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But this feels extra fucked-up. Something about it…
First off, someone’s holding the camera. I can tell by the way the video wobbles. Secondly, no one appears to be forcing her. Unless there’s a gun pointed at her out of view, she’s willingly engaging in sex.
What about him? Is she pinning down his wrists? Is he struggling? He’s definitely not into it the way she is. He’s not even moving.
My stomach sinks, taking my heart with it as I lean closer and closer, eyes straining, breaths quickening…
My head bumps the door, moving it enough to send an echoing, soul-crushing creak through the room.
I stop breathing, and Leonid’s gaze slowly shifts to mine.
Neither of us moves. The urge to flee shrivels my skin, but I don’t twitch a muscle. The reason Denver took me, the women who came before me, the depravity in this house, the secrets that lurk in every corner—so many answers could be playing out on that screen.
Leonid’s eyes hold me hostage. Hiding isn’t an option. We’re both exposed.
I push open the door and close it behind me. After an attempt to catch my breath and collect my wits, I face him straight-on.
A normal person would put his dick away and turn off the disturbing sex tape.
But normal doesn’t exist in Hoss.
He continues to stare at me as if his hand isn’t strangling the angriest erection in Alaska.
I’m pretty fucking proud of myself for not reacting. Maybe it’s my training in the trauma unit. Or maybe Hoss has broken me to the point of catatonia. Whatever the reason, I’m able to meet this man’s unsettling gaze and instruct myself to remain calm.
Since he’s not forthcoming with information, I won’t fire questions at him. That’s a sure way to get kicked out of his jerk-off session.
Breathy whispers draw my attention back to the screen. The woman’s writhing body blocks my view of the man’s face, and for a moment, I’m transfixed by her dark hair, her familiar features…
Is that—?
“Turn that off!” She whips her head toward the camera and screams, “What did I say, Wolfson? You little fucking pervert! Get out!”
My blood runs cold, and the camera jostles, tilting side to side and dropping to the floor. The patter of feet sounds, fading into the distance, signaling Wolf’s departure.
The woman turns back to her joytoy and grinds down on him.
The woman on the driver’s license.
Gretchen Stolz.
Wolf’s mother.
How old was he when he recorded this video of her having sex with…?
Oh, God, no.
The new camera angle provides a direct view of the naked man pinned beneath her.
Not a man.
A boy.
White-hot bile sears the back of my throat as I inch toward the screen, my eyes glued to the screen.
Shoulder-length brown hair. Long, lean muscles. Golden skin glistening with sweat. His head lolls toward the camera, eyes open, revealing two different colors.
Gold and blue.
Leonid.
Horror locks my joints, and sorrow grips my heart.
He was so young. So vulnerable. I feel sick, seeing him stretched out and unmoving beneath her like he doesn’t have a choice. There are no restraints, but he’s just a boy, and she’s a goddamn adult.
“How old were you?” Fighting to keep my voice neutral, I turn and find him watching me.
Watching me, not the harrowing video. His hand is moving now, stroking along the thick length of his shaft.
“Stop.” My stomach buckles. “Talk to me.”
“I’ll answer your questions.” His timbre rumbles, deep and gravelly. “After.”
“No.” I quiver with abhorrence. “I can’t do this, Leo. Please.”
“You don’t need to do anything. Just stand there. Watch me come.” Hunger thickens his voice, and his bare chest glistens with perspiration. “Fuck, Frankie. You’re. So. Fucking. Gorgeous.”
He punctuates each word with a kick of his hips, thrusting into his fist.
“Please, stop.” My insides stir, tightening and pulsing at the sound of his shortening breaths, the pleasure dancing across his expression, and the contractions rippling through his magnificent body. “This is wrong.”
He releases a throaty groan and quickens his strokes. “Nothing has ever felt less wrong.”
Given what I now know about his life here, maybe he’s right. But I won’t be part of this with the soundtrack of Gretchen Stolz’s rapey moans coming from the TV.
“Turn off the video.”
As he blindly fumbles for the remote, I glance over my shoulder to steal a quick, clinical examination of Leonid’s nude teenage body in the footage. Beneath the vile rocking of Gretchen’s hips, his abdomen is flawless. No scars. She hadn’t stabbed him yet.
Which means he wasn’t even sixteen when this was recorded.
The screen goes black, and I turn back to him, meeting his hardened, hungry, very adult gaze.
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen,” he says absently, fucking his fist. “Come closer.”
“She raped you.” I step forward.
“Did I look unwilling?” He pants, holding my gaze.
“She did it in front of Wolf. He would’ve been…what? Eight-years-old?”
“He was told to leave.”
