He nodded, hoping it wasn’t a trick. Her sudden change in demeanor tightened the muscles in his jaw.

She dropped a hand to her side, snapped her fingers, and pointed at the floor beside her feet, an unmistakable order to kneel. “Then don’t fuck this up.”

Whatever was about to happen, it was evident that her bearing, as well as his, needed to broadcast that she had the upper hand. He knelt at her side, holding her gaze as he lowered. Sure, she appeared dispassionate at a glance, but the hand at her side trembled.

As she entered the code in the keypad—too quickly for him to catch the pattern—he gripped the fingers digging into her thigh. The door clicked open, and she pulled her hand away but not before giving him a tentative squeeze in return.

He kept his eyes on the floor, taking in the scuffed black boots that entered first, followed by Van’s sneakers. The door shut, imprisoning the room with silence.

He’d expected trousers, paired with an expensive suit, a wardrobe that signified wealth and power. Instead, black cotton work pants gathered over the dusty boots. The mystery surrounding Mr. E compounded, surging dread through his veins.

“Raise your head, boy.” Her voice was so detached, even its iciness was absent.

His breath caught as he lifted his eyes and met the drab material of a cotton jumpsuit. The kind one would zip over regular clothes to change a tire or carry out an activity that might be messy. He stopped breathing altogether when his gaze reached the man’s head.

It was wrapped in a potato sack hood, cinched at the neck, with two crudely cut eyeholes and vertical stitching where the mouth should be. Rough-hewed seams rounded the skull, pulling the material taut to maintain the curvature. Then it spoke.

“Stand, slave.” The mouth, stitched as it was, didn’t move. The voice was soft and masculine and cruelly calm.

Van leaned against the door in a display of arrogant composure. Liv stared at her feet, frozen and pale, as if the masked man had chased her into some unseen recess of her mind.

Don’t fuck this up.

Josh climbed to his feet and let his bound wrists loll over his groin. At his full height, he stood four or more inches taller than Mr. E.

“You’ll address me as Sir.” Mr. E glanced at Liv and back to Josh. “Did you give her the black eye?”

His shoulders tensed. “No—”

“That was me, sir.” Van’s smirk oiled the tension in the air.

“Ah.” A chuckle rustled through the canvas mask. Mr. E reached a gloved hand to Van’s jaw and patted it. “I suppose you can’t fuck up her face worse than it already is.”

“Nope.” Van popped the P with a smarmy exhale and slid a toothpick between his curved lips.

A storm of rage boiled Josh’s blood, twisting and shaking his insides. She should’ve been defending herself. And what compelled Van to be at such ease with a man who hid behind a potato sack? The man who, Josh suspected, had given them their matching scars.

The whites of Mr. E’s eyes shifted inside the depths of the eyeholes and settled on Liv. Under the decomposing scrutiny, her shoulders curled forward, her gaze fixed downward.

It was in that moment that his assumptions about her place in the hierarchy were confirmed. Just because she wasn’t a slave didn’t mean she wasn’t viewed as property and used as such. They seemed to think of her as scarred and ruined, and she certainly wasn’t sexually innocent. Her usefulness to them was limited to her proficiency in training slaves. A replaceable skill. Was Van’s apparent ownership of her the only thing that held her there?

There was so much obscurity surrounding the operation, and seeing her like this shook the hell out of Josh’s hope. He bit down on his cheek, checking the turbulence of his emotions, and put on his own phlegmatic expression.

“Have you fucked him yet?” The potato sack cocked toward Van, and Josh balled his fists.

The silver cut of Van’s eyes sliced through Josh, but it was Liv who answered. “He’s not ready.”

Mr. E’s stillness was deafening, cranking the room’s temperature to scorching. Then those elusive eyeholes shifted to him. “Let’s see how well he kisses.” He curled a gloved finger. “Van.”

Josh fought the heart-pounding urge to swing his bound arms into that stupid mask and stared directly into the soulless eyes. “I will not kiss that man.”

Liv’s finger twitched against her thigh, but she was otherwise unresponsive.

“I see.” Mr. E clasped his hands behind him and spent an eternal moment moving through the room, testing the strength of a dangling chain, nudging the mattress with his boot, and building a terrible anticipation. He returned to Van’s side. “She still sleeps in here.”

A muscle jumped in Van’s jaw. “Yes, sir.”

“You haven’t won her over yet.”

“She’s mine.”

“I’m not arguing that.”

Josh felt like he’d fallen into a state of surrealism, where crap that should never ever make sense was sickeningly transparent. They talked about her like she wasn’t standing right there while ignoring the fact that Josh refused to kiss Van. It was a game, a tactic to mess with his head, and maybe hers, too.

Mr. E snapped his gloved fingers under Liv’s bowed head. “Get his clothes.”

Her stillness unfurled into a steady, flowing stride to the trunk by her mattress. She placed her phone on the bed and returned with the jeans, t-shirt, and boots he’d arrived in. They were just things, inconsequential possessions, yet the sight of them made his heart race.

Mr. E scratched his chin through the mask. “I’m a huge Baylor Bears fan. The news reporters are saying you’re the best linebacker in college football.”

His shoulders curled in. How much was the news covering his disappearance? Would they be camped out on the farm, shoving cameras in Mom and Dad’s faces, and magnifying their grief?

“Get dressed.” Mr. E pointed at the clothes.

The taunt of freedom thrilled in his chest as she removed the padlock on his wrists and unbuckled the cuffs. He massaged the skin that had been rubbed raw by metal for a week. Were they letting him go? “What is this?”

“Too many people are searching for you.” Mr. E angled his mask toward Liv. “She picked the wrong boy and has made no progress in your training. You’re a liability.” He placed a hand on Josh’s shoulder and squeezed. “Besides, the Bears are getting crushed. They need you.”

What? No. This was crazy.

Mr. E laughed. “I was kidding about the last part. Seriously though, you’re a risk I can’t afford.” The hand on his shoulder shifted to his throat, gripping his jaw to tilt back his head. “I’ll drop you in the middle of nowhere. By the time you find your way to a phone, we’ll be gone from this house.”

Letting him go home was a risk. Even if they fled, he could identify Liv and Van. There were no suspicious bulges on the men, but Liv had proven how easily a weapon could be concealed. He imagined a gun trained on his head as they pushed him from their car. Boom! Body dumped, never to be traced backed to their operation. His chest hitched. “You’ll kill me before you’ll let me go.”

The grip on his throat released. “Been doing this a long time, boy. Never killed no one. And this is the first time I’ve offered freedom.”

He could taste the promise of it, felt it awakening every cell in his body. Liv pressed his clothes to his chest. He stared into her eyes, searched for the truth, and found an expression as lifeless as Mr. E’s mask. Even Van was gazing at his feet. “What about Liv and Kate?”

“Not your concern.” Mr. E waved a dismissive hand. “Take the offer, boy.”

It would be so much easier to help the girls if he were free. Even if the operation vanished, detectives could track it.

Why was he even debating this? Would he seriously choose the woman who’d been beating him over his parents’ happiness?