If I could force myself to let go of the book, Iâd pick her lock and let myself in.
But I wonât let go.
âCassandra,â I bellow a third time.
The deadbolt clicks, and the handle turns, and I step through the door as Cassandra opens it.
She lets out a squeak of surprise, but she doesnât try to stop me. Doesnât do anything except back up.
âWhat the fuck are these?â My voice is quieter than before. âWho took them?â
âWh-what?â Cassandra blinks up at me.
Her eyes are wide, and her cheeks are flushed, and she looks so much like that first photo I want to shove her to her knees to teach her a lesson about playing with fire.
âWho did you take these for?â I seethe, still stepping forward.
I donât care who the fuck the man is. Iâm going to kill him.
Cassandra continues to back away from me, moving into the living room.
âHans, what are youââ Her question cuts off when she bumps into the back of her couch.
âThis.â I hold up the book. âThis is what Iâm talking about, little Butterfly. Who did you fucking take these for?â
She drops her eyes to the little black book in my hand, and her brows furrow for a moment before her eyes widen.
Guilty.
âOh my god!â
Her gasp goes straight to my dick, which has been hard as stone since I first opened this fucking book.
She reaches for it, but I hold it up.
Sheâs average height, but Iâm not, so itâs out of her reach.
âTell me.â My demand is ridiculous. She doesnât owe me anything. I have no rightful claim over her.
But Iâm past being reasonable. And sheâs pushed me here.
âWhere did you get that?â Her eyes bounce between me and the book.
âIt was delivered to my house.â I step closer, leaving only an inch of space between our bodies. âNow answer the question, Cassandra. Who took these?â Shifting my grip on the cover, I let the book flop open.