"Poor Harper Sanchez." Noah's tone dripped with mock sympathy. "Comes home after eighteen years, doesn't even get a week of peace before she's out there hustling to keep the family afloat. Selling herself like a dog for scraps. She should've stayed lost."
Hudson's expression darkened. "Don't be dramatic. She's doing odd jobs. Part-time work. Hardly 'selling herself.'"
Noah's smile sharpened.
"Oh, of course. My mistake."
He leaned back.
"I was thinking of someone else. There was this girl—her family went under, and I found her so... pitiful. Fed her a little something to take the edge off. We spent a few very affectionate days together."
His eyes glittered.
"And when she finally woke up? No tears. No screaming. She just asked how much."
He was talking about me.
After Hudson's "accident," Noah had been the first to strike.
I'd just finished paying Hudson's hospital fees and hiring a caregiver when Noah's men grabbed me off the street.
They threw me in a basement. Stripped me bare.
Noah drugged me. Forced himself on me. Filmed every moment.