The soothing voice starts sounding like someone with a backbone. Katie perks up, listening, while another part of her brain wonders where her mother is. “Mr. McLaughlin, focus. Your daughter has abrasions on her wrists and ankles indicative of being tied up. She has anal and vaginal tearing consistent with rape. Her right cheekbone and eye socket are fractured as if she was punched repeatedly by a strong fist. She has broken ribs and lash marks as if from a whip or belt. This is not from a party or her own doing. She is a victim.”

Katie stops breathing, her chest constricting as it struggles for air, her body suddenly chiming in with all of the places that ache, bleed, are broken. She stops trying to see past the white, stops trying to listen to her father, and only tries to think. To open up last night’s window and remember. Then memories pour in, and she reopens her mouth. Gasps in a breath while she wheezes out a scream. Her lips, her tongue, finally working, opening and shutting as sound actually comes out.

She can speak. This is good. She doesn’t hear her father’s response to the stranger’s voice. His thoughts, his words, no longer matter. She is too busy screaming for her broken soul.

She remembers, her memories going back to a dim bedroom, no clear understanding of how she got there. She remembers waking up in the room. The man before her. The smile on his face… the… oh my God…

She remembers.

She remembers.

She remembers.

And suddenly, she wants nothing but to forget.

PART 3

“Can you rip his head off for me? Start pushing at his forehead until it snaps the fuck off? Yank in and rip out tendril after tendril of veins and organs until he is a hot dripping mess of blood?”

CHAPTER 52

MARCUS SIGHS. THIS should be a joyous occasion. The literal unshackling of oppression. Trumpets should sound, friends should surround him, bitches should cheer. Instead, the removal of Marcus’s anklet is done without ceremony, his attorney looking on dourly at the rate of four hundred an hour. When the metal piece finally falls, the demon inside of him flexes itchy wings, and Marcus tries to keep a grin off his face. Finally, he’ll have a normal range of activity. To dine in his old restaurants. To visit his properties. To return to the life of the elite. His old self would be making plans, calling business associates, celebrating with champagne and filet tonight.

Instead, he has only one thought. Only one goal. The reward that has, over the last three months, grown into an obsession. And now, with the bitch’s address burning a hole in his pocket, it is the only thing he can think of. He shakes his attorney’s hand, gives him a grim smile, then turns to the redheaded houseboy. “Gas up my car and pack me a bag. I have work to take care of.”

CHAPTER 53

18 hours later

EMPTY TIME. IN moments of weakness it has led to violence. But empty time has also been the creation point for much of Marcus’s wealth and most of his plans. Empty time can be precious if used properly. Can give him valuable moments to strategize. To think. To figure out the things most people rush right over. To judge past decisions and learn from his mistakes. Now, he drives. The open road before him, hours both behind and ahead. Empty time. Planning time.

It feels strange to drive, his initial hundred miles hesitant before he regained his confidence. Before prison, he rarely drove. Had people for that, every moment useful, a million-dollar property often brokered in the backseat. Real estate development and management is a nonstop process, one where a missed opportunity can mean lost market share. Now, he sees all of the benefits of being behind the wheel. Freedom. Obscurity. At this moment in time, this moment in space, no one on earth knows where he is. What he is doing. Before, with Thorat, a driver, and security staff, there were too many pieces. Pieces that all became liabilities when it came time for his trial. People had to be paid, controlled, intimidated. Thorat handled it all, keeping the silence while enjoying a healthy bonus and protection from Marcus in return. All of Thorat’s efforts useless, the jail cell still clanging behind him with finality. Yes, Thorat’s procurement of the women, the delivery and cleanup crews, had all been convenient, his fuck house had been ideal, complete control of the environment liberating, but it had tied a hundred strings of evidence to him in the process. He had been stupid and egotistic to think he’d never be caught.

Here, on the open road, he has so many more options. And nothing but time to plan the perfect ending for Jess Reilly.

It has been weeks since their last chat, but she’s been present every day in his mind. Like a flea you can’t find on your skin. Taunting, teasing him. He’d had to satisfy himself with handfucks to her website’s videos, her recorded voice coming through the speakers. Soon, he’ll have her. In the flesh—not through the computer. His hands will be able to touch, his mouth to taste. She will be his coming-back act. And he won’t necessarily have to kill her. Not if she behaves. Fucking might be enough, his cock in her, his hand on her face, forcing her eyes to his. She might behave, speak and tell him what he needs to hear. How good his cock feels. How much she wants him. How she was a little bitch for blocking him. How sorry she is. How he can fuck her any way that he wants. He will tie her down, spread-eagle. Fuck her face, her ass, the slutty place between her thighs. Maybe leave her there for an hour while he explores the town, has a celebratory steak and a nice merlot. Return when she’s reached the point of panic. Fuck her through that stage. Let her scream into the gag until she’s hoarse, beg until she cries. Take her again. Break her until the only thing she knows is his touch, and the only voice she recognizes is his. Then, depending on her spirit, he will decide what to do. Holding her life in his hands, he’ll be in the ultimate position of power.