Page 23 of Captive Mafia Wife

Chapter Seven

THE MORNING OF FREYA’S ARRIVAL AT WEE INVERNESS…

Freya

Callum hasto believe me that I had no idea Jack was with the Hoax. Had I known, I never would have taken his case! Now he thinks I’m in danger, which is only going to add fuel to the crazy get-Freya-a-husband notion he’s been dwelling on.

The concept is so ludicrous that I move on to one that has my heart sinking into my slippers.

Do my people honestly think I’ve betrayed them?

Late last night, wearing PJs and face masks, curled up in my many layers of duvets, Fiona assured me over tea and biscuits that everything was fine and Callum was just being overprotective when he said I need to leave Norse Garden?—

“Though why not consider it, Freya? Two back-to-back intense trials—couldn’t you use a vacation after all?”

And on the topic of our beloved islanders?—

“Of course they’re confused, they have questions, but sure, they’re behind you…’

I found the chocolate the biscuit was dipped in more comforting than her words, told her I was tired, would be fine on my own, and sent her to bed. Fiona and I usually have no secrets, but I didn’t even tell her about what had happened with Fredrick just hours before in the Great Hall.

This morning, I’ve silenced numerous calls from home, unsure of what Carol Ann and the others would ask me, knowing I’d be too brokenhearted to defend myself if they doubted me. And Callum…it’s too painful to remember our conversation outside of O’Malley’s, so I don’t, shoving it down into the darkest part of myself.

An angry tear of hurt comes to my eyes, and I brush it away. They know me. We’ve grown up together, bandaged each others skinned knees, stolen beer, and smoked together. Hell, in our awkward stages of teenage lust, I kissed half of the Kings, I’m sure of it.

How could they ever doubt me, for a moment—me, Freya Burnes, the head female of our Burnes clan?

And my flesh and blood…

No matter what any fresh meat Glasgow Kings told me about an islander, I’d deny it to the grave, have that brother’s back, take it public, and make it right. I don’t believe in whispered words behind closed doors. That is what I love about court. All the facts are out in the open, free to be disputed by anyone, but in the end...

Only the facts stand in the end.

Pushing all the yuckiness away, I try to improve my mood, distract myself, and focus on something else. Sweets. I pull on a cozy gray waffle-knit robe over my silk black button-down long-sleeve pajama top and matching flowy pants and tie it around my waist. Under the advice of my mirror, I pop some 24k gold gel stickies over the black circles under my eyes.

“Stress is so NOT my beauty product of choice.” I slip my bare feet into my puffy pink slippers and wander out of my room, searching out my breakfast.

The newlyweds are out all day for their once-per-week preplanned Saturday outing. Today, I think they’re hiking to a meadow for a picnic. How boring! They seem obsessed with themselves, never having their hands off one another.

Honestly, it’s so adorable I could vomit.

Although alone, I CAN have a nice day to myself. I can recover from the confusing sex-plosion in the Great Hall with Fredrick. The hurt I feel from the Kings’ mistrust—the guilt over disappointing Callum and the fact that he wants me to leave our precious Norse Garden.

My slippered feet pad over the gleaming marble floors to our oversized commercial fridge, which I sort through, looking for sweets to comfort me. The house staff is off today, but I find a plate left for me: fruit, cheese, bread, and thinly sliced beef.

Behind that is a thick slice of chocolate cake.

I grab the small glass dessert plate and push the real food out of the way. “Yes, please!”

I curl up on the comfy gray sofa in the TV room, cake in my lap, hot tea beside me, a lineup of true crime documentariesready to fill my day. I click on the television, filling the space with my voice. “If anyone hasn’t seen the one on the Sherri Papini case, you must. If possible, go in completely blind for best shock value.” I sigh. “I really must stop talking to myself.”

As much as I brag about being a strong, independent woman, I loathe spending time alone. If Fiona were here, I’d charm her into playing a game of Scrabble with me, Callum grumbling in the corner.

Champers jangles into the room, her prissy paws barely touching the floor as she approaches me. “Here, baby! Come cuddle me!” Gently, I pat the open cushion beside me so as not to scare her away.

As per usual, the cat, who I’ve secretly nicknamed Ginger for her cream and orange coat, gives me a prudent sniff, looks around for Fiona, then turns and leaves the room, haughtily sticking her fluffy tail up in the air, giving me a glamorous view of her pink bum.

She hates me.

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