Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 87: A superhero Costume?

Trring trring~

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"Not now, Drayce!"

BOOM!

cut-

beep beep beep beep

Kael turned to Freya, his smile returning, though a flicker of tension lingered. "Harris is busy," he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. "I’ll fill him in later."

Freya nodded, her blue eyes half-lidded, her body relaxed but aching.

She sat on the sofa in front of the tv, her platinum-cyan hair loose, framing her face, her near-translucent skin glowing despite the bruises and cuts from her fight with the bear-woman.

Bandages clung to her cheek, arm and thigh, patched up by Kael, who stood nearby.

The collar that usually hummed around her neck was gone—Kael had removed it after they returned back to the Haven, trusting her regenerative abilities to heal her faster without its suppression.

She shifted, wincing slightly, and stood, her voice soft but determined.

"I’ll cook lunch," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her movements graceful despite the slight pain.

Kael raised a hand, his tone firm but warm.

"No way, Freya. You’re injured. I’m cooking—you need to heal." He crossed to her, his hazel eyes scanning her bandages, concern softening his smile.

Freya’s lips curved, a playful glint in her eyes.

"They’re small injuries, Kael. Barely hurt." She flexed her arm, the bandage crinkling, her tone light but edged with her queen-like pride, refusing to be coddled.

Kael chuckled, undeterred, and grabbed a pen, a handful of colored pencils, and a sketchbook from a nearby shelf.

He set them on the coffee table before her, his grin mischievous.

"Got an important job for you instead," he said, tapping the book. "Draw yourself a superhero costume—the one you want to wear as a hero, don’t tell Rhea about this." He winked, then sauntered to the kitchen, leaving her with the task, the clatter of pots already echoing as he started lunch.

Freya froze, her mind blank, the weight of his words sinking in.

A superhero costume?

Her heart stuttered, her mind blank, and then a flood of memories rushed forward, vivid and sharp.

As a child, she’d sprawled on her bedroom floor, crayons scattered, sketching herself in countless costumes—flowing capes for flight, armored suits for strength, sleek designs for speed.

She’d had no idea what powers she’d manifest, so she dreamed them all, but for ice, she’d crafted a few favorites: shimmering blues, whites, silvers, like frost on a winter dawn.

The dreams had faded after her first kill, buried under the icy queen she’d become, but now they surged back, a kaleidoscope of possibility.

She sat, her fingers trembling as she opened the sketchbook, the blank page a canvas for her rebirth.

The pen felt alive in her hand, and she began sketching, her strokes tentative at first, then bold, fluid, as the costume took shape.

A fitted bodysuit, icy blue fading to silver, with angular patterns like frost on glass, a high collar framing her neck, a flowing cape edged with white, light as snow.

She drew herself standing tall, her platinum-cyan hair cascading, her blue eyes fierce, a queen reborn as a hero.

The colored pencils followed, blues and silvers blending, the costume gleaming on the page, her heart warming with every stroke, a child’s dream breathing again.

plop~

A water droplet splashed onto the paper, blurring a corner of the cape.

"What?" Freya exclaimed, shaking the page to dry it, her voice sharp with confusion.

Then she felt the wetness on her cheeks, her fingers brushing tears she hadn’t noticed.

Why am I crying?

The question echoed, unraveling her.

Was it because she’d never thought she could be a hero after her first kill, that blood-soaked moment that defined her villainy?

Was it because her childhood dream, suppressed under years of ice and pride, was finally breaking free?

Was it because she could see herself, truly, in the costume she’d designed, no longer a fantasy but a reality?

Or was it because she needed to prove—to herself—that this wasn’t just a dream?

She shook the paper dry, the colors holding fast, and wiped her eyes, her resolve hardening.

She grabbed the pen again, her hand steady, and wrote beside the sketch in bold, careful letters: Frost Flake.

Not cool, not sleek, but hers—a name she’d chosen as a child, whispering it to the stars, dreaming of ice powers that would one day be real.

It fit, like a key to her soul.

The sketch was complete, vibrant, alive.

Freya stood, her body still sore but her spirit alight, and carried the page to the kitchen, where Kael stood at the stove, frying onions, the sizzle filling the air with a savory warmth.

She slipped behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder, the sketch held in front of him.

"Are you done?" he asked, his voice warm, glancing at her work.

"Yes," Freya murmured, her lips brushing his ear, a playful nip as she grinned.

She pressed closer, her body warm against his back, the intimacy soft but charged.

Kael took the sketch with one hand, his other stirring the pan, his hazel eyes scanning the page.

"This is you? You even got a name—’Frost Flake,’" he said, his grin widening, a spark of awe in his voice.

"Wow. It’s like you’ve had this since you were a kid."

"Yup," Freya said, her tone light, teasing, her teeth grazing his ear again.

"You know me." She pulled back slightly, her blue eyes glinting with a mix of pride and mischief.

"Hey, Kael."

"Yes?" he asked, turning his head, his grin curious.

"I changed my mind," she said, her voice firm, decisive. "Let’s go shopping and eat outside."

She peeled off the bandage on her hand, revealing smooth skin, the cuts faded, her regenerative abilities already knitting her wounds.

She flexed her fingers, showing him, her smile confident, her queen-like poise unshaken.

Kael glanced at the pan, half-done with lunch, onions caramelizing, but he didn’t hesitate.

"Sure," he said, cutting the gas with a flick, leaving the meal for dinner, his grin easy, accommodating. "This is your day, Frost Flake, have it your way."

"Was that intentional?"

"Maybe." Kael answered.

Freya smirked, stripping off the remaining bandages, her skin unmarred, her face radiant, as beautiful as ever despite the morning’s violence.

She crossed to her room, changing out of her torn clothes—a bloodied shirt and ripped pants—into a fresh set, a white blouse and black jeans that hugged her curves, her platinum-cyan hair tied back in a small pony.

By the time she returned, Kael was ready, his dark jacket zipped, his hazel eyes warm as he smiled at her.

"Here." He handed her a mask and a cap, a silent precaution to hide her identity in the city.

Freya took them without complaint, her blue eyes meeting his, understanding the need—her villain past and A-class status made anonymity a necessity.

She slipped on the cap, undoing her ponytail, she slid on the mask on her mouth, her smile mirroring his, a shared secret in their gaze.

They stepped out of the Haven, locking the door behind them, the city’s alleys quiet under the dawn’s soft light.

Freya’s sketch of Frost Flake burned in her mind, a beacon of her new path. Her heat, thumped.

What is this feeling?