Willing Chaff (Story Fodder #2)

Chapter 1

Caleb

The world's worst men shake the most hands.

The movie star who violates children.

The CEO who traffics them.

The politician whose foundation supplies both.

The spotlight doesn't expose monsters—it blinds you to them.

Before me are two walls of monitors with two very different scenes.

On the left wall of monitors we have Dimitri Volkov. Friends and enemies alike call him Volk—Russian for wolf. I consider myself to be both friend and enemy, so I call him Volk as well. It suits him in ways he's never understood.

Our friend Volk is a philanthropist of the highest order.

An art collector specializing in Renaissance paintings.

A shipping magnate worth four-point-seven billion dollars according to Forbes—though the actual number, buried in shell companies and offshore accounts, is closer to seven.

Friends with senators, oligarchs, and A-list celebrities.

Married twenty-eight years to a former ballerina who pretends not to know what he is.

Three grandchildren he bounces on his knee at charity galas while photographers capture his grandfatherly smile.

Our enemy Volk… well, he's the architect of the largest child trafficking operation in Eastern Europe.

The orphanages he funds aren't orphanages. They're Recruitment centers.

Those art acquisition trips to Prague, Budapest, Kyiv are sourcing missions.

His shipping empire doesn't move luxury goods across borders, it moves flesh.

Currently, Volk is naked and blindfolded. Steel cuffs around his wrists have him locked to the cage floor in absolute darkness about three miles from here.

The night-vision feed shows him testing the restraints again. Pulling at them methodically, intelligently.

Still believing this situation is salvageable.

That his lawyers, his political connections, his billions will extract him from this.

They won't.

I'll deal with him later.

The right wall of monitors holds my attention now.

Scarletta stepping off the Gulfstream onto Story Island's tarmac. She's still wearing my old Harvard t-shirt and black sweat pants.

The February sun is turning her hair gold as the Caribbean wind catches it, blowing it across her face.

Not in some romantic, photogenic way, either.

The gusts are whipping those dirty blonde strands so violently that she has to hold both sides of her head with her hands just to see where the hell she's going.

Walking almost sideways down the stairs, squinting against the brightness after hours in the plane's dim cabin.

To call the vibe radiating off her body language annoyed would be a dramatic understatement.

She's pissed.

Genuinely, visibly pissed.

I can't help it—I snicker.

Her trip has been anything but relaxing. The invitation to the hunt directed her to go downstairs immediately upon receiving it, so she did—of course she did, eager little thing.

But I left her waiting for the limousine for nearly an hour in her apartment lobby. Just sitting there in my clothes, probably wondering if I'd forgotten about her entirely.

It was necessary, though. Cruel, yes, but necessary. I needed to arrive in the Caribbean before she did. Needed to be here, waiting, watching, in complete control of the infrastructure before her plane ever touched down.

Once she finally got to the FBO terminal at Idaho Falls Regional Airport, I had her plane grounded for two hours under the pretense of 'mechanical issues.' Some vague problem with the hydraulics that required a full inspection.

She sat in the private lounge—I watched her on the security cameras—pretending to read a magazine while internally spiraling with anxiety. Wondering if this was part of it. If I was testing her. If she should leave.

She didn't leave.

Which set the perfect tone for the 'normal not-normal turbulence' she experienced during the entire seven-hour flight.

Nothing dangerous, of course. Nothing the pilots couldn't handle easily.

But enough chop, enough sudden drops and jarring bumps to keep her white-knuckled and nauseous the whole way.

I specifically instructed them to take a route through some rough weather patterns. Make it memorable. Make her arrive already off-balance, already questioning whether she's made a terrible mistake.

Small games. Necessary delays. Minor psychological adjustments to ensure she arrives exactly as unsteady as I need her to be.

Control, I've learned, isn't just in the grand gestures—it's in the minutiae. The orchestration of a thousand tiny details that add up to total dominance before she even realizes the game has started.

She thinks she understands what this 'hunt' entails—they all do when they first arrive here, armed with their fantasies and half-formed expectations culled from fiction and forum posts.

But it's never the same chase twice. Every woman brings different fears, different desires, different breaking points.

The island itself shifts the dynamic—weather patterns, wildlife sounds, the particular quality of moonlight filtering through jungle canopy. So many variables to account for on Story Island. So many opportunities for improvisation within the carefully constructed framework.

I allow myself a small breath of satisfaction, settling deeper into my chair as I scan the array of monitors before me.

Very pleased with how meticulously this particular event has been choreographed.

Every contingency planned for, every potential complication anticipated and neutralized before it could manifest.

Volk's presence on the sister island two miles south of here is a distraction I could do without. His scales weren't due to be balanced until next week.

But adaptation is a hallmark of genius.

And I am nothing, if not a genius.

I adapted.

He's here, he'll be dealt with, the scales will balance, and Scarletta Mae Desmond will have a Valentine's Day experience she'll never forget.

I watch her squint against the harsh Caribbean sun, one hand still pressed against her windblown hair as a man in an impeccable linen suit materializes at the bottom of the aircraft stairs. He doesn't introduce himself. Doesn't offer pleasantries or small talk.

Just gestures toward the tree line where a narrow stone path disappears into the hibiscus hedges.

She follows.

Good girl.

I zoom in on camera three, tracking her progression along the winding trail.

The path is deliberately disorienting—curves back on itself twice, creates the illusion of distance when the staging suite is only two hundred yards from the landing pad.

Psychological preparation. By the time she arrives, she'll feel isolated, cut off, dependent on whoever's waiting inside.

The suited man motions towards the pavilion's entrance—there's no door, just a gap between two massive support columns—and steps aside.

Scarletta hesitates.

Then enters.

And there they are.

The same three male attendants who bathed her, oiled her, touched her seven weeks ago at the auction preparation.

I watch Scarletta's face on monitor six—the high-angle feed that captures her initial reaction. Her eyes widen slightly. Recognition, followed immediately by something that looks suspiciously like relief.

She knows them.

Which means she knows what's coming.

The dark-haired one steps forward first, taking both her hands in his, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Welcome back, beautiful."

The blonde one moves to her other side, brushing his lips against her temple. "We've missed you."

The tall one slides his palm down her spine, fingers splaying across her lower back. "So good to see you again."

She's blushing. Hard. That telltale pink flush crawling up her throat, spreading across her cheeks.

But she doesn't pull away.

Doesn't demand answers or explanations the way she did last time, wide-eyed, and terrified, and stammering questions they refused to answer.

This time she just... lets them.

Stands there, breathing a little faster, while three sets of hands begin their work.

The dark-haired one reaches for the hem of my Harvard shirt and lifts it slowly over her head. Underneath, she's wearing a bra.

I lean forward, studying the monitor. Black lace. Delicate. Pretty.

The little slut.

I love it.

The blonde one kneels, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, dragging them down her thighs. She steps out of them obediently, and he runs his hands up her calves, over her knees, pausing at her thighs. He looks up at her with adoration.

Scarletta bites her lip.

Her black lace underwear matches the bra. What a good little slut.

The tall one slides the bra straps off her shoulders, trailing his fingertips along her collarbones. "May I?"

Scarletta nods automatically, then sucks in a breath.

He unclasps it, letting the black lace fall away.

Her nipples are already rock fucking hard.

I pull my cock out, wrapping my fist around the base.

This is going to be good.

They're not wasting time with the pretense of professional detachment—this time… they're seducing her.

The dark-haired one cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half gasp, half whimper—that goes straight to my dick.

The blonde one is still kneeling, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs, inching higher.

The tall one moves behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her steady while his other hand slides down her stomach toward her black panties.

She's trembling.

Trying so fucking hard to control herself.

I can see it in the way she's clenching her jaw. The way her hands are fisted at her sides instead of reaching for them. The way she's staring at some fixed point on the far wall, refusing to look down at what they're doing to her body.

Fail, baby.

Give in.

Let them make you come.

I want to see it.

Want to see what you look like when you surrender to strangers touching you, pleasuring you, working you over like a team of professionals whose only job is getting you wet and desperate.

And then later—hours from now, when you're deep in the jungle thinking you've escaped me—I'll drag you back by your hair and punish you for it.

Spank that perfect ass until you're sobbing apologies for letting other men make you feel good.

Use your own weakness against you.

Make you beg for forgiveness while I fuck you so hard you forget your own name.

I'm not jealous.

Jealousy would imply I've lost control, that something's happening outside my orchestration, that she's choosing them over me.

None of that is true.

I told them exactly what to do to her. Where to touch. How to position her body so every camera angle captures her face, her hands, the moment she breaks.

I own this.

I own her.

I own every second of pleasure they're about to give her, because I'm the one who scripted it.

The dark-haired one pinches her nipple and she gasps, arching into his hand.

The blonde one hooks his fingers into her panties, dragging them down.

"Look at you," he whispers, running one finger through her folds. "Already so wet for us."

She whimpers.

The tall one's hand finds her other breast, kneading roughly while his mouth works against her neck.

They're coordinating beautifully—three sets of hands, three different sensations, overwhelming her nervous system until she can't think straight.

Can't resist.

Can't do anything but feel.

And then the dark-haired one guides her backward.

Toward the centerpiece of the staging suite.

The tub contraption.

I almost laugh watching her eyes go wide when she sees it.

It's a masterpiece of function and intimidation—custom-built hybrid of clawfoot soaking tub and gynecological examination table, carved from a single piece of black volcanic stone. The basin itself is deep enough for full-body submersion, five feet long and three wide. Polished smooth.

At the far end, hinged stirrups that fold up from the tub's edge. Polished steel. Leather padding. Locking ankle cuffs.

Medieval aesthetic meets clinical efficiency.

The participant is bathed, prepared, made vulnerable—then the water drains to knee-level, the stirrups deploy, and her legs are locked wide open for whatever comes next.

Shaving. Inspection. Penetration.

Complete access to her most intimate parts while she's helpless to close her thighs or hide herself.

Psychological torture dressed up as spa treatment.

They guide Scarletta toward it now, the dark-haired one supporting her elbow like she's stepping into something precious.

The water's already steaming, lavender and eucalyptus rising in fragrant clouds.

She looks back over her shoulder—not at them, but at the entrance.

Looking for me.

Wondering if I'm watching.

I am, baby.

I'm always watching.