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A savage rapist.
No. Two. Two vicious animals.
The image at the bottom of the email looks harmless enough. It could be copied from a stock photo website, maybe a home goods catalog. It’s a harmless kitchen accessory, available in millions of houses in America.
I’m staring at a copper oil cruet. Not much taller than my hand. Freshly polished to a red-gold gleam. Metal spout facing the right side of the screen. My breakfast of coffee and toast and peaches rises in my throat, and it takes a massive effort of will not to vomit on Trap’s sleek keyboard.
He’s watching me. Even if he doesn’t understand, he knows something terrible has happened.
“I’ll call you back, Mac,” he says. The silence of the terminated call surges against my eardrums.
I’m back in Herzog’s mansion. I’m dressed in his perverted version of a catsuit—corseted black latex with cutouts for my breasts and between my legs. An O-ring gag forces my lips apart. My feet are laced into boots with monstrous stiletto heels.
That cruet is from Herzog’s kitchen, where I eat every meal with his other slaves. That cruet is filled with olive oil. That cruet is pressed against the tight pucker of my ass, tilted, emptied, all to prime me for a triple penetration I have no way of stopping.
I’m helpless. Hopeless. Dosed against my will with one of the designer street drugs that made Klaus Herzog a billionaire. Klaus has my mouth; he’s ramming his way through my vicious gag. His brothers, Jonas and Ansel, ride me hard, front and back, pumping through the stinking lube of tainted oil.
The four of us are the only ones who know the full depravity in that room that Halloween night.
Klaus is dead.
I’ve vowed never to tell a soul.
But one look at Trap makes it clear he’s not giving me a choice.
2
TRAP
* * *
Alix has gone as white as bleached bone. I glance from her face to the computer screen, half expecting another video to have launched, because I can’t imagine any other reason for her reaction.
The Beast that lives inside my brain chooses that moment to stir from its lair. I know its triggers—blood, disease, germs of any kind. I spent twenty years with the fucker making me pay for any physical contact. I had rules and regulations to keep myself clean, to make the world safe. And when I fucked up—early and often—I paid the price, bleeding off the Beast’s strangling tension by tapping out a five-count with a finger or a fist.
The Beast reminds me of the filth that destroyed my dining room—Herzog’s blood sprayed on ceiling and walls, on floor and table. The Beast had a fucking field day that night.
But Alix saved me.
Three years ago, her innocence tamed the goddamn animal inside my skull. And last night, when I finally touched her again…
Alix isn’t a threat.
I think it again, calmly, slowly:Alix is not a threat.
The Beast skulks back to its cave.
But Alix stays frozen. The screen still shows the ass-end of that fucking email. There’s an ad there, from one of those fancy kitchen shops. Like this is the moment I want to stock up on goddamn copper pitchers.
“Hey, Princess,” I say, keeping my voice low and even, like I’m trying to calm a frightened dog. I love her. I hate that I have to do this to her. “What’s going on here?”
At first, I think she doesn’t hear me. But she blinks before I have to reach out and catch her chin, before I need to forcefully turn her away from whatever the hell she thinks she’s seeing. She shudders—a long, rippling shiver that looks like it hurts.
“Herzog’s brothers,” she finally says, whispering so softly I have to lean close to hear.
“That cocksucker had brothers?”
She nods. “Two.” And then a frown creases the space between her eyebrows. “Maybe more. I met two.”
