"Whatever is necessary," I replied, the words carrying the weight of a vow. "Harris won't touch what's mine."
“I have Stella looking into Harris. If there’s any more to find, she’ll find it.”
“Thank you.”
“You just keep a close eye on your husband. Harris doesn’t just want him because he bought him. Now, it’s a pride thing. Connor is the one that got away.”
“Michael is with him now.”
There was a pause and then Jake asked, “Michael is with him? Julian, did Connor go somewhere without you?”
I briefly explained what happened the night Connor and I met and the fact that Connor was going now to confront her.
“Get him back!”
“Believe me, I wish I could, but Connor was insistent on meeting with her. He wants answers.” I couldn’t really blame him. I’d want answers, too.
“I’m going to make some calls and send some people to keep an eye on him. If his mother tries anything or Harris shows up, we can get him out of there.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“When we get him back, we need to talk about getting one of my little trackers in him.”
“Your trackers?”
"Several of us have trackers inserted under our skin that can track us up to five hundred mile radius in case we get kidnapped. They were invented in my lab. You can't see it once they are in place and you can barely feel it. It also reads heart rate, blood pressure, and temperature so that those searching for you can tell what kind of condition you are in."
“Jesus, Jake.” I thrust a nervous hand through my hair. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d let him out of your sight before.”
“Wasn’t my choice.”
Jake snorted. “Never is.”
As I ended the call, my reflection in the window showed a face transformed into a mask of cold fury, eyes hardened with the same ruthless determination that had built my empire. Harris had taken seven young men before.
Connor would not be the eighth.
Chapter Eight
~ Connor ~
I sat across from my mother, every muscle in my body tense as if bracing for impact. The cafe bustled around us, filled with the clinking of cups and the hum of conversation, while I stared at the woman who had given birth to me and then treated me like inventory.
She looked the same as always—perfectly styled blonde hair, expertly applied makeup, designer clothes that cost more than she claimed to have in her bank account when I'd asked for help with tuition. The familiar scent of her expensive perfume drifted across the table, no longer comforting but nauseating.
My father sat beside her, eyes downcast, examining the wooden tabletop as if it contained the secrets of the universe, anything to avoid looking at me directly.
"You look well, Connor," my mother said, her practiced smile never quite reaching her eyes. "We've been worried about you."
I almost laughed at the absurdity. "Worried? That's what you're going with?"
"Don't be difficult, sweetheart. We haven't heard from you in days." She pushed a coffee cup toward me. "I ordered your favorite. Caramel macchiato, extra shot."
I stared at the cup like it might sprout fangs. "Why am I merchandise to you?"
The question landed between us like a grenade, but my mother didn't even flinch. Instead, her smile tightened, eyes hardening even as her voice remained honey-sweet.
