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He’s furious.
And my reaction to his rage—despite the past six weeks, despite Trap treating me like a princess, despite Trap never lifting a finger against me that I didn’t crave and consent to explicitly—my reaction is to drop to my knees, planting my hands on the back of my head and displaying my breasts to his satisfaction.
To the satisfaction of the animal who trained me, Herzog.
I thought it was bad, seeing Trap’s anger at the video. It’s infinitely worse, seeing that fury directed at me.
Not at me,whispers a quiet corner of my brain, the one that majored in psychology, the one that completed all the coursework for my PhD and only needed to finish my dissertation when I was kidnapped.He’s not angry at me. He’s angry at my actions, at what Herzog taught me to do.
Logic isn’t a great help. I fall back on words. “I’m sorry,” I say, but that’s almost as bad, because Trap told me never to say that, never to apologize for being held a slave.
His throat works. His face scowls. His hands fold into fists, and my body braces for a blow my brain says will never come. But when he speaks, his voice is deceptively mild. “Who sent it?”
“TheFromfield says Klaus Herzog.”
“Well that’s clearly impossible.”
Again, there’s that mildness I’d be a fool to trust. “It’s someone associated with him.” I’m stating the obvious. “They’re demanding a gallery. They plan on storing drugs here.”
“Theyplanon getting my fist up their—”
I cut him off before he builds up a true head of steam. “And they won’t juststoredrugs. They’ll distribute them. Take advantage of the freeport’s documentation system.”
I’ve only been at Diamond for a month and a half, but I’ve already seen its sophisticated receiving and shipping divisions in action. Every item that crosses in or out of the tax haven is documented. Any failure to maintain complete records would result in the loss of the freeport’s tax-exempt status.
And any record reflecting sale or transfer of illegal drugs will destroy Trap’s business even faster.
“Motherfucking, cocksucking…” Trap drops a heavy finger on the telephone console on his desk, launching a dial tone through the speaker. Another brutal push, and a flurry of digits dials automatically.
“MacGregor,” comes a harsh reply, halfway through the first ring.
“I need to know who sent an email,” Trap says without preamble.
“To your work account?” It’s eleven in the morning on an August Saturday, but Diamond Freeport’s Chief of Security is all business.
“To Alix’s.”
“Forward it to me.”
Instead of clicking a few keys, Trap looks at me and raises his eyebrows. He’s asking permission to forward the file. Because right now, the only people in the world who know I killed Herzog are the surviving members of the Diamond Ring—and our would-be blackmailer.
Trap trusts Mac; otherwise, he wouldn’t hire the guy to run security for the entire tax haven. But there’s a difference between trusting a man to protect your physical space and trusting a man to protect your life. Because if this story gets out, my life will change forever.
Trap’s will too.
After I killed Herzog, Trap called in countless debts to have his home restored to pristine status, virtually overnight. He has aided and abetted a criminal. He’s an accomplice after the fact.
I want to trust Mac. But I don’t want to make Trap’s burden any greater than it already is. I love Trap. I can’t hurt him.
So I reach out to close the email. Mac doesn’t need it. We don’t have to bring him into the circle. We’ll figure out something else.
My hand, though, slips on the mouse. I end up scrolling to the very bottom of the message.
My heart stops.
Trap is scowling, waiting for me to give him a thumbs-up. Mac is silent on the other end of the phone. I gape at the computer screen like I’m staring at a ghost.
Not a ghost.
