Epilogue
VANESSA
Tracking down my wayward boss hasn’t been easy. But I’m finally here, hidden behind a copse of trees as I watch Josephine Mercer—aka bestselling author Marjorie Kincaid’s—captors through the giant windows of their insanely large cabin.
As far as prisons go, I have to admit it’s a nice one.
But that doesn’t matter. No matter how gilded her cage is, it’s still a cage. One I’m determined to free her from.
Through the window, I watch as my boss and closest friend takes off running. But she doesn’t get far before one of the men holding her hostage scoops her up and drapes her over his shoulder, swatting her bottom as he carries her to another room.
Horror wells in my chest as I watch this giant of a man sit and toss my friend over his lap. He rips her underwear from her, exposing her ass, and I swear I can hear her howls of pain when his hand slams into her unprotected flesh.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I zoom in as much as I’m able and hit record. I’ll need evidence if I’m going to convince the cops that these people are actually as horrible and dangerous as I know them to be.
Over and over the brute spanks Marjorie as she kicks and struggles over his lap. By the time she goes limp, her ass is mottled with pink and red, so bright I can see it even from a distance.
My shock at witnessing this savage punishment is nothing, however, compared to disbelief that consumes me when Marjorie throws her arms around her assailant’s neck, as if she is seeking comfort from the man who just brutalized her.
What the fuck have they done to my friend? How much brainwashing has she endured to bring her to this point?
It doesn’t matter. As soon as I get her home, I’ll find her a therapist. Surely there has to be someone who specializes in things like this. Stockholm syndrome, maybe?
Ending the recording, I make myself a note to research therapists when we return home. But before I can tuck the phone back in my pocket, a hand clamps down on my shoulder and the device disappears from my hand. A scream wells in my throat, but my voice is frozen with terror.
“Well, well, well,” a deep voice growls in my ear. “Looks like I’ve caught myself a naughty Little girl. It must be my lucky day.”
Fuck.