My eyes have remained glued to the monitors ever since Destiny first stirred. In five days I’ve done little else even though I know she might sleep for weeks. Highly unusual behavior for me. So was bringing her home. I don’t know what possessed me.

Except for Sasha and my majordomo, Steve, I do my ultimate best to avoid people. Work, eat, sleep, repeat, that’s my life. When I need a good fuck, I make a trip to the Masquerade Club and hook up. Occasionally, Subs hold my interest for an hour or so. I make it clear the arrangement is strictly temporary. Once boredom sets in on either side, I send them on their way.

I hunt predators by night and scare the hell out of entities by day. That pretty much describes my life after Savannah. And, I’m damned good at it. It’s why the government and global corporations pay me the big bucks. I have referrals coming out of my ears and have to turn business away. Yet here I sit, watching some little urchin instead of doing what needs to be done to find the head honcho.

I have one purpose and one purpose only: find the men responsible for the rape and murder of my fiancée. I’m on the ultimate search and destroy mission—find the bastards, and slowly and painfully annihilate their digital existence, all while totally fucking with their lives. Sasha ties up any loose ends. She enjoys the rough stuff. Always has. Truth be told, it’s rare we need her particular brand of sadistic skills; most perps off themselves. Living without an identity in today’s world renders them unable to do anything. Therein lies the power of identity theft.

My single-minded pursuit of Savannah’s killers sucks me into the vortex of “The Game,” the sad, sordid underbelly of the sex trade, in pristine Southwestern Ontario, Canada. The True North strong and free. Yeah right.

I was getting close to the kingpin, or should I say queen-pin as all signs pointed to the head of this particular sex slave syndicate being a woman. Sasha and I had peeled back layer after layer, and all roads pointed to Viper being the pimp and our ticket into the heart of the hive. Now I’d gone and pissed him off by snatching his prized possession from right under his nose. Time to move on to plan B.

When Savannah died, I did whatever it took to find the bastards preying on the young and vulnerable. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. Who else is there for them? And how did Destiny get involved in this mess? She isn’t all that young, and she sure as hell wouldn’t strike anyone as vulnerable.

I grab my hair in my hands and tip my face toward the ceiling. Why the fuck do I care? Usually, the only personal interest I take in a slave is ensuring she has the resources to heal and restart her life. But that moment when my eyes first met Destiny’s burns deep in my mind. For a split second, I saw behind that wall of absolute fury, and what I saw gripped my heart and gave a tug . . . I saw terror. I saw the child she’s never had the chance to be. Hence, the enigma. I want a piece of her mind. I want her body and soul . . . given willingly. I smack my hand against my forehead. I have to get a grip.

After Sasha left, Destiny hugged herself for a few minutes before devouring her breakfast. Her movements were slow—cracked ribs, probably. From my initial exam, I knew they weren’t broken. Far too many cuts and contusions, but no breaks, thank God.

Her movements alternate between being as graceful as a dancer and as cautious as a boxer injured in the ring. Just like that, the image of Destiny in the gym—panting and sweaty—flies into my head. What kind of boxer would she be? Would she tease and mislead or go straight for the kill? I like to shadow box—dance to the left, fade to the right—anything to keep my opponent guessing. When they least expect it, throw the knockout punch. I drag my mind back to my computer and catch up on my email.

Destiny spends most of the week sleeping, only waking long enough to bathe and devour the food left for her. She’s well into one of her sleep cycles. I close my eyes and take stock. I should have done what I always do: take Destiny to the rehab clinic and give them the money for her treatment and recovery. Recovery includes paying a year’s rent on an apartment and setting her up with a good job. Money isn’t an issue. I’ve made a shitload of it but have absolutely no business sense. Thankfully, Sasha has enough business sense to take care of the day-to-day. I count on my accountant to do the rest.

I watch Destiny carefully as the days meander on. One afternoon, after eating an enormous amount of food for such a small thing, she stands, stretches, and looks around. I lean toward the monitor, on high alert, eager to see her first move. She prowls around the perimeter of her suite. She looks into the hall but doesn’t leave the room. She locks the door and hugs herself again. Fascinated, I watch her inspect every movable item in the room.

What the hell is she looking for? Bugs, you idiot. I toss away the thought. Covert video surveillance wouldn’t be a part of her world. Yet, she continues to examine each object with exacting care, running her hands meticulously over every surface. Finally, she turns, making a slow circuit of the room. She stops . . . and stares directly at me. State of the art doesn’t begin to describe my security system, and it’s virtually impossible to see the cameras that populate the compound. At the very most, one might notice a speck of dust, a tiny ink stain on an otherwise pristine surface.

She continues her inspection until she finds all the cameras. She waves at the one over the tub and pastes on a fuck-you smile—definitely meant for me—that doesn’t get near her eyes. Facial expressions fascinate me, and I’ve made it my mission to become expert at reading them. That skill saved my ass more than once in this business. I’m sure I saw it. For a split second before she plastered the fake smile in place, her brows lowered, and her lips tightened. Well, shit. This little one is scared to death and might be a little too clever. She seems willing to take a beating to prove a point and has almost perfect control over her voluntary facial features when her guard is up. Something to remember if I ever have to face her at a poker table.

Destiny crosses the room, dwarfed by the large Turkish towel wrapped around her small frame. She pivots to face the camera. A dancer. Tilts her head to one side, eyes wide, staring at the lens as if considering some deeply technical thought. I stare right back, and we stay that way for what seems like days and days. As if she’s trying to feel me. I shake off the feeling. Inviting fingers of steam rise from the hot water in the large tub. Her head bows for a second. She sighs, drops the towel, and lowers into the bath.

She systematically scrubs and scours every square inch of her body. She grimaces as she connects with each bruise before applying the loofah with renewed vigor. Ignoring the pain, she approaches her cleansing with determination.

She takes more care as she washes her torso. Small, pert breasts sit atop another plethora of contusions, and some of them are starting to turn purple and blue. The bastards really worked her over. She takes a great deal of care around plump nipples that beg for attention. A huge bruise surrounds her left areola. Bastards. They will pay for this.

The white porcelain tub sits beside a window wall facing a Japanese garden leading into a thick forest. Beside it stands a rectangular pool in a courtyard, surrounded by a riot of hostas and flowers in purples, greens, and whites spilling from pots and flower beds. Roses clamber up the walls. Ancient oaks and maples stand at attention. My favorite gargoyle keeps vigil over it all from his perch atop the pergola shading the seating area.

My infrequent guests find the view seductive and mesmerizing; Destiny barely gives it a glance. After a long soak, she rinses off in the shower, then examines each jar and bottle on the white marble counter. Every movement is systematic and precise. When she’s done, all bottles are lined up with labels facing outward. She opts for one of the plainer-looking commercial bottles and proceeds to slather herself with lotion.

She strolls into the dressing room and heads straight for the shelves with athletic wear. She pulls on underwear, a fitted black T-shirt, a black hoodie, and patterned pants. Interesting choices; I expected her to choose something dainty and frilly. I have no idea why, just a gut feeling. Underneath her tough layer of scales lies something distinctly feminine, submissive even. It calls to me. Fuck. Get a grip, man.

I fully expect her to try to get away or at the very least do some reconnaissance. Instead, she sits in one of the easy chairs facing a camera, folds her hands in her lap, and proceeds to stare directly at the lens—at me—with a “well, what now?” expression on her face. She’s such an odd mixture—graceful like a sleek cat one minute, twitchy the next. Over-the-top intense on the one hand then funny as hell on the other. A study in extremes. Now she shows me a great capacity for stillness. I stare. She stares back. A worm of something I can’t identify slides up my spine and makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. There is no conceivable way she can know I’m watching her, but she does a damned fine imitation of someone who does.

I break eye contact first and thank the powers that be she can’t see me. She smiles in triumph. As if she knows. I drag my hands through my hair, tempted to pull it out by the roots. I don’t know what the hell possessed me to bring this . . . this little dragon here, but now that I have, I’d better do something about her. I press the intercom button.

“Meet me in the hall.”

She crosses to the door and studies the intercom. She presses the button. “Why?” She sounds hesitant but belligerent. She stretches and squares her shoulders as if arranging the bravado she wears like armor.

I don’t respond.

“Fine.”

She walks into the hall and sizes me up.

“Follow me.”

She follows, padding silently behind me. We pass under an arch and step into the showpiece of my compound. My solarium. She gasps and moves to the windows.

“Oh my God. This is so beautiful. Is this yours? Is it on a mountain? I’ve never known anyone who lived in the nosebleed section. Don’t you get nervous when you get near the glass? Don’t—”

“Whoa, whoa. Jesus, you’re quite the chatterbox, aren’t you?”

She goes rigid and bows her head. “I’m sorry.”

Oh, Christ. I conjure up my most patient voice. “Destiny—”

She’s in front of me so fast I don’t see her move. “Let’s just get this over with now.”

She fiddles with my zipper. I grab her wrists. She cowers.

“What are you doing?”

She steps back, eyes down. “I’m giving you a blowjob. I hear all you masters want blowjobs.” She grips her thighs so hard I’m shocked the nails haven’t ripped her pants.

“Get up. Don’t demean yourself.” I don’t mean to come across harsh, but she’s not being authentic. Where the hell is she coming from? What happened to her feistiness? What kind of world does this woman live in? Despite myself, I’m intrigued. “I’m not your master.”

She stands there looking all confused and awkward and lovable. I gesture toward an armchair sitting in front of the fireplace. The pillars, chase, and cladding are all made of carved stone and reach from floor to ceiling. This room is one of my favorites; the panoramic view of the escarpment through the wall of windows and the majestic fireplace always bring me a feeling of peace.

I chose this room for our talk, hoping the serenity would help calm Destiny. She seems like such a volatile little thing. Hands in the pocket of her hoodie, she makes a wide berth around me as she heads for the armchair. She crosses her arms and legs, making herself the smallest package possible in the large leather chair. But instead of being at ease, as I’d hoped, she tenses and bites her bottom lip. As I settle on the couch facing the fireplace, I wish I’d lit it. She keeps her head still, sideways glancing at me through her raven curls. I clear my throat.

“Okay, let’s start with introductions. I’m Jaden Stone, a cybersecurity specialist and your rescuer.” I walk over to her and hold out my hand.

I can’t quite read her expression—disbelief? Fear? Anger? All of the above? She slowly unfolds her legs and stands, grasping my hand. She has a surprisingly firm grip. “Why don’t you want a blowjob?”

I like how she cuts right to the chase. Clearly, she’s mystified.

“Because I don’t. Do I need a reason?”

“All men want blowjobs. It’s part of their DNA.”

I have to stamp down hard on the chuckle rising in my chest. She’s delivered that line as if she’s passing along a well-documented scientific fact that brooks no argument. She still holds my hand. And I hold hers.

“Well, not this one. Now it’s your turn. And you are?”

“I’m Des—”

I tighten my grip on her hand, just a little. It wouldn’t hurt, but it’s enough to stop her. I say nothing.

She sighs. “My name is Rayne Turner, and I’m a nobody, and now it would appear I’m your slave.”

I snort. Then I laugh for the first time in over three years. I can’t help myself. I’ve never heard anything so absurd.