Prologue
Finley Morose pulled up an article on his phone and read it one last time. His pale, too-thin lips pulled back in a smile and his gray eyes glittered like granite.
“She’s the one,” he said. His heavy frame, swathed in a luxurious custom-made suit, rocked in his desk chair, and he ran a hand through his snowy white hair.
“You sure?” Jay Hunter sat across from him, dressed in a neatly pressed military uniform, his face cast in shadow.
“Positive.”
Morose stood from his desk, laced his fingers behind his back, and paced the room slowly, his heavy jowls swinging as he walked, his voice shaky with age and excitement. “She’s so perfect for my plan—our plan, it’s as if fate herself has orchestrated this, offered her to me for my very own.” He waved a hand toward Hunter. “Read that section I highlighted in her latest article.”
Hunter cleared his throat and read aloud. “Though modern-day society’s fascination with sadism glorifies the disorder, romanticizing the disease as a form of sexual fantasy, wide-spread psychological evidence is clear: sadists need mental help. Even the mildest forms of pain play can lead to a deeper need to hurt a loved one, and it’s time we put an end to the glorification of such base acts.”
Morose chuckled. “Mental health indeed. Base acts. If she had any idea. It’s so obvious, it’s almost comical. She’s been demonizing the alpha male in her column now for months and vilifying dominant men. She’s earned widespread anger from certain crowds and applause from others. It’s why you earmarked her, no?”
Hunter nodded. “Yeah. It is.” He looked down at his hands.
“Then why the hesitation?”
Hunter huffed out a breath. “Because when word gets out about what you’ve done—and if I’m implicated in any way—”
Morose slammed his palms on the desk, his glittering eyes nearly bulging out of his reddened face. “They will laud me as a fucking genius and give you the highest honors. We will go down in history.”
Hunter drew in a deep breath, then let it out again but didn’t talk. He wasn’t so sure.
People had died. People had fucking died because of Morose’s insane plan, and he’d implicated more than Hunter. Scientists had taken the bait, padding their bank accounts with his tainted millions, actors had agreed to stage the cruise. Technicians orchestrating what he needed, valuing money over humanity.
Morose continued. “I’ve spent my entire life’s work leading up to this moment. To this very experiment. And I won’t have you backing out now. Not when I’ve invested everything I own in this operation.”
Hunter blew out a breath, and Morose waved a hand in his direction. “Give me her specs.”
Hunter opened up a file on a tablet on his lap. “Five foot five, red hair, and hazel eyes.” He looked up at Morose. “She’s fair and will burn easily.”
Morose grinned. “That ups the stakes, though, you see. Go on.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened before he continued. “Never been married. Works for The Times, but we can arrange for that to change. I have connections. She’s somewhat private, has no real friends to speak of. She’s been working in investigative journalism for the past year, though right out of college she worked for a few tabloids.”
“Of course, she did. Family?”
“Almost all dead,” he says.
“Almost?”
“She has a younger brother she has custody of, but he’s in state care.”
Morose scowled and nodded. “We will arrange to take care of that situation.” His eyes grew bright while he rubbed his chin in concentration.
“What did she find in her research?” he muttered. “Does she fantasize about being tied up and dominated when she’s alone at night? Are the very perversions she decries publicly the ones she conjures up in bed, with the shades drawn, under the cover of sheets?”
Hunter shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, that’s far outside of our interest. I don’t—”
Morose interrupted impatiently. “They may not interest you, but they interest me. Are the men ready?”
Hunter sighed, then nodded. “More than ready, sir. There are three left.” He shook his head, a note of sadness in his voice. “It worked better than we even hoped. They’re damn near feral.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
Morose grinned. “Find her. You know what to do.”
One
Harper
“Holy shite,” Malorie says, walking into the break room holding a huge golden envelope. “Babe, this is addressed to you, and just arrived via certified mail.”
I look up from my novel and place my fork down in my salad bowl.
“If it arrived via certified mail, why are you holding it instead of me?” I ask her, more curious than upset with her. This girl is so annoying sometimes.
“Oh, I forged your signature,” she says, waving her hand at me. I grunt at her and shoot her a disapproving look, but it seems to be lost on her. “Open it!”
I take the large, rather ostentatious envelope in hand, pursing my lips and looking at it. There’s no return address, and the front is embossed in thick, black letters. I flip it over, sliding my finger under the flap, but it doesn’t budge easily. Malorie watches me, and I swear she’s holding her breath.