“James!” she cried out, bursting with desire. She writhed and shivered. And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . and then the frustration as she remembered she was alone.

Tears stung her eyes.

How pathetic.

She sniffed. Refused to cry.

No more.

She wouldn’t allow herself to be the victim, not again. Not ever.

Rolling over, she buried face deep into his pillow and breathed deeply. But she couldn’t smell his scent. No remnant of aftershave or male musk. Nope. Just the irritating fragrance of a clean pillowcase.

Nothing was working today!

Her fantasy just wasn’t complete.

Annoyed, she sat up and noticed that a hair had escaped from her braid and lay against the stark white of his pillowcase. She almost swept it away, but thinking twice, decided to leave it.

For James to find.

Or Sophia?

Or Rebecca?

The vengeful cockles of her heart warmed.

Surely, James’s interest in Megan’s sister was fleeting, maybe just the result of some weird need to comfort her, possibly even because he felt guilty about Megan going missing.

Eventually, though, he would come to his senses.

Eventually, he would understand that he and Willow were destined to be together.

Eventually, Willow thought, he would be hers.

But she would have to be patient. As she’d been all of her twenty-two years. Always overlooked, always outshone, never in the spotlight. Especially when her sister was around. From her birth, she’d never measured up, had never been as smart, or as cute or as charming as . . .

Don’t go there.

Pushing onto her elbows, Willow reminded herself it was time to leave. If she didn’t want to get caught, she needed to make tracks. James could return at any moment, and she would have trouble explaining why she was here, naked in his bedroom.

That would ruin everything.

She leaned over the side of the bed to pick up her clothes, and as she did, her phone fell out of the pocket of her hoodie. She scooped it up automatically, intent on tucking it away again when inspiration struck.

Why not a memento?

A selfie?

Yes!

Without thinking twice, she leaned back on the bed, and adjusted her braid to fall over one of her bare breasts, coyly exposing the nipple, just a bit. Then, angling her chin just right, she stared at the camera and snapped several pictures of herself in different poses. One on her back; another on her stomach looking over her shoulder; then, just her boobs, no face, just the tip of her braid visible; another of her naked buttocks again with her braid; and finally her bare breasts, the Glock, barrel pointed up at her chin, placed between them, her braid wound around its handle. Oh, Lord. How phallic was that?

Her own private gallery.

She giggled.

Someday—please God—she would share them all with him.