Page 74 of Wicked Heat

Nothing except the blank expression of a woman trying to hide inside herself.

“But enough chatter,” the voice continued in a perky, almost clown-like voice. “If you have chosen a devil as your champion, then so be it. But every champion must fight for the honor of his lady fair. And it’s just deserts that your noble Ash learn what you truly are. Pitiful. Lost. Used. And—dare we say it—broken.”

The black screen turned into a swirl of color, then the colors melted into letters that spelled out GREATEST HITS.

“What the hell?” he muttered as Bree choked out a single word: “No.”

He eased closer, releasing her hand so he could put an arm around her, but she scooted away. “Don’t.” Her voice was high-pitched and as taut as a wire. “Don’t touch me.”

Something hard and horrible twisted in his gut as he studied her face, but it wasn’t pain or fear he saw. Not anymore. Now it was strength and fury.

He nodded, glad for the fury. In his experience that was one of the best fuels for a fight. And right then, he knew she was fighting hard to stay calm.

As he watched, the words faded. The screen was black again. No image. No sound.

Then he heard breathing. Shallow. Then a whimper. Only the slightest of sounds, but it tore at his heart. Bree. Even from that tiny, pained sound, he knew that it was her.

The next voice wasn’t. It was hard and harsh and distorted. “Strip.”

At the other end of the couch, Bree shuddered.

Then the screen popped to life. She was there, sprawled naked on the floor, presumably asleep or passed out. A man approached, or at least Ash assumed it was a man. He couldn’t tell since the figure was covered in a black robe and ski mask.

The hand was gloved, but it came off before touching Bree.

Vile. Intimate.

Taking her all the way, her body responding. The rest of her hiding inside herself, locked in a drugged sleep.

Ash forced himself not to react. Not to lash out in fury or try to pull her close to him. He needed it—to touch her and know that she was safe.

But right then, he knew, his touch was the last thing she needed.

“I’ll leave,” he whispered. “I don’t care if it was addressed to me. I’m invading your privacy, and⁠—”

Her hand reached out, finding his fingertips, then she scooted minutely closer so that she could take his hand. She didn’t look at him, but the single word she spoke went straight to his heart. “Stay.”

He nodded, and as the rest of the horror played out, she kept her hand tight around his.

Five incidents. All similar. Some with one robed tormentor. Some with two. Some touching her with fingers. Some penetrating with toys. And all with Bree in a drugged haze that was only broken by cries when her captors took her to orgasm, or whimpers when the drugs began to wear off and some semblance of reality teased at her before the cloaked figures hurried to force her to drink more of whatever they were dosing her with.

Then Bree was alone in the room, curled up on the floor and crying, appearing only half-conscious when one of the figures entered. “Looks like someone’s coming to thank you for a lovely date night,” the voice said to her. “Apparently your body paid your ransom. They let you go, didn’t they? And you abandoned that poor little girl who they kept behind.”

Then the screen popped to black. “Rivals anything out of Hollywood, don’t you think?” the voice said. “Drama. Secrets. Heartbreak and pain. So riveting. So revealing. And now we must thank you for your patronage… and for the three million. We do hope you still have the original code and that you calendared our appointment. We’d hate for you to miss the transfer time. But if you do, the world will certainly be entertained. All this and more, Bree. All out in the world if the money is even a one second late. Goodbye.”

It was over.

Bree yanked her hand back, then drew up her knees and hugged her legs.

He stood, then tossed his phone onto the coffee table as if the phone, not the link, was the vile and tainted thing.

He wanted to reach out to Bree. To hold her close and absorb her pain. To take it into himself and leave her only peace.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even reach out a hand for her. Not when she’d just pulled away. Because there was no way—no way at all—he was violating her personal space.

For that matter, there was no way in hell he was continuing this game they were playing. He’d give her the three million—hell, he’d give her more if that’s what it took to keep her safe from those tormentors—but that bullshit agreement he’d forced on her?

No fucking way.