She looks debauched, and we haven't even started.
"You're displaying me," she says, not a question.
"Yes. Do you object?"
She meets my eyes, and there's something fierce in her gaze. "No. I want them to know I'm yours. I want everyone to know."
The possessiveness in her voice goes straight to my cock.
This sweet, broken thing has no idea she's claiming her parents' killer, marking herself as mine in ways that would horrify her if she knew the truth.
But she doesn't need to know.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
My phone buzzes.
Peter this time:
We're in her apartment. You need to see this.
"Kneel," I tell Selene. "Right here. Don't move."
She drops immediately, the bells chiming, assuming the position I've trained her in—knees spread, hands behind her back, eyes down.
I move to my laptop, connecting to Peter's feed.
"Boss," Peter's voice comes through the earpiece. "Check the closet. Back wall."
The camera moves through her apartment to her bedroom closet.
Behind her clothes, they've found something interesting.
A wall covered in newspaper clippings, photos, research—all of it about her parents' murder.
All about the investigation that went nowhere.
But it's what's in the center that makes my blood run cold.
A sketch.
A drawing of a figure in a black mask.
The proportions are right.
The height, the build, even the way I held the gun.
She's drawn her parents' killer from memory.
She's drawn me.
"There's more," Paul's voice cuts in. He's holding a journal, reading: "I dream about him. The man who killed them.Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I thank him. Because without that night, I'd never know what I really am. What I need. The darkness calls to darkness."
Jesus Christ.
"Bag everything," I order. "Bring it here. Discreetly."
I close the laptop and turn back to Selene.
