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More laughter from them as they commit one vile act after another. The manner in which they speak, the way they handle her body, it’s as if she’s nothing more than personal entertainment. None of the monsters show their faces. At first I think there are four, but then realize they keep passing the camera to share who is recording.

Based on the voices there are three men.

I can’t focus on what’s being done to her, I have to concentrate on them, because I don’t want to see any more than I have to, though I’ll have to comb through the footage in more detail later. I note birthmarks, not-so-hidden tattoos, slight accents in their voices, shoes, watches, all of it. I catalog the room they’re in and anything that might give away their identities.

I flush, close the lid, and take a seat, dropping my head into my hands.

However the hell she did it—she fought her way out of a living nightmare that could have easily swallowed her whole. Not only did she escape, she built a beautiful life for herself.

Anna saved herself. Piece by piece. With care and intention, like everything else in her life.

There’s a tickle on my cheek, and when I go to scratch it, I discover it’s wet. I brush the errant tear away, unable to remember the last time I cried.

When the video ends I am frozen in place, numb and nauseated. The back of my throat burns from the stomach acid.

They think they can drag her back, torture her with memories, terrorize her into giving them money after they took everything? This is the first time the anger in my chest has felt cold. It’s not blazing or explosive or chaotic. Whatever is coursing through my veins is dark and controlled, calm and rooted in place.

My gaze shifts to the glossy pink hair fanned across her pillow. She’s all softness and strength.

Christ, and all week I’ve been getting on her about pulling away, about not being honest; I gave her a hard time for going quiet, as if I had any idea what she was going through. I didn’t even scratch the surface. I thought she was paying off some debt she was embarrassed about. I didn’t realize it was fucking blackmail.

Glancing down, I send the video, photos, messages, screenshots, all of it to myself, and set up a mirror on her phone in case I need to get inside it again—then erase any evidence of my tampering. I’m very good at finding people, and they’re about to learn that karma looks a lot like Casper Carrows.

Once I’m steady enough to stand, I locate a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and brush my teeth, taking extra time to rinse out my mouth. Then I exit the bathroom, place the phone on the charger, and crawl into bed beside her. I haul her into my arms and she exhales a sleepy sigh, snuggling into me and draping an arm around my middle. I kiss the top of her head and pour all of my restraint into slowing my breathing to match hers.

She was right, knowing her secret does change the way I see her, because now I know exactly what I’m willing to give up to keep her safe—everything.

By the time the sky lightens through her bedroom windows, I’m wide awake. I slide out from under the covers, contorting my body in ways that will ensure I don’t wake her. It’s not an easy feat considering the way I had my arm wrapped around her ribs like I could steal her from the present, where she’s peaceful and warm and I can keep her safe.

A soft exhale sounds in her throat, and my jaw tightens as I freeze in place, waiting for sleep to ease her back under again. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her hair, not loud enough for her to hear it or understand the depths of my words. I tuck the blanket around her, and for a brief moment I want to climb back into bed, but if I don’t leave now, I won’t, so I put on my clothes from yesterday.

I didn’t sleep last night so much as I lay there numb. One, maybe two hours of relaxed rest were all I could manage, just enough to keep my faculties sharp enough to track down the men in that video. After watching, I was justified in betraying her trust and looking through her phone. This is information I had to dig up myself. She never would have given it up willingly—and if she had, it wouldn’t be received timely—as in now.

As quietly as I can, I roll the bedroom pocket doors closed so I can head to the kitchen and get her breakfast. I set the oven on low to get it warmed up. Coffee brews behind me while I whip up some blueberry pancakes after discovering the ingredients in her pantry and fridge. The pan hisses when the wet batter is globbed onto the hot surface. Despite feeling like everything in me is operating on a different wavelength, I’m steadfast. The thoughts accumulating in my head are contained, but barely.

When I’m finished, I take extra time to plate the food so it looks appealing, the way she likely would if she were cooking. I turn off the oven and set the purple-speckled pancakes inside to keep them warm until she wakes. Then I quickly wash, dry, and put away the dishes to leave everything as I found it. It’s oddly calming to put her things away, though it feels somewhat like playing house.

She’s still not awake when I find a pen and notepad to scribble a message to her.

Good morning, Duchess.

Had to run some errands. I’ll be back this afternoon. Don’t go anywhere.

Breakfast is warming in the oven.

I sneak back into her bedroom and place it on the nightstand. It shouldn’t take me more than a few hours to accomplish what I need to. I’m being optimistic. I remove her house key from her key ring and take it with me so I’m able to lock it behind me. As soon as the front door closes and I hear the click, my vicious thoughts settle and are replaced with direction. I know what I have to do.

I stopped at the hardware store to make a duplicate of her key before I got home, in case I ever needed it. As soon as I stride through the door, I head to my bedroom to put on a fresh set of clothes. I open up my closet doors and freeze when my gaze catches on the few belts I own on the back wall. The crack of leather echoes in my thoughts and without thinking I snatch each one off the nails they’re hanging from. Fuck it, I’ll invest in suspenders. I toss the belts in the garbage, never wanting to see a belt touch her skin ever again.

After getting into a fresh set of clothes, I drop down at my desk and fire up my workstation.

I load the files taken from her phone into my computer and open them in a program that allows me to scan the video frame by frame. Taking a deep breath, I work up the courage to hit play. I’ve seen violence, I’ve done violence—but this? This was beyond cruelty, this was familiarity and entitlement.

Their casual demeanor carries a confidence that only comes from repeated behavior without ever facing consequences. She was idle amusement. The fact that the blackmailer isn’t currently behind bars tells me everything I need to know about how well the system handled it. Which is to say it didn’t.

So I will.

It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I know the type of men who destroy women, good women like my mother. Men like this don’t give up, they keep coming back, taking one piece after another until there’s nothing left.