For a short time, I considered becoming a cop. It was over a decade ago, when I was still dating John, and we had this romantic notion that we would both go into law enforcement and work alongside my father, solving Quincy’s crimes and stealing kisses in between high-profile cases. I read some forensics books. Tagged along with Dad for a few weeks. Did some ride-alongs. Quickly realized that being a cop in Quincy was comparable to babysitting drunken toddlers. Changed my career path to psychology. Then ten more times before I settled on finance. It was over a decade ago, but I remembered reading about a murder investigation that was solved with DNA pulled from razor clippings. I hesitated, then grabbed the mini toothpaste tube with a Kleenex.

Collecting prints and DNA. Had my suspicions really come to this?

I’d give my father permission to run them both through the system. He’d be clean. I knew it. My polished, beautiful man wasn’t doing anything wrong, at least not that my father would find. I was certain of it. This would just close one door and give me a little more information. This would just give me a little peace of mind.

I knew what I felt. I loved him. But I didn’t know him. And I didn’t trust him. The man I had fallen for hid something. I could feel it, slipping into bed with us at night, slithering up my bare legs, looking for a vulnerable place to bite.

I wanted, needed, to know that secret.

I crawled quietly back into bed, the soft sighs of Brett comforting. And the next night, I packed my bag and we headed back. I landed back home a little after nine, the plane empty, Brett dropped in Lauderdale where we fueled up.

“Thanks, Abe.” I ducked through the door and down the steps, waving through the glass at the airport’s desk clerk, her acknowledgement barely visible through the dusty glass. Behind me, I heard the hum of propellers as the plane rolled on. It felt good to be home, it felt as if I’d been gone a month and needed to play catch-up with my thoughts.

I hefted my bag open and dug for my keys. Found ‘em. I popped the trunk and tossed in the bag. The bag containing Brett’s DNA. Funny how that made the tote that much heavier. Glanced quickly around to make sure no abductors were lurking in the shadows, then unlocked and got into the car. Stifled a grin when I thought of Brett’s concern about my house. Abductors in Quincy. Another thing that wouldn’t ever happen. Our worst crime last year was when Beau Thomas exposed himself to old Mrs. Huddleston in the library. She snapped a picture and posted it on the bulletin board with a small rose sticker over his private parts, ‘Tiny’ written in her delicate script beside the photo. The police came, scratched their heads over the situation, and finally decided the photo was punishment enough, provided Mrs. Huddleston would leave it up for a year. Mrs. Huddleston did one better, getting it published in the Quincy Quarterly as well. Now, every soul in Quincy knew how perverted, and underendowed, Beau Thomas was. I already knew; I’d found out in sixth grade.

Yeah, Quincy wasn’t Jamaica; we didn’t have armed guards and disappearing spring breakers, but it didn’t mean I was stupid. I was fine in that club despite Brett’s posturing. I was fine in this town without his directives. I put the car into drive and pulled out of the empty lot.

I knew, when I was taken, that my parents would look for me. Brett would look for me. I held on to that with every fiber of my soul. But that fiber, along with my sanity, unwrapped a little bit each day, a wisp of thread at a time, the slow uncurling of the person I used to be. I fought it, clung with greedy hands and stubborn retorts, to my old self, to the memories that I had. But with each new day, each new experience, I lost a bit of them. And he didn’t help. He stood over me with his fucking clipboard and pushed for moremoremore of my soul, was never satisfied, would never be satisfied, not until I was fully worshipping at his feet, my body and soul offered up without hesitation. I struggled, I fought, I clung to the memory of Brett. He loved me. He would find me.

“Come here.” The voice came from across my cell, from the chair where my tormentor sat, his legs slightly spread, naked thighs leading the way to his cock. It stood before me, upright and beckoning, the shaft bobbing at me as if to wave.

I looked away, my hands fisting on the sheets. He had once mentioned dog training, had taken that psychology to heart. I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, this event a complete repeat of the last six or seven encounters. He asked, I refused, he beat me. Today, my body sore and broken, I stood. Walked with tender steps to him. Stopped before him, my eyes down.

Phase Two had stretched countless days, months. Maybe even years. I had, through the pain and deprivation, further lost track of time. I also had broken on a few things. I now called him Master. Assumed subservient positions. Kept my head and eyes down. I actually liked that part of it. Not having to look at him. Not until the moment that he grabbed my jaw and forced my eyes to his.

I woke from Brett’s touch, his hand soft on my jaw, brushing over it so lightly, a whisper of contact as I curled into his hand. “Hey beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes on mine, his leg wrapping around mine and pulling me closer.

I blinked, the dark room hiding much of his features, my groggy mind trying to place our location. My house. I recognized the padded headboard, the dark grey comforter that hung off my bare shoulder. “What time is it?” My voice cracked, groggy from sleep.

“Around three.”

I snuggled closer and let my eyes close, resting my head on his chest. “And why are you waking me up?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t keep myself from touching you.” I felt the soft press of his lips against my hair, the brush of his fingers across my hip, the hook of his foot beneath my leg. We were completely fused, his body a warm glove, his chest gently rising and falling underneath my head.