Soren stood up slowly, his voice as soft as velvet yet sharp enough to cut.
"Good girl, sweetheart," he drawled, his gaze lingering on her tear-streaked face. "If you keep obeying me like this, we'll always be happy."
Freya looked up at him, her eyes dull, hollow. There was no strength left in her to argue, so she stayed silent.
A sudden knock on the door sliced through the thick air. Soren moved to open it. A servant stood there, head bowed, holding a tray of food. Soren took it without a word. The servant left, vanishing like a shadow into the hallway.
Soren closed the door, walked back to the bed, and sat beside Freya. With unsettling gentleness, he lifted a spoonful of food toward her lips. Freya's eyes shimmered with fresh tears as she stared at him.
Seeing her resist, Soren's voice turned teasing, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Sweetheart, do you plan to eat with that hand? Are you trying to hurt yourself more?"
Freya's gaze snapped to his, rage crackling behind her wet lashes. Her right hand trembled as she raised it slightly. Soren chuckled softly, as though mocking her fragile defiance.
"Why are you angry at the food, sweetheart? If you're mad at me, take it out on me. But for that... you'll have to eat first."
He pushed the spoon closer. Trembling, broken, Freya finally opened her mouth. His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he fed her.
After a while, Freya lay down, her body shivering from pain. Every throb in her injured finger sent sharp spikes through her nerves. She sobbed quietly, small, strangled sounds breaking from her throat.
Soren moved closer, slipping behind her, wrapping her into his arms from behind. She struggled weakly, her fear and pain burning hotter than before. It was the first time he had pushed her so far, broken her so completely.
He took her injured hand, holding it with a tenderness that almost mocked her suffering. Slowly, he caressed her swollen finger, his voice low, almost soothing.
"Sweetheart... don't be so angry. If you move too much, you'll hurt yourself more."
His lips pressed lightly against the side of her neck. Freya jerked her head away instinctively, the sudden motion only making the pain worse.
A dark, satisfied laugh rumbled from his chest as he tightened his hold on her.
"Don't fight so hard, sweetheart. Just sleep."
At his command, her defiance faltered. Exhausted from the agony, from the endless emotional battle, she closed her eyes. Soon, she drifted into a deep, reluctant sleep.
Soren watched her face as she slept. Tears had left shining trails down her cheeks, even in sleep she whimpered softly. He brushed his thumb across her swollen finger again, his own eyes unreadable.
He hated seeing her cry. And yet, he couldn't stop. He couldn't tolerate the thought of her leaving him, of her even imagining freedom.
Pulling her tightly to his chest, he whispered into her hair, his words as reverent as they were possessive.
"Sweetheart, you're more precious than any treasure. You're irreplaceable. I can't lose you. Never think of leaving me."
In her sleep, Freya pressed her head into his chest and began crying again, soft and instinctive.
A smile ghosted across Soren's lips as he ran his fingers through her hair. His voice dropped lower, colder, a dangerous melody in her ear.
"That's my sweetheart."
---
Los Angeles.
Inside a luxurious villa, a man lounged lazily on a velvet sofa, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Across from him, another man knelt, hands and feet bound, eyes covered by a black cloth.
The prisoner's voice trembled, desperate and pathetic.
"Please… let me go. I swear I'll never betray you again. I'll leave the gang… I'll disappear. Please!"
Around them, guards dressed in black stood motionless, guns ready.
The man on the sofa exhaled a thin stream of smoke and leaned forward.
"I despise snakes hiding in my garden," he said, voice low and calm. "Did you think I didn't know about your betrayal? I was just watching, waiting to see how far you'd crawl before I cut you down."
The man on the floor sobbed, his voice cracking.
"Please, sir! My family… I have a family. Let me live for them… I beg you."
A chilling laugh echoed in the room.
"Family?" The man gestured. A guard stepped forward, holding a tablet. The prisoner's blindfold was ripped away.
On the screen: a woman and two children, lifeless on the floor of a home.
The prisoner screamed, eyes wild with horror. He lunged forward, rage overpowering his fear.
"You bastard! I'll kill you!"
Gunshots erupted instantly. The man's body crashed to the ground, lifeless within seconds, his last cry dissolving into silence.
An assistant approached, handing over a phone. The man on the sofa took it lazily.
A voice crackled through.
"Boss, we have a problem. A man named Soren Kingsley is interfering with all our operations. He's stopping our deals, blocking all channels. We need him—either bring him to our side or eliminate him. We can't run weapons without him."
A dark smirk formed on the man's face.
"Alright. I'll handle it."
He stood, stretching like a predator waking from slumber.
"People think my reign of fear is over just because I've been quiet. It's time to remind them who really holds power."
---
Morning.
Freya stirred slowly awake. She sat up, wincing as sharp pain shot through her right hand. When she looked at it, her finger was swollen and red, bruises blooming darkly beneath the skin.
Memories from last night clawed at her, filling her eyes with tears. But she quickly wiped them away, forcing herself to get up and get ready.
Downstairs, she spotted Soren sitting on the sofa in a perfectly tailored black suit, scrolling on his phone. He looked devastatingly handsome, almost surreal.
A frown crossed Freya's face. He was usually gone before she woke up. Why was he still here today?
His gaze met hers. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips.
Freya turned away sharply, going to the dining table and beginning her breakfast with her left hand.
When she finished, she got up to leave, but his voice stopped her cold.
"Get ready. We're going to the hospital."
Freya turned around sharply, anger flaming in her eyes.
"I'm not going to any hospital."
Soren's eyes narrowed, a dangerous spark igniting in their depths.
"Sweetheart, are you trying to make me angry again?"
Her voice rose, shaking but fierce.
"Why should I go? You're the one who breaks me, and now you want to play healer? What do you think I am? Some doll you can break and fix whenever you like? Yesterday it was my finger—what next? My entire arm? Do you think I don't feel pain?!"
Her words rang through the room. The servants stopped to stare, frozen.
Soren glanced at them coldly, and they scattered instantly, leaving the two alone.
Tears streamed down Freya's face as her body trembled violently. She was completely overwhelmed, emotionally shredded.
Soren stepped forward, reaching out to touch her face.
"Sweetheart… calm down. You'll make yourself sick if you keep this up."
Freya pushed him away, her voice breaking from rage and exhaustion.
"Stay away from me! Don't touch me! I'm tired—tired of your madness!"
But Soren didn't hear her words. His focus was entirely on her fragile, shaking form. In a heartbeat, he pulled her roughly into his arms, crushing her against his chest.
"If you're angry… hit me, sweetheart. But don't hurt yourself."
Freya fought him, her fists striking his chest weakly.
"Why are you like this? What did I ever do to you? Was it my fault I bumped into you that night at that damned hotel? Was it my fault I laughed and let the night pass in drunken foolishness? If I could go back, I—"
Before she could finish, Soren's hand clamped over her lips, his eyes turning glacial.
"Don't say another word." His voice dropped, lethal and cold. "Don't you dare imagine being with someone else. If you must punish someone, punish me. But never let those words cross your lips again."
Freya fell silent, resting her forehead against his shoulder, her body shaking.
Soren tilted his head, his breath ghosting over her ear.
"If you hate me… I'll punish myself. But I can't watch you destroy yourself because of me."
Her eyes widened, shocked, as Soren stepped back. He placed his right hand on the dining table, gripping his middle finger with his left hand. Without a second of hesitation, he snapped it backward.
A brutal crack echoed.
It was the same finger he had broken in her.