If I could force myself to let go of the book, I’d pick her lock and let myself in.
But I won’t let go.
“Cassandra,” 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 doesn’t try to stop me. Doesn’t do anything except back up.
“What the fuck are these?” My voice is quieter than before. “Who took them?”
“Wh-what?” 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.
“Who did you take these for?” I seethe, still stepping forward.
I don’t care who the fuck the man is. I’m going to kill him.
Cassandra continues to back away from me, moving into the living room.
“Hans, what are you—” Her question cuts off when she bumps into the back of her couch.
“This.” I hold up the book. “This is what I’m talking about, little Butterfly. Who did you fucking take these for?”
She drops her eyes to the little black book in my hand, and her brows furrow for a moment before her eyes widen.
Guilty.
“Oh my god!”
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.
She’s average height, but I’m not, so it’s out of her reach.
“Tell me.” My demand is ridiculous. She doesn’t owe me anything. I have no rightful claim over her.
But I’m past being reasonable. And she’s pushed me here.
“Where did you get that?” Her eyes bounce between me and the book.
“It was delivered to my house.” I step closer, leaving only an inch of space between our bodies. “Now answer the question, Cassandra. Who took these?” Shifting my grip on the cover, I let the book flop open.
