Page 53 of Breaking Rosalind

“What?”

“So it looks like I can’t escape or fight back,” she says, as though the answer is obvious.

My brows pinch, but I smooth out the expression. I don’t hurt innocent people, especially those I like. But when she grabs her school tie and shoves it in my hand, I can’t help but oblige.

I wrap it tightly around her wrists, secure it with a knot, and step back. “That should do it. Can you cry on demand, or will you need help?”

“No, I can do it,” she replies from behind the trap.

I walk to the dimmer switch and adjust the lighting to create the right atmosphere. Sinister and dark with enough illumination to bring out the tears and blood streaming down Miranda’s face.

“Ready, love?” I raise the camera.

She takes a deep breath and contorts her features into a look of anguish and pain.

I take a few pictures, but when the fat tears roll down her cheeks and turn black from her mascara, I switch to video.

Clever little girl.

Miranda’s chest rises and falls with wracking sobs, as though she really is in pain. I adjust the zoom to capture the perfect shot, then I gesture with my arm like a conductor, urging her to push her performance to the next level.

“Please stop,” she cries. “It hurts.”

“I haven’t even started,” I growl for the camera.

Miranda screams, and the sound is like a concerto. She writhes and thrashes on the seat, her wrists straining against the fabric.

The scene would be heart-wrenching if I didn’t know it was staged.

“Cut,” I say.

She flops back to the sofa in a peal of giggles. “Let me do the editing. Rosa’s going to freak!”

Half an hour later, after taking some more gruesome-looking photos, I send the first of many messages to Rosalind and wait.

Miranda scrolls on a burner phone, alternating between learning the steps of a viral dance and gorging herself on a selection of desserts from the menu.

Her phone rings, and I take it to the door, leaving her alone in the room. The two men I ordered to stand in the hallway and keep her inside acknowledge my presence with nods.

I continue down the corridor into Allegra’s empty office and answer, “Hello, Miranda’s a little tied up right now. How may I be of assistance?”

“You fucking bastard,” she hisses. “If you hurt her?—”

“That’s no way to speak to the man holding little Miranda’s life in the balance,” I drawl. “And such a sweet young thing.”

She stifles a sob. “What do you want?”

“You. On your knees. Naked. Begging. Bleeding. Is that too much for a man to ask?”

“If you hurt her, I’ll flay the skin off your tiny penis and force it down your throat.”

I chuckle. “You and I both know it’s big.” In a much firmer voice, I add, “Be aware who I’ll punish for your next insult.”

She breathes hard, and the sound goes straight to my cock. This is exactly where Rosalind belongs—at my mercy.

“Just...” she exhales a shuddering breath. “Just please take her out of that awful trap. Her life is hard enough without you adding to her trauma.”

My brow furrows. Trauma?