Page 63 of Hidden

You’re evil.

Miles.

I know, baby. Wear the red one. I like how it looks on you.

I set the phone down and lean back, my eyes still fixed on the feed as she stands there, flushed and unsteady, her chest rising fast, and the red bikini strings begging to be untied. My cock is throbbing, but I don’t touch myself. Not yet. She’s mine to ruin properly, and I want her desperate for it tonight.

My attention goes back to the file uploading as it beeps again. The progress bar hits 100%. The file opens automatically.

I freeze.

The video is raw, unedited. Renee is on a concrete floor in what looks like an abandoned warehouse, her wrists zip-tied behind her back. Three men in black masks surround her. One of them grabs her by the hair and yanks her head back while another rips her shirt open. She’s crying, struggling, and begging in a broken voice that cracks on every word.

They don’t speak much. Just low, muffled laughter and grunts as they take turns raping her. One forces her legs apart while another slaps her hard across the face, then again, harder, until blood trickles from her lip. The camera stays steady, capturing every brutal detail: the way her body jerks when they rape her, the bruises already blooming across her ribs and thighs, the way she stops fighting after the third man and just lies there sobbing.

My stomach doesn’t turn. It should. Instead, a cold, familiar calm settles over me. This is the network. This is what we’re actually hunting.

I watch the entire four-minute clip without blinking, cataloging every mask, every visible tattoo, and every background detail that might give me a location. When it ends on a final, sickening close-up of her tear-streaked face, I exhale slowly through my nose. Then the words appear. The auction starts soon.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

The contrast hits me like a blade. On the right screen, Sadie is still standing in front of her laptop in that tiny red bikini, flushed and aroused and safe. On the left, Renee Park was broken in ways most people can’t even imagine.

I close the video, but the images stay burned behind my eyes.

Sadie has no idea how ugly the world really is. That’s why I watch her so closely. That’s why I’ll keep her in the dark as long as I can.

I glance back at the feed. She’s changed out of the bikini now, pulling an oversized t-shirt over her head. The silver bracelet is still on her wrist.

I’ll see you tonight, baby, I’ll watch over you.

***

Harte's place is exactly what Mason said it would be: a big house with a heated pool and a garden that says someone's parents have way too much money and make stupid decisions.

Mason is already talking to someone by the time we're through the door. Declan has Trixie's hand and is steering them both toward the drinks and their friends. Lileah is already heading toward a group of girls near the pool, and I close the distance before she gets there.

"Hey." I catch her arm. "Give me two minutes."

She turns and stares at me for a moment. “What?"

I pull her slightly to the side, away from the flow of people moving through the door. I reach into my jacket pocket. I take out the bracelet first, it’s a silver chain, with a small tracker embedded in the clasp. It’s indistinguishable from decoration unless you know what you're looking for. I pull the earrings out next; they have green stones with the same setup. I hold them out. Lileah looks at them, then back to me "Where did these come from?"

"Doesn't matter. Put them on."

"Miles…"

"Put them on, Lileah." She needs to know I’m not joking, that fucking video has messed with my head.

She takes them slowly, turning the bracelet over in her hand as if she’s trying to work out what she’s missing. "They're pretty," she says, which isn't the point, but she isn't wrong either. She’s always loved green, so I knew she’d love it. "Why are you giving me jewelry at a party?"

"I spoke to Dad." I keep my voice level. "We need to know where you are at all times. These…" I nod at what she's holding. "...make that easier."

"You're tracking me?" The confusion sharpens into something closer to offence. "I'm eighteen, almost nineteen, Miles."

"I know how old you are."

"Then why…"