I toss the last dress into my trunk, grinning. Tonight is finally the night. It’s been a long and crazy lead-up—first convincing Dad that I’d be fine going to college in California, so far away from him, and then managing all the details from here. He only let me visit once last year, to scope out the campus before I made my final decision. It was an awesome time, especially to hang out with Cece in her native territory. Normally, I only see her and Mom when they come to visit New York since Dad doesn’t like me traveling alone, and he doesn’t like leaving town himself.

Cece’s still wilder than I am, though once I hung out with her in person, I realized that a lot of the photos she sends me bragging about her crazy adventures are exaggerated. Even though I’m 21 and she’s only 19, she already drinks more than I do, but that’s just 2-3 drinks per party, and then she’s back home by one or two in the morning. I’d been a little nervous that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her, but we had fun. Heck, I think a few guys were even flirting with me.

I wonder if any of the guys who attended the open campus weekend decided to enroll there, and if so, whether any of them will be in my classes. Maybe I’ll run into them at orientation tomorrow—tomorrow, I think, still stunned by how quickly my life is changing.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the princess that Dad kept locked in his tower. Stuck on this sprawling estate, only allowed out to go to school or school-sponsored events. I want to stretch my wings, travel, and now that I’m finally off to college, it’s about time to do that.

I grin at my suitcases, proud of myself. I managed to fit everything I’ll need for the year into two suitcases—though admittedly, pretty large ones. Anything else I need, Dad has assured me I can charge it to him when I get to campus.

“That includes a plane ticket home if you change your mind,” he added when he gave me the credit card, and from the worried look in his eyes and the crease between his brows, I don’t think he was 100% joking about that.

Well, sorry Dad, but I won’t be changing my mind, I think as I zip my suitcase closed for the last time.

I can’t wait for Cali weather. To see Mom more, to go on adventures with Cece. And to start classes—I’m following in my mother’s footsteps and studying art, my lifelong dream. I can’t wait to dive in.

The whole world is at my fingertips. I’m finally free, and I’m going to make the most of it.

I haul my suitcase off the bed and drag it into the hall beside my other suitcase. Gerard, our butler, meets me at the top of the stairs.

“I’ll take those, Miss Badiary,” he says, grabbing them both before I can protest.

“Gerard. How many times do I have to ask you to just call me Pamona?”

“At least once more, Miss Badiary,” he replies, a twinkle in his eye as he descends the steps in front of me, suitcases in hand. I swear he does this just to annoy me. “Shall I have Andrew start the Porsche?”

Andrew is our chef, though he doubles as a handyman and a driver.

“No, don’t bother him. I called a taxi.”

Gerard pauses on the stairs, looking over his shoulder at me. “Are you sure that’s wise? Your father asked me to have Andrew drive you personally…”

I roll my eyes. “Dad is paranoid, Gerard, and you know it. I’ll be perfectly fine. And tell Dad that if he was so worried about my safety, he’d be here to see me off himself, not off at that stupid conference or whatever.”

Gerard’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t disagree. He sets my suitcases side-by-side in the foyer and reaches out to pat my shoulder. “I’m sure your father wishes he could be here, Pamona.”

I flinch at the sympathy in his tone. Gerard has been working for us long enough to know exactly how my father is—overprotective as hell, and yet, for all that he claims to care about my wellbeing and safety, he’s never around when I actually need him. Just like now. Just like always lately—his occasional irritable evenings have morphed into a constant stream of bad moods. I can’t remember the last time I saw my father smile or spotted him without deep stress lines carved across his face.

“Well, he’s not, so…” I brush off Gerard’s hand and pick up my bags myself. “I’ll take it from here.” I toss my shoulders back, straightening. I’ve got this.

“Yes,” Gerard agrees, to my surprise. When I glance back, there’s a sad look in his eye, something almost like regret. “I believe you will.”

Then he’s gone back to his regular duties. I don’t know the half of everything Gerard does for our family, cloistered away in Dad’s study bent over the accounting books Dad keeps, and I have a feeling that I don’t want to know. I like Gerard too much to think about how dirty his hands must be.

Then again, they can’t be anywhere near as dirty as my father’s.

I shake the thoughts from my mind and check my phone. The taxi will be here in five minutes, and this house already feels like the past to me. I need to get some fresh air. Step out of this dungeon and into the future.

I wrench the door open and stride out into the chilly fall evening. The air smells crisp, layered with falling leaves and a hint of snow on the breeze. It’s early for snow, even here in upstate New York, but the weather has been odd lately, so who knows what could happen.

I won’t have to worry about it, though. Pretty soon I’ll be basking in the California sunshine, watching sunsets over the ocean and enjoying the sea breeze.

A smile drifts over my face, and I close the door behind me to settle down on the stoop to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The taxi never comes.

Fifteen minutes later, I sigh and turn around to head back inside. “Gerard?” I call when I reach the foyer. But there’s no reply. That’s strange, I think as I stride through the halls. I check the study, but it’s empty. There’s a chill throughout the house, one I didn’t notice before. I shiver as I leave the study and hurry through the hallway, back toward the kitchen.

“Andrew?” I call. “Gerard?”

No answer. Something about the way my voice echoes in the empty house is starting to give me the chills. I walk faster now, practically jogging, all the way back to the garage. But when I wrench open the door, it’s empty too. No cars; not Gerard’s or Andrew’s, or even Dad’s Corvette.

I back away from the door, my stomach curling. Something is wrong.

There’s a sharp buzz, and I let out a yelp. Then I laugh, my heart still pounding, trying to relax.

The doorbell.

Gerard probably just went to look for me and got locked out, that’s all. Or maybe they went to run an errand and my taxi finally arrived.

Shaking my head, internally chiding myself for getting spooked so easily, I hurry back through the long hallways of the house to the front door.

“What happened?” I ask as I fling it open, expecting Gerard’s smiling face.

Instead, I’m greeted by a stranger.

He’s tall, almost a head taller than me, with muscles visible through his tight black T-shirt—not the bulky, bulging kind, but the lean, trim muscles of someone who’s strong by necessity, not choice. His pale blue eyes catch my attention immediately, even with how distractingly handsome the rest of his face is. There’s something familiar about those eyes… About the way he smiles, slow and dangerous, and his gaze tracks down my body. Bold and possessive, like he knows he can get away with it.

I take a step back into the foyer. “Can I help you?” I ask, remembering where we are. Remembering there’s nobody else in this house and this guy does not look like a cab driver.

He laughs, a low, cruel sound that sends another shiver down my spine, sharper this time. “You can help me by coming quietly to my car,” he says. “But if you want to fight, that’s fine with me too.”

Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and I back away another step, raising my voice. “Gerard!” I shout. “We have a guest.” I try to keep my voice steady, act like I’m not terrified. Act like there’s someone else here who could come to help me at any moment.

But the man just laughs again, in a knowing way that chills my blood. “No one is coming to help you. Everyone knows that it’s finally time for Calvin Badiary to pay the price for his wicked ways.”

I freeze halfway to the staircase. Take him in again, slower this time. Those cut-glass cheekbones, the dark stubble across his strong jawline. The fire in his deceptively ice-cool eyes.

I know this man.

Five years ago, he saved my life. Five years ago, he rescued me, and then scared me half to death.

Five years ago, I spent the better part of a summer dreaming of this man every night. When I first slid my hand down my panties and started to explore myself, learning just how good it could feel, he’s the one who drifted into my fantasies every time. In those fantasies, though, he didn’t leave me alone in that dark alley. In my fantasies, he pushed me up against the wall and took what he wanted. He claimed me as his prize, and I loved every second of it.

My face flushes, and he lifts his eyebrows, noticing.

I shake my head to snap out of it. “You need to leave,” I say, putting on my best haughty rich-girl voice, a tone I’ve perfected over the years.

“If you don’t come willingly, I have no problem throwing you over my shoulder and dragging you out of here,” he replies, his voice level and unconcerned. Like we’re talking about the weather or a casual stroll. Not him showing up at my father’s house to try and kidnap me.

“Like hell you will.” I spin on my heel then, my brain already racing. I can sprint to the kitchen, grab the phone and dial the police. Maybe by the time they come, Gerard or Andrew will have returned too.

But before I can make it even a few steps down the hall, a firm hand closes around my wrist and yanks me backward.

“You’re coming with me, Pamona,” he growls, his breath hot against my cheek as he pulls me against him. The moment our bodies touch, a flush spreads across my face. His hand is gripping my wrist hard enough to hurt, but I can’t help the way my heart rate speeds up and my breath goes shallow with desire. I want him just as much as I hate him right now.

“Let me go.” I yank at my wrist, trying to break his grip. But he’s not like those stupid teenagers in the alley all those years ago. He knows better.

One solid tug, and he spins me around to face him. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s grabbing me and flinging me over his shoulder, as easily as if I weigh nothing at all. He pins me against his shoulder, one arm around my legs and the other grabbing my ass firmly to hold me in place.

“Put me down!” I shriek, punching at his back. That only makes him squeeze my ass harder, and embarrassingly, I can feel my pussy starting to clench. No guy has ever touched me before, let alone like this. So possessively, so completely in control. He can take whatever he wants from me, and he knows it…

He strides across the yard, and my stomach aches where it’s bent over his shoulder. I can see a limo parked in the entryway, the gate wide open. Almost like someone let him in. I lift my head and spot the outline of someone in the guard booth—our night guard. Oh, thank god.

“Help!” I scream in his general direction, wishing I remembered his name. Ben? Brian? B-something.

The shadow in the booth swivels toward us. The man ignores it entirely, still walking calmly toward the limo.

Barry. That’s it. “Barry, help me!” I shout again, and I can see him in the booth now, his eyes on us, clearly watching the scene unfold.

Then he turns back to his screen, unconcerned, and starts typing something on the computer.

The gate to the property whirs open, clearing the way for this man’s escape.

My stomach sinks to my toes. That’s when I realize, well and truly, that I am trapped. Nobody is coming to save me. Nobody will help.

The man throws open the back door of the limo, and I’ve gone limp with shock when he tosses me into the backseat. All I can do is stare out the window at Barry, the man my father hired a couple of years ago, who knows me, who knows my Dad. He’s letting this happen.

Was everyone? Is that why Gerard and Andrew both left the house? Leaving me alone and vulnerable?

I curl over my legs, defeated.

That’s when the man takes the seat beside me and pulls the door shut after him. Up front somewhere, hidden behind tinted glass, a driver starts the engine and backs up to turn us around.

“I told you, Pamona,” he murmurs, and now his voice sounds almost apologetic. Like maybe some part of him regrets doing this. “No one is going to help you.”

That spurs me into lifting my head. I raise my chin, meeting his gaze. Pretending that I don’t feel the curl of fear in my stomach or the adrenaline sizzling in my veins. “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember me?” He lifts one eyebrow, smirking, the very picture of insolence. “I would have thought you’d recall your savior.”

“I thought you said you were the trouble, not the savior,” I respond. Then I bite my lip, realizing what I did. I admitted that I do remember him.

His smirk widens. “I knew I made an impression.”

“A poor one,” I respond, still keeping my head held high. “And you never did tell me your name. Why not? Afraid that I could use it against you? You’re willing to go to all these lengths to take me, to punish my father, but you can’t even admit who you are. Sounds less like trouble and more like cowardice to me.”

In one smooth, terrifyingly quick motion, he’s across the seat, looming over me. He grips my jaw in one tight hand, pulls my face up toward his, his body crushed against mine. I’m only wearing a thin sundress, in anticipation of the California weather I thought I’d be enjoying when I landed tonight. Instead, I feel the hard press of his muscles through my too-flimsy dress. My nipples ache at the warm heat washing off of him, and I pray they don’t harden. Don’t give away what I’m feeling right now, which is a horrifyingly powerful wash of lust.

I remember his scent most of all, and now it washes over me again, all musk and heat.

“I am not ashamed of anything. Not my name, not who I am. Not my family, either, which is more than I can say for you.” His gaze holds mine, piercing. That is, until I suck in a sharp breath. Then his eyes drop, taking in my lips, and my heart rate triples, a sharp, aching pound in my chest.

He could kiss me. We’re so close now, breaths apart. I can feel his chest heaving against mine, his hot breath ghosting across my cheeks.

Why does he do this to me? Why is it hard to catch my breath? Why is my belly tightening and my clit aching like it’s thickening in response to his proximity? Why do I feel more turned-on than I ever have in my life?

He releases my chin and pushes back across the seat, away from me. “My name is Farrow Lochlan,” he says. “I am—was—a business associate of your father’s.”

Lochlan. The name rings a distant bell, though I can’t quite place it. Someone I’ve heard Dad talk about behind his closed study door, or in murmurs with suited men as they shake hands and bid one another farewell in the hall.

I shake my head and slide across the seat, away from him. Press myself against the door and lean my head on the window. It’s tinted, so I can’t see anything outside, but I keep my eyes on it, waiting until my breathing is even and calm.

“Where are we going?” I say.

In the window, I watch his reflection unlatch a sideboard in the limo. Pull out two glasses, followed by a bottle of dark amber. He swirls the drink, then pours it, neat, a hefty pour into each glass.

“Here,” he says, offering me one of the glasses. “Drink.”

“I’m not thirsty,” I respond, narrowing my eyes in the dark glass window. “I just want to know where you’re taking me.”

He takes my hand and lifts it. Uncurls my fingers with a tender, almost gentle touch. Then wraps them around the glass and folds it around, so I’m holding the glass in my lap now. When he releases me this time, my skin feels cold where his warm touch was a second earlier. “It will calm your nerves. Trust me.”

“Why on earth should I trust you?” I snap, turning to face him once more. “You carried me out of my house, threw me in this limo, took me away from my life, my family. I have a plane to catch tonight; my first day on campus is tomorrow, and you won’t even tell me where you’re taking me.”

Farrow laughs, hard. I clench my fist around the glass, afraid of what’s amusing him. When his eyes catch mine again, they flash with dark humor. “Pamona. You will not be making your flight tonight. You will not be attending college, either.”

“The hell I won’t,” I spit, my jaw clenched.

But he’s not done. “The only thing you will be attending to is me. My wants. My needs.” He reaches across to trail his fingers along my arm. From my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, where he casually brushes the strap of my sundress so that it falls down to my elbow. I startle so hard I spill my drink on myself. I grab my strap and pull it back onto my shoulder.

He watches me do it, smirking. “As I said, your father owes a debt. I look forward to you paying that debt back to me.”

I can’t help it. It’s a physical reaction, automatic. I throw what’s left of my drink in his face. He takes it without hardly a reaction, the smirk still on his mouth as he reaches for a napkin on the sideboard, and calmly wipes away the liquid dripping down his jaw.

“I am not a thing,” I spit. “I am not property. You cannot just take me, much less for some imagined debt you think my father owes you.”

“You have no idea what your father owes me,” he replies, those icy blue eyes flashing dangerously. “Or what he’d be willing to sacrifice to repay it.”

“I know my father wouldn’t willingly put me in this position. I know he’s going to stop at nothing to find me once he learns that you’ve taken me.”

“Oh, will he?” Farrow’s smirk widens with amusement. He pulls out his phone, and I wish I hadn’t thrown my drink so soon. I’d rather douse his phone in it. At least then he might be somewhat fazed.

He pulls up something, and hands the phone to me. It takes a moment for the screen to resolve in the darkened limo, and another moment for me to understand what it is I’m looking at.

It’s a website, but not one I’ve ever seen before. It looks like an auction site, except that the header is hot pink and emblazoned with scantily clad girls in sexy poses.

“I don’t want to know what kind of porn you watch, but you—”

“Read it,” he interrupts, his voice low and commanding.

I scowl at him, but thumb over the site, scrolling down. Then I freeze, eyes widening. Because I recognize the photo on this page.

It’s me.

I’m in a sundress, not unlike the one I’m wearing now. It’s my senior photo with my hair done up and a cute smile plastered on my face. Innocent, almost too innocent, placed on a site like this. It makes it look like I’m trying to pose this way. Like I’m playing it up, enjoying how angelic I appear.

Underneath, I skim through the details. My name and a description of my life. I’m a pampered rich girl, accustomed to the good things in life. I go to an all-girls’ school upstate, where I enjoy painting and studying classical art. I have never partied, never drank alcohol, never even kissed a man, let alone touched one. I am the ultimate virgin.

My stomach churns. Who could have written this about me? And how do they know?

I mean, of course I haven’t been with a man. How could I have? Dad never let me out of his sight long enough to strike up a flirtation, let alone get to know a guy enough that I wanted to kiss him.

In fact, the only guy who’s ever even come close to touching me is sitting right next to me in this limo now, studying my expression with a smirk on his mouth as reality sinks in.

Only one person could have made this ad.

My father.

“I don’t understand,” I snap, shoving the phone back at Farrow.

Instead of accepting it, he points at a banner near the top. Auction complete, it reads. And beside that, another line. Winning bidder: Floch.

Then he settles in to the seat beside me, so I’m pinned between him and the window. His warm body blazes against mine, his arm on my skin, his hip touching mine.

I continue to scroll through the site, in a desperate bid to ignore the desire that starts to curl through me. I scroll up to the top of the site and read the banner. Virgins for Sale.

“Your father fucked over the wrong people for years,” Farrow says. “Wrote bad checks. Skipped out of town at convenient times. Lied to investors. Robbed Peter to pay Paul, so to speak. He had no other choice.”

“My father would never do this to me,” I snap.

“Admittedly, I might have given him the idea,” Farrow adds, his lip curling with a grin. “It was a few years ago. I pointed out that he does have two very attractive assets that he hadn’t considered using. Innocent, sheltered virgins are something of a rarity in the world these days, after all.”

I feel sick. I’m going to be sick. “My father did not keep us sheltered all our lives just for this.”

“No, no, of course not. He wanted to protect you. Spare you the horrors of the world.” Farrow brushes my shoulder again, trailing his fingers along my skin with the brazen possessiveness of a man who already knows he owns me. “But the idea was there. All it took was a few more years of stress. A few more years of investors laying on the pressure, and your father slowly realizing that if he didn’t choose this, then both he and you would wind up in a far worse position.”

“He agreed to sell my virginity?” I clench my fist around the phone. Fury grows as the truth settles in. “To pay off what, a few bad loans?”

“More than a few, my dear.” Farrow’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “It was this, or your father would have most likely wound up dead at the bottom of the Hudson River.”

I throw his phone, as hard as I can. There’s a moment of satisfaction as I hear it crack against the bar. Then he grabs my wrist and shoves me backwards. Pins me onto the seat beneath him, my arm over my head, trapped in his tight grip.

“That’s quite enough of the throwing things, Miss Badiary,” Farrow says, eyes narrowed. “You will learn to behave yourself.”

“I most certainly will not,” I growl. “I will not agree to this situation, and I will not be forced.”

Farrow catches my eye, grinning. Then he leans in and nuzzles my neck. His lips skim across my skin, not quite a kiss, but enough that I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. His stubble skims over my sensitive skin, a touch so light and yet it sets off electricity in my nerves. I feel like a live wire, ready to spark at any second.

“I never expected you to go along with this,” he murmurs against my skin. Then he draws back from me, lets go of my wrist.

I sit up, rubbing my arm, and glare at him as he picks up his phone. A few taps, and he holds it up to show me another page.

My blood goes cold.

It’s another auction. One still in progress, according to the scrolling header. I recognize this photo, too.

It’s Cece.

Cecelia Badiary, reads the header, her full, formal name. I am 19 years old. The youngest daughter of Calvin Badiary. I live in California, where…

I close my eyes. I can’t read the rest. I can imagine. I’m a sweet innocent babygirl virgin. Buy me, so you can be the first man to fuck me. My Daddy won’t mind.

I cannot believe my father would stoop so low. And yet, here is the proof, right in front of my eyes.

“Your mother and Cecelia have no idea that she is being auctioned,” Farrow explains, shutting off his phone and pocketing it. “Her auction doesn’t end for another month. But you don’t need to worry. Cecelia never needs to find out she’s up for sale. She never needs to go through what you are now.”

I lift my chin, glaring at him. “How can you guarantee that?” I snap.

“Because,” he answers, infuriatingly calm, “if you do everything that I say; if you please me for this month, then I will buy out Cecelia’s auction. I’ll release the money to your father, clear all his debts. I won’t touch your sister—no one will, and no one will ever need to know about this.” He taps his pocket. The phone, and that evil, fucked-up website inside it. “Your sister can go on living her life, unaware of the danger she so narrowly missed.”

Farrow shrugs and leans back in the seat. “Or, you can fight me. Resist me. Misbehave for the whole month. And then some other man, a man you don’t know, probably one of your father’s older business associates, someone with far less morals than me, will buy your baby sister. He’ll have his way with her—and I guarantee, he will not give her nearly as much freedom to choose as I am giving you.”

That ice-hot gaze of his bores into mine. But that infuriating smile stays put.

Because damn him. He already knows what I’m going to say, even before I do. I scowl, clench my fists tight. But I say what I need to. What I must, to protect her.

“One question,” I say. “What do you get out of it?”

His smile widens. “Revenge.”

Another shiver races along my spine. I remember the alley, the night I wondered whether he was the good guy or the bad guy. Definitely the latter.

“Fine. I’ll go with you,” I spit through clenched teeth.

Farrow only laughs. “I know.”

* * *

I don’t know where we are. At least a few hours from Dad’s estate, so probably still New York, though it’s father upstate. Deep in the woods, to judge by the view when Farrow finally opens the door and I step out of the limo. Forest, as far as I can see in every direction. It’s quiet now, at night, and the moon skims over the trees, a sharp crescent, glinting against a backdrop of a thousand stars. More than we usually see, even in our relatively small town.

It would be beautiful if I weren’t so furious about being here.

I climb out of the limo and join Farrow on the walk toward the house. It’s massive, but not in an ostentatious way. It’s like it was built for this location—it’s old-fashioned, wood-accented. With its vaulting carapaces and elaborate windows it blends into its surroundings. It’s enchanting.

It also looks expensive. Ridiculously so. Especially when he leads me up the steps and a butler opens the front door, bowing us into an elaborate foyer with marble floors and a huge chandelier above which catches the light and throws it across the several-stories-high ceiling in bright rainbows of color.

“Mr. Lochlan,” the butler says, bowing, and I feel another pang in my chest as I think of Gerard.

Did he know what my father was planning? He must have if he left the house empty for this man. For Farrow Lochlan to come and claim me. Dad must have ordered Gerard to leave. That’s probably why he looked at me that way when he said goodbye… His eyes full of regret…

My chest clenches tight. I narrow my eyes at the butler as if this is his fault.

For his part, Farrow’s butler refuses to meet my eyes. He studies the floor at my feet as he holds the door for us.

I stare him down, as angry with him for cooperating in this madness as I am at Farrow for taking advantage of me. Of my father’s weakness.

But most of all, I’m furious at my father for putting me in this position.

Farrow notices me studying the butler, the gilded hallway, the high ceilings. “I’m in the business of protection,” he comments as we cross the floor, our footsteps echoing.

I can’t help it. I scoff, rolling my eyes at the idea of Farrow protecting anyone. “I can’t imagine your protection pays this well,” I add, meaning that it’s a bit rich for him to be paid to protect others when he’s taking advantage of me.

But his gaze only darkens, and his mouth twists with some inner rage. “You’d be surprised what people will pay to be safe. Or be made to feel safe, anyway.”

Then he’s walking away, down the hall, and I have no choice but to follow. I trail him through house, past closed doors and through large rooms—a library lined with books, a study with an elaborate drawing table, an enormous dining room clearly made for entertaining, though I wonder how much of that Farrow could possibly do, isolated in the woods like this.

We pass a kitchen, and I spot another servant inside, a maid dusting shelves and a cook at the stove. They both look up, smile and greet Mr. Lochlan. Their gazes skim right past me as if I’m not even here. I feel like a ghost walking at his side.

“Hello,” I reply, after they both ignore me, hoping to draw at least some kind of attention.

The maid glances at me once, her eyes narrowed and cold. Then she goes back to dusting, and Farrow leads onward, up a set of stairs.

We enter a room on the second floor, brightly lit by chandeliers and ornate sconces set into the walls. It has no windows, but a lot of circular, comfy-looking couches. It looks like the room you’d find in a spa lounge. I wonder if he entertains people here, too. Maybe this is the drawing room where they recline and sip cocktails made by a hired bartender until the dining room downstairs is set and ready to receive guests.

I’m still studying the room, trying to determine its exact purpose, when I hear the door click shut behind me.

I turn around to find Farrow leaning against the closed doors, watching me with hooded, unreadable eyes.

“Strip,” he says.