My brain wasn't sure what it wanted to register first. The television screen or the man on my couch.

“Don't scream.” His voice was low, but almost bored. He raised his hand and I saw that he was holding a gun. “I may not look it, but I'm a good shot, and I'd hate to have to shoot you because you screamed.”

Screaming wasn't actually the first thing on my mind. I was trying to figure out if I could make it back to my room and the phone I'd so stupidly left on my end table. The only light in the room came from the TV I was trying not to look at. He might be a good shot, but could he see in the dark.

“Don't run either,” he said, his tone still conversational but quiet. “I don't care how fast you think you are, a bullet's a hell of a lot faster. And a gunshot in the back isn't a lot of fun.”

He could've been bluffing, but I wasn't sure I wanted to take that chance, not before I knew what was going on. If he'd been a stranger, I probably would've taken the risk. But I knew him and if I could talk to him, connect with him, there was a chance I could get him to give himself up and no one would get hurt.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I won't run and I won't scream.”

His eyes flicked up to me now, looking black in the lack of light. “Don't lie to me. Don't be a naughty girl and make me punish you.”

I tried not to show him how repulsed I felt at his words. I didn't know if he was the kind of man who got off on reactions, but I wasn't going to take that chance.

“I'm not lying,” I said. “How about this? I promise not to lie to you, no matter what.”

He didn't need to know that I was an accomplished liar, taught practically from birth to tell men what they wanted to hear.

He cocked his head to the side, considering me with those dark, chilling eyes. Then he nodded and patted the seat next to him. “Good girls don't lie,” he said. “And you always were a good little girl. Pretty little Snow White.”

I was halfway to the love-seat, thinking about ways I could get the gun off of him when his words registered. My chest tightened and I started to shake my head. It wasn't possible.

Then I sat down and saw that my nightmares had come true. The glimpse I'd caught of it before had told me that it was a homemade movie, but I hadn't let myself really see it before. Now I knew why. My mind had been trying to protect me from what my brain had known.

On the screen were half a dozen men. Naked. Erect. And standing around a bed.

The girl on the bed was slender, her body still at least a couple years away from the curves it would eventually have. Her hair was to her shoulders and a deep, rich black. Ebony. That, plus her pale skin had caused her to be billed as the fairytale princess Snow White.

Everyone loved a fairytale princess.

She was still wearing her princess dress. They wanted to fuck her in it first.

When they eventually ripped it off, I knew I'd see the burn scar on the girl's side because that had happened at least six years before. Glimpses of the underside of her left forearm showed the scar from four years ago. There were no tattoos yet. No piercings. She wouldn't get those for another six years, when she turned eighteen. When she became Jenna Lang.

The images on the screen froze.

“Snow White.”

I turned toward Christophe and wondered how long he'd known who I was. How he'd known. He smiled at me and I repressed the urge to rub my hands across my arms. How had I not seen it before? That look. I'd seen it so many times, I thought I'd never miss it, but I had. I'd thought I was safe because of Rylan, but the wolf had been there the whole time.

“I was twelve the first time I saw you,” he said. “Surfing on my mom's computer for anything with sex in it, and I saw a preview for a video called Snow White Takes a Nap.”

It wasn't one of the titles I recognized from the depositions, but when I'd scrubbed my image from the internet with an intricate and beautiful piece of coding, I hadn't done it by a word or title search.

“It was easy enough to use my mom's credit card to buy it,” he continued. A wistful sort of expression came over his face, but his grip on the gun didn't relax. “She thought it was a cartoon.”

I wondered how many wives had seen similar purchases and thought their husbands were so sweet, buying cartoons for their kids.

“You were younger in that one,” he kept going. “You didn't have any scars yet.”

I must've been younger than six then, the age I'd gotten the scar on my side. Christophe must've been younger than I thought, closer to Rylan's age.

“You looked so pretty, sleeping there. I kept wanting you to wake up, but when the princes kissed you, you stayed asleep. I knew that meant they weren't your true love and that if I had been there to kiss you, you would've woken up.”

I felt sick and only partially because I knew the film he was referring to was one of those my mom had drugged me for. Sometimes, they wanted me to be able to talk and act, but there were other times that, after I ate or drank something, I'd get tired. When I woke up, usually it was over. At least that part.

My mother was nothing if not resourceful. Those were the days she scheduled more than one film. I'd be awake enough to react, but still groggy enough to be easily controlled.

The biggest reason I wanted to throw up was the way he was talking, like we had some sort of magical love story.

“I had to see more. I knew that if I could just find you, we would be together forever. I went back and got all of the movies they'd released before. I subscribed to your website. I watched you grow up and fell in love with you more every day.”

I could feel the walls starting to close in and I focused on my breathing. If I had a panic attack now, I wouldn't be able to defend myself against what I knew was coming.

“Then you disappeared. Nothing new came out and all of your videos online were the same. I still watched them, but I searched for you and you weren't anywhere.” He scowled. “Then, a couple years ago, even those went away. I only had what I'd saved on my computer and the videos.” He motioned toward the TV. “This one's my favorite. It was one of the last ones made. How old were you?”

I didn't want to answer, but I felt him getting more and more tense as he'd talked and I didn't want to risk him blowing up over something so small.

“Twelve, I think.”

He smiled. “My age.”

I kept my face blank.

“Not my age now, of course,” he amended with a grin. “But the age I was when I fell in love with you. We're older now, but we'll always be twelve together.”

Oh shit. He was even more fucked up than I'd realized.

“Do you remember filming this?” he asked.

I nodded. My hands were in fists, my fingernails digging into my palms.

Hands on my legs, pushing up my skirt.

“It must have been an amazing day.” He sighed and leaned back.

The shrill laughter of my mother when I cursed at the first man and he slapped me.

I was sure they'd cut that part out.

“I've always wanted to watch it with you.”

I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from speaking. Please, no. It was bad enough to have to relive these things in my nightmares. I didn't want to see it unfolding in front of me. Especially not with someone who would get off watching it. I had a feeling, though, that I didn't have a choice in the matter.

His eyes narrowed and I could see that he was coming out of that half-dreamy state he'd been in. He shifted in his seat and the gun came to rest pointed in my direction. “We're going to watch it, and if I ask a question, you're going to answer it. I've had years to think of questions I wanted to ask, and I'm going to finally get what I want. Understand?”

I nodded. I could do this, I told myself. I'd survived it actually happening to me, and then I'd survived reliving it to testify in court and telling my therapist. I could survive this. And I'd be watching, waiting. The moment Christophe's guard was down, I'd act. An elbow to the nose or a right hook. A jab to the throat. Or, what I really wanted to do, a kick to the crotch. Anything that would give me the chance to disarm him or run. I wasn't going to be picky about which. I had no doubt that running away was a better option than seeing what else he had in store for me.

He pushed play on the remote and the film started again. He turned it up this time, turning the muffled sounds I'd originally heard into some of the voices that haunted my nightmares. I could feel his eyes on me and I turned my face toward the television, fixing my eyes at a point just above it. It kept the images fuzzy, but couldn't stop me from hearing. And just like that, I was back there, lying on that filthy mattress in the basement.

He pushed too far and I gagged, barely managing to take him into my throat without throwing up.

“What happened to your arm?” Christophe asked. His leg brushed against mine. “There was nothing wrong with your arm in Snow White Goes to Camp, but it was bandaged on some of the web videos and then it looked like you had stitches in Snow White's Day at the Beach.”

I remembered those two. The first had been the night I'd most like to forget. The second had been done at a “friend's” house, by his pond. He'd played the lifeguard who'd had to save me from drowning. I'd been on enough pain killers during the web videos between that I didn't remember them except in bits and pieces.

I considered lying, but didn't figure there was a point. With the video playing, it was easy to put myself back in that state of mind and the words just came out. “I was eight, I think. I never knew if my birthday parties were on my birthday or just for the videos.”

“There were six birthday web videos and four regular videos.”

He sounded like he actually thought he was being helpful.

I ignored him and continued with my story. Maybe, I thought, he'd understand what had happened if he knew what I'd done.

“Just after the one movie.” I couldn't bring myself to use the title. “I couldn't take it anymore. I broke the mirror in my bedroom and used a piece of it to slit my arm open.”

“Why would you do that?”

I jumped as Christophe yelled at me. Of all the reactions I'd expected, that hadn't been anywhere on the list.

“Why would you try to hurt yourself? I was waiting for you!” He grabbed my wrist with his free hand and shoved up my sleeve, exposing my scar. “Stupid, stupid girl!”

I wanted to yank my arm back, then maybe scrub it clean with bleach. His touch made me sick, but it wasn't the first time I'd had to let someone touch me when I would've preferred to slap his hand away.

His fingers squeezed my arm until I knew I'd be bruised. “Never again!” He hissed. “Don't ever try to hurt yourself again!”

“I won't. I promise.” That was one promise that would be easy to keep. It wasn't me that I planned on hurting in the near future.

He stared at me for a moment and then seemed satisfied by my answer. He turned back to the screen, but didn't let go of my arm.

“Watch,” he commanded.

“Watch yourself,” he growled. “Watch me fuck your little whore ass.”

I tried to push that memory back. It didn't belong during this video. That came from another time and place.

On screen, younger me was making pained sounds as the first man started on me.

His breath smelled like cinnamon and coffee.

“The scar on your side isn't from you hurting yourself too, is it?” he asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “I was six and I told my mom I didn't want to make a movie. She poured hot grease on me.”

“Why wouldn't you want to make your movies? You're so good in them.”

I stared at him. The fact that he sounded genuinely confused scared me more than anything else, even his violent reaction to my suicide attempt.

I didn't know how to answer that question, but he seemed to be engrossed in the action on the screen and didn't press it. As the action on the screen progressed, his grip on my arm lessened, but never quite to the point where I thought I'd be able to get away. Time began to stretch out. I tried not to watch or listen to what was happening to younger me, but whenever I started to get into a place where I was able to ignore it, Christophe would ask me a question that brought me back.

Some were strangely nonsexual. My favorite color. The books I liked to read. Others were about sex but matter-of-fact. My favorite position. Who was the best lover I'd ever had.

That question had brought a bit of clarity as Rylan's face appeared in my mind. I pushed thoughts of him aside. I couldn't think about him now.

As the movie got closer to the end, the questions became more specific and more perverse, asking about specific acts he'd seen me perform. I answered them all automatically, surprising myself at how quickly it all came back, the numbness, the ability to say what needed to be said to stay alive.

I was pretty sure there was more than one movie playing but I didn't look closely enough to see any differences. All I knew for certain was that we sat there through the rest of the early morning hours, watching and listening to things that were made all the more horrific because, the entire time, I could see the outline of Christophe's erection straining against the front of his pants.

Finally, as the last one ended, he let go of my arm and stood, keeping the gun on me as he did it. My focus sharpened and adrenaline flooded my system, pulling me out of the almost hypnotic state I'd been in. Something was about to happen.