Freya’s POV
Of all the humiliating ways to lose face in front of Clarence Finerman, this had to be the absolute worst.
One second, I was reaching for the shampoo bottle; the next, the world tilted sideways. My foot slipped on the wet tile, my back slammed into the hard floor, and I heard the sickening crack of my elbow against the shower frame. A sharp jolt of pain shot through my spine.
“Damn it,” I muttered, wincing as I tried to sit up. My legs wouldn’t cooperate. My back screamed. Every movement sent little sparks of pain dancing along my shoulders and the base of my spine.
I bit down on a groan and tried again—still no good. I couldn’t even get my knees under me. My palms slid uselessly on the tile. I thought I could just get up, towel off, and pretend it never happened. That plan was clearly dead.
And that was before the door flew open.
“Freya?!”