Now, walking alone in it, she felt frozen to the bone.
By the time she reached the villa, the soles of her feet were raw and bleeding.
She pushed open her bedroom door—and froze.
A girl in a white gauze dress sat in Soren’s lap. At the sight of Linnea, they sprang apart, breathing hard. A blush stained the girl’s cheeks, and the red mark on her neck spoke of what had just happened.
Linnea’s hand stilled on the doorknob, as if needles had stabbed straight through her chest.
Soren barely looked at her.
“I forgot to tell you—Agatha is moving in. This will be her room now.”
The girl tilted her chin in smug challenge.
“Soren, who is she?”
Linnea stared. The face was almost identical to Soren’s late sister’s—right down to the tiny red mole at the corner of her eye.
He took the girl’s hand and kissed it.
“Her? Just a dog I keep.”
His voice turned casual, cruel.
“Your leg’s not in good shape. She’ll be handling your rehab.”
Then, his arm slid around Agatha’s waist.
“You still here? Want to watch us—”
“Soren,” Linnea interrupted, voice shaking, “you promised me my parents’ belongings.”