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That’s fine. I’m free. Running with my head tipped to the high ceiling. Laughing like a crazy lady.

Thunder rolls somewhere in the distance.

I run and scream and run some more until I get there.

To the den.

I stop just outside of it, catching my breath.

Then I switch the lights on.

There it is. The desk he never lets me look at for too long. The man doesn’t even sleep that much for me to sneak out of the bedroom to come down here and see what’s in those folders.

Though there are far fewer of them out here than usual—two instead of a dozen—it’s a start. A glimpse into this complex man’s soul.

I wonder if it’s got something to do with me. With us.

I hope so.

I’m quieter as I cross the room over to the desk.

What I’m doing is forbidden. I’m crossing a line.

Well, he kidnapped then bought me. I’d say he’s been crossing plenty of lines first.

This isn’t funny, Ophelia.

No, it isn’t. I’m just growing a little untethered in this place. This prison. This gilded cage.

This home.

My fingers brush the tops of the folders, wondering which one I should try first.

The thickest folder is there, on the far left. It piques my interest, the size of it.

Deep breath .

I’m actually doing this. Fingers gripping the top of the folder, rubbing the rich paper.

I flip it open.

The photo at the top has me gasping. My hand flies to my mouth. I’m hot, then cold. Mostly flustered.

A young woman about my age straddles a man in his sixties. The locks of her wavy auburn hair have been brushed to the side so their profiles are visible. Her lips are pressed to his bald head. His are parted. Hands on her hips.

They’re naked.

Caught in the act.

It looks incredibly intimate. Real. At least for the man.

Meaning, this isn’t porn.

I wouldn’t mind if James consumed it. Free country and all that.

But this stuff isn’t porn.

Holy hell, there’s more where that came from. Each photo has a name scrolled behind it. These are the secrets he talked about. The ones his father kept and now belong to him.

Wow.

A few of the faces here are recognizable. Some of them were at the auction. Others I’ve seen on the news.

I knew he was powerful. I had no idea it went this deep.

Ten. Twenty. Fifty photos. I become desensitized to compromised positions, eventually.

Then I close it.

For no apparent reason, my fingers shake as I open the second folder.

Oh, there is a reason. There are a bunch of them.

At the sight of the photo sitting on top, I stagger back.

My throat, I can’t breathe. I put two hands on my chest, forcing my lungs to work.

Me. This is me. It’s my picture on top.

Topher sits across the table from me in one of the restaurants we’ve been to. I’m wearing a black dress, and he’s in a dark suit. My face is bare of emotions. His is empty as well.

Whoever took this photo, they captured it less than a month ago. When I was so over Topher, but insisted that maybe we could make it work.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Hawthorne men had someone stalking us on our dates. Photos to prove to his cult that I’m…

What?

Worthy? Hot?

A good enough piece of flesh to offer to their buyers?

Blood rushes between my ears. My chest is tight.

This is what a heart attack must be like. Pressure and anger and shock.

My heart is literally beating me from the inside.

I hate Topher for this. Can’t hate James for holding on to them.

The first man used me. The latter, he likes me. Has liked me for a while.

Fucking your forbidden, virgin cunt was all I could think about since the moment I saw you.

That’s right. He said that.

Staring at the photo, I realize both things happened around the same time.

He met me for the first time a month before he kidnapped me.

Oh my God.

That happened just around the time this photo was taken.

That’s actually comforting in a sick way.

My fingers are shaky as I lift the photo, placing it to the side. The second one is also recent. Not from one of my dates with Topher. Oh, no.

I’m in my bedroom. Alone. In a new black bra and panties set that I bought last month, since my last nice ones were old and had to be replaced.

Checking myself out in the mirror.

Me.

In my room.

Half-naked.

Their investigator invaded my privacy.

James has a hand in everything. He had to be the one to allow other people to stalk me. He gave them the go-ahead to look at me half-naked.

“Motherfuckers,” I whisper as I flip through more photos of myself. At work. Jogging. In the subway. All of them from the past month. All of them scare and turn me on simultaneously. “Motherfuckers.”

“ Fucker .” James. His low voice yanks me back into the room.

My head snaps up to him, eyes narrowing. “What did you just call me?”

“Not you. Never you.” He’s infuriatingly handsome, leaning against the doorway.

His dark gaze is locked on mine, and I’m no longer indignant.

I need him. I just need him. “You meant motherfucker. Singular, since I’m the one who took these photos.

I’m the one who printed them here, in my home.

I’m the only mother fucker who saw you compromised. Me. Only me.”