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JAMES

“ W alk with me.” This isn’t a request. I pull one of our servers—Griffith, he said—out of the main room by his forearm. I drag him silently into the catering area without waiting for him to follow me.

Waiting is for the weak. For the second best. For the ones who aren’t in a position of power.

I am neither of those things.

On the contrary.

Out of everyone in our auction house, I’m at the top of the food chain.

Oliver can tell himself that we’re equal partners all he likes. I feed him that lie myself. It helps him sleep better at night. Makes him lower his guard too. Throughout the years, it’s the one thing that has ensured that he won’t try to backstab me.

But the truth—the absolute truth—is that I’ve been pulling the strings since we turned twenty-one.

It was me who decided how and when we murdered our fathers. When I had to kill my father ahead of schedule, Oliver followed suit.

The cases we take on, the people we hire? I sign off on those. Even the auction house. I don’t frequent the place, yet Oliver asks for my approval before he makes any big decision.

“Mr. Hawthorne, please.” Of course he knows me by name. My photo and name are a part of their orientation when they start working here. “I’ll follow you, I promise. Maybe you could tell me what I’ve done wrong. If you could just?—”

“Shut up.”

We’re away from prying eyes and inside the kitchen.

I drag him farther inside, past our French brunette chef, who oversees five cooks who work for us.

I don’t stop to watch them as they work seamlessly.

Without the incessant noise of clinking pans and pots, or of any shouting, “You’re taking too long. ”

They work in complete silence.

“Sir. Mr. Hawthorne, sir.” Despite his whispering, I still hear Griffith’s high-pitched voice. “Please, I’m not sure what I’ve done. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make up for it. Please, let me fix it.”

We pass by tall stainless-steel shelves lining the walls. Porcelain plates imported from Copenhagen are perfectly organized on the shelves in groups of three. They’ll be taken down soon to serve the late dinner.

A consolation meal for those who lost the bidding wars.

The highest bidders and the sacrifices are supposed to be escorted out to start their awfully-ever-after.

The four of us will retire to our homes to start our week-long vacation.

Later.

The storage room is empty. I throw Griffith inside, shutting the door behind me.

“Please.” He hasn’t let go of his empty tray. He trembles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His face turns into a nauseating shade of green. Sweat darkens his sandy blond hair.

And he still holds the tray.

I snatch it out of his hand, slamming it on an empty shelf to my right.

Now my fingers are free to go around his throat.

“Don’t hurt me. Please.” His blue eyes are oceans of fear. He either can’t or doesn’t bother masking it. “I have a wife. A newborn. Please. I’m begging you. Don’t hurt me.”

Music to my ears. That’s good. That’s really fucking good that he’s terrified of me. The few inches I have over him make him seem even weaker.

You don’t fuck over people who scare you.

“For now, I won’t.” I’d spend more time instilling fear in him. Problem is, I’m running out of it.

Alessandro is after Ophelia. While I couldn’t see his face, I saw hers. Her expression shifted when he tilted his head, looking away from Baylor.

Ophelia looked lost. Pale. A little lamb instead of the firecracker I had all to myself last night.

He’s determined to have her, no doubt.

Over the years, he has accumulated wealth. I’m his lawyer. Of course I fucking know about every dime that goes into his pocket. I am aware of his bank accounts here and the ones he has offshore.

Whatever anyone else will offer, he’ll outbid them.

He’ll have her.

Fuck.

My fist tightens around Griffith’s throat until he wheezes.

“Please, please, please.”

Why do I care if he takes her? If anyone takes her?

They won’t have her for long.

There are plans set in motion to save Ophelia from this monstrosity. A man ready to kidnap her and send her the hell out of here.

Then what is this? I can’t stop thinking about her.

I can’t allow anyone else to have her.

The way she looked at me…

So much hate. Desire. Fear.

Her emotions were bleeding all over the place.

Another trap she laid out for me, unbeknownst to her. One I fell for. One I can’t get out of. And God, it’s the worst part, isn’t it? That she doesn’t mean it. She just does it.

There’ll be hell to pay for this. I’ll make her regret stirring these strange emotions in my chest.

When I have her.

“I’ll kill you or your family. Maybe both. Shove your baby’s fingers up your ass. Unless you do as I say.” It’s not right to lie. To take my anger out on him.

It’s what I have.

Until she’s mine.

Until I…Yes, get to breed her.

Of course.

This is all about my primal needs. This isn’t about my feelings . I have none.

But I do have urges that I’ve never attended to. The need to procreate. It’d be on my terms this time around. By fucking a woman, not inseminating her, like I did with Topher’s mom.

I didn’t force myself on her. I didn’t touch her inappropriately. Didn’t want to.

I want that now. With Ophelia.

She’s young. Strong. Beautiful.

The best woman for the part.

There’s no other way to rationalize this possessiveness.

None.

After a month of watching her from afar, of obsessing over her, I want her…to bear my children…so bad I can’t think straight.

This is nothing but an innate, basic desire.

To have a baby with her and no one else. To fuck it into her.

That’s all.

That’s why the calling is so intense. Once it’s a done deal, I’ll get bored of her. This pull to her will fade.

At least I know now.

“I’ll do anything.”

“Tell anyone about this conversation.” I put my face up in Griffith’s. He has to remember this moment. “And guess what happens?”

“We die.” Griffith lets out a pathetic sob.

“Correct.”

A blood vessel pops in one of his glistening eyes. I’ve been gripping him too hard, so I loosen my hold. Barely.

“They’ll start the bidding war on Topher’s sacrifice soon.”

Griffith bobs his head as much as my grip on him allows.

“You’re going to go out there and call Starlee over.

You’ll tell her an anonymous buyer was on the line.

That he told you to win no matter what.” His eyes widen.

No one tells that woman what to do. No one tells her a faceless person will join the auction.

No one except me. “I’ll be there to confirm that you ran it by me. That it’s okay.”

“Okay. Okay.”

Tick tock. Tick tock.

“Then you’ll start bidding. Once you do, you won’t stop, like the anonymous buyer asked you to.”

“Are you sure?” His quivering chin says what he can’t. The people in the room bid by the millions.

“You’re wasting my time,” I hiss. “I said you won’t stop, and you won’t fucking stop. Then you’ll go out the back, collect Miss Monroe. You’ll drive to the city for ten minutes, then turn around and drop her off at the front door of my house. Are we clear?”

Where she and I will be alone with Clara. Just until she deposits Ophelia in the cell. Then, Ophelia is mine.

After that, she’ll leave with the rest of the staff for the week to a hotel. I’ll text Andrea, my assistant, to get on it and arrange three drivers to take them to the city. Then I’ll text Clara and have her get everyone packed and ready to go.

I’m not sure why I want them gone for this first week. While I get time off, they should’ve stayed on the premises, working for me.

I just want them out.

“Yes.” The shade of his face becomes impossibly whiter and greener simultaneously. “Yes, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Go.”

His eyes skate to the shelf where I placed his tray.

“I said, ‘Go.’” I grab him by the lapel of his black jacket, open the door, and toss him out into the kitchen, leaving his stupid tray behind.

I don’t lose my temper often.

I don’t crave anything so badly that it rattles me.

Ophelia will pay for that too.

When she’s mine.