him, my voice tinged with desperation. "You need to go. You can't?—"

"Why are you following his rules?" He stopped and turned to face me, a challenge in his eyes. "I always thought you were spunky. And yet, the second Henry claimed you, you fell right into line."

I clenched my teeth, frustration boiling beneath my skin. "The west wing isn't mine," I said through gritted teeth. "This house isn't mine. You could get me into a lot of trouble."

"You don't think it's worth it?" Jensen's grin was almost infectious, but I resisted. "Oh, come on, Freya. You know you want to. Henry has always been so guarded. Such a good little soldier for the Mathers legacy. Don't you want to see what skeletons he has in his closet?"

I did want to see those skeletons, but not with Jensen as my partner in crime. For reasons I couldn't quite explain, I felt protective of Henry's family's secrets, even if he infuriated me.

"No," I said firmly, taking a step back. "I don't want to see them. And you shouldn't be here. I'm asking you to leave."

"Suit yourself," Jensen said, a smirk curling his lips as he moved further down the west wing.

"Hey!" I snapped, my voice echoing through the corridor. Clenching my teeth together, I followed him. "You need to go. Jensen, come on, this isn't funny."

He ignored me and opened a door, stepping into a room filled with towering bookshelves. "Huh," he said, almost to himself. "So this is the library."

I caught up to him, grabbing his wrist in a desperate attempt to drag him out. My fingers dug into his skin, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn't budge.

"Jensen," I hissed, "you can't be here."

Without warning, he spun around and pinned me against the wall. His grip was firm, unyielding. "Well now," he murmured, eyes gleaming with something dark and unsettling. "What do you think? Here? Or on the table?"

"W-what?" I stammered, my heart pounding in my chest.

"How would you like me to fuck you?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

"No," I said, panic rising like bile in my throat. "I don't want?—"

"You don't want to get back at Henry for what he and Amber are doing?" Jensen's incredulity was palpable.

"No," I repeated, my voice stronger this time. "Not like this."

I tried to push him off, but he wouldn't budge. His body was an immovable force against mine.

"Jensen," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "Please."

"Oh, come on now," he said, pressing his body into mine, his breath hot against my ear. "Surely you can't be happy with Henry. How mad do you think this'll make him, hmm? Mad enough that he breaks your engagement?"

I hesitated, the words echoing in my mind. Is this what I wanted? I didn't want to marry Henry, but to do it like this? Was I that desperate?

I shook my head. "I won't."

"Yes, you will." His hand started to creep up my thigh, fingers rough against my skin. "You came to the ceremony. You were going to bind yourself to someone. This is the same thing."

"I…" My voice faltered, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Tears blurred my vision. I had made a mess of everything. I should have been better; I should have put more thought into this. And now…

"I said stop," I demanded, struggling against his hold.

"That's not going to happen," Jensen snarled through clenched teeth, tightening his grip on me. "Henry Mathers has taken everything I've ever wanted, and now, I finally get the opportunity to do the same thing. Sorry, but I'm going to take it."

Desperation fueled my movements as he tugged at my pants. Summoning all my strength, I managed to knee him in the crotch.

"Fuck, Freya, you bitch!" he exclaimed, doubling over in pain.

I took the moment of his distraction to push him away with all the force I could muster. My heart pounded as adrenaline surged through me.

I stumbled toward the door, my heart hammering in my chest. My breath came in ragged gasps, desperation driving me forward. But just as my fingers brushed the doorknob, a sharp tug at my ankle sent me crashing to the floor.

Jensen's grip tightened around my ankle, and before I could react, he mounted me, pinning my hands above my head. I bucked and twisted, but his weight was overwhelming, crushing me into the hardwood.

He smirked down at me, eyes glinting with a sickening satisfaction. "Don't worry," he whispered, his breath hot against my face. "I'll make you feel good. I promise."

Panic surged through me. I struggled harder, trying to free myself from his iron grip. But then, without warning, Jensen was yanked off me and thrown to the floor with a force that made the room shake.

Blinking in confusion, I looked up and saw him—Henry. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his piercing blue eyes blazing with fury. He looked every bit the hero from an action movie, his presence radiating raw power and anger.

I'd never been more grateful to see anyone in my life.

"What are you doing here?" Jensen demanded, his voice a mix of shock and pain as he tried to scramble to his feet.

"Considering this is my house," Henry said coldly, stepping forward with measured menace, "I should ask you that question."

"Freya invited me—" Jensen started, but I cut him off.

"I didn't," I insisted, my voice trembling with emotion. "He's lying."

Henry's gaze darkened even further. "You touched her," he said slowly, each word dripping with controlled rage. "You tried to do much more than that."

In one swift motion, Henry pulled Jensen up by the collar until he was standing on unsteady legs. Then Henry's fist connected with Jensen's jaw in a punch so powerful it echoed through the room.

Jensen crumpled to the floor again, clutching his face in agony.

Henry towered over Jensen, his eyes a storm of fury. Without hesitation, he brought his fist down again, connecting with Jensen's jaw. The sickening crunch echoed in the room, making my stomach churn.

Jensen tried to scramble away, his hands raised in a feeble attempt to protect himself.

But Henry was relentless. He grabbed Jensen by the collar and yanked him up, delivering another brutal punch that sent Jensen sprawling back to the floor. The impact reverberated through the wooden boards, and I winced.

Henry's response was another savage punch. His face was a mask of rage, his normally composed demeanor shattered. He pounded Jensen with an intensity that bordered on terrifying.

Jensen tried to fight back, throwing wild punches that missed their mark. Henry's superior strength and precision made it clear who held the upper hand. Every time Jensen attempted to rise or defend himself, Henry knocked him back down with another devastating blow.

"Henry, please," I cried out, my voice trembling with fear and desperation. "Stop! You're going to kill him!"

But Henry didn't seem to hear me. He continued to rain punches down on Jensen, who had long since stopped trying to fight back. Jensen's body went limp under Henry's assault, blood pooling on the floor beneath him.

"Henry!" I screamed again, louder this time. "Stop! He's done!"

Finally, Henry paused, his chest heaving with exertion. He looked down at Jensen's battered form, then slowly turned to face me. His eyes were wild, filled with an emotion I couldn't quite place.

"He tried to hurt you," Henry said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

"I know," I replied softly, tears streaming down my face. "But you can't kill him."

"Why not?" he demanded to know. "You're… you're mine."

Henry took a step back from Jensen, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides. The room was silent except for the sound of our ragged breathing and Jensen's faint whimpers of pain.

Henry finally unclenched his fists and let out a shaky breath. The fury in his eyes began to subside but didn’t disappear entirely.

"Why did you let him in?" Henry demanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the tense silence.

"I thought he was here because of you," I stammered, my heart still pounding. "I thought something happened to you. He... he said that you and Rebecca..."

"Amber did try something," he interrupted, his eyes boring into mine. "But I said no. You're my wife, Freya. I will not embarrass you like that."

"You didn't seem to care before," I shot back, the words spilling out before I could stop them.

"You weren't my wife," he replied evenly.

"I'm still not?—"

"I've claimed you," he cut me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And we're going to get married. To me, there's no difference."

I wanted to be mad, to rail against him for making decisions about my life without consulting me. But looking at Jensen's bloodied face and Henry's bruised knuckles, anger slipped away. He had saved me.

"You shouldn't have done that," I murmured, glancing at his hands. "Don't you need your knuckles to play?"

Henry glanced down at his battered knuckles as if noticing them for the first time. "You're my wife," he said again, like that explained everything.

"I don't understand you," I admitted, shaking my head.

Henry said nothing, his silence speaking volumes.

"Let's clean you up," I suggested softly. "Get ice... ice on those hands."

He nodded once, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly as he stepped back from Jensen's crumpled form.

We moved in unspoken agreement toward the door. My legs felt like jelly beneath me, each step an effort as we left the room and its horrific scene behind us. The need to get away from Jensen's still form propelled me forward.

Henry didn't say a word as we walked through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable—an unspoken truce had formed in the wake of chaos.