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And then a woman is brought in, a hood obscuring her head. She’s quickly forced down on her knees in front of Leopold and me. She struggles against the grip of the two men pushing her. I don’t like their manhandling.

“Don’t hurt her,” I growl.

“She’s fine,” Leopold remarks, voice dripping with relish. “She’s used to being on her knees.”

The woman behind the hood is silent.

“Who is this?” I ask the Elder.

“Your nearly impossible task, of course.”

I glare at him.

“You want me to kill her?”

“No,” Leopold replies. “Nothing as barbaric as that, boy. All we request you to do is spend a week with this woman. Seven full days. Spend every night in the same bed at a penthouse we own overlooking Central Park, and at some point, you must take her innocence.”

“What?”

“You heard me. She’s a virgin. Untouched. And you’re going to put an end to that.”

The woman presented on her knees in front of me still hasn’t said a word, and I can’t make out her face under the fabric. She’s of average height. I’m guessing she’s young, around my age.

“No,” I mutter, “this is definitely barbaric.”

This whole performance disturbs me to my core. Something is dangerously wrong. There’s more to this than meets the eye.

A virgin in my bed? What’s Leopold playing at? What are the Castaways doing?

“Then I guess it’s time to see your task,” Leopold says as he nods at the men.

They rip off the hood, and it’s like the room instantly changes.

My jaw clenches at the sight of her. My fingers curl back into fists. The entire world pauses.

And then I get it. Leopold’s savoring. The Castaways’ scheming.

That face. Those lips. Those eyes I know so well.

It’s the woman I hate. And for good reason.

On her knees in front of me, restrained, is Jolie Auclair. The sister of my best friend.

She’s my final task.

Looking at her, the years melt away, and I’m suddenly hit with a tidal wave of emotions as my pulse hammers in my ears. Shock. Grief. Heartbreak. Even humiliation.

But they all part for one final emotion that threatens to overwhelm me.

Rage.

Incandescent, all-consuming rage.

“Not her,” I say, my voice shaking. “Anyone but her.”

And with that, I walk out.

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