Page 8 of The Toy Collector

Piper Harrington.

Though I’ve known her name since an hour after I left the café, courtesy of my many connections, it’s not until now I’ve received her life story.

She lives alone in the ground-floor unit of a building her uncle Teddy owns. Amongst other things, he’s a real estate investor, black sheep, and, apart from her, the only member of the wretched Harrington lineage worth a damn.

She’s in her final year for her Master’s in Political Communications and Public Policy at Georgetown. As far as I can tell, she has no job and no debt. No obvious vices, either. There’s no boyfriend, and only two exes linger in the margins.

Hmm, wait, there’s also a TA she ghosted after only two drinks. It seems he didn’t get the hint, and she had to call the campus police to get rid of him while she studied at American University. I make a note to check if he’s still teaching because if he is, I’ll have his fucking job for makingherfeeluncomfortable.

I’ve memorized the sound of her deadbolt turning. I know how long she lingers by the window before pulling the curtain. She thinks she’s safe behind her little routine.

My lips curl into a faint smirk as I read through her résumé, absorbing the words.“I want to be in the room where real decisions are made, and I want to make a difference.”

I can’t decide if it’s naïve or enticing. It’s two-faced; could be both or neither. I chuckle softly, the sound low and dark. With every word I read, I feel it creeping in—something dark, something possessive.

The file is long and intrusive. I have her measurements, calorie intake, health, strengths, weaknesses, and everything in-between.

I shift in my seat, the pressure in my trousers a slow, steady throb. She doesn’t even know what she does to me. Getting to know her in such an honest and raw way is like foreplay. And I’m painfully hard.

The bottom drawer in the desk beckons me, and I oblige. Pulling out the lace panties I stole from her apartment when I had my team install security cameras in every room after she left for school yesterday.

Even though they’re clean, I bring them to my face, inhaling deeply.

It’s at times like these, I wish I could be near her. Hide in her apartment, but at six-foot-four, I’m not exactly built to curl up in a closet. I’m also not sure standing outside her window would be overlooked for long.

Clutching the panties in my hand, my eyes drift back to the puzzle on my desk. It’s almost complete; only one piece is missing. I roll it between my fingers, pressing the edge against my palm.

I think about Piper in the flesh—wonder how her skin smells, and how soft it’ll feel against my fingers. I let out a slow breath.

Soon.

Just a few more steps. Just a few more moves.

Soon.

She has no idea what I have in store for her future—ourfuture.

I open my email thread with Lauren Chase, the woman Piper has an internship interview with tomorrow. From her file, I know how important this interview is. But it won’t be the lifeline she’s hoping for. It’ll be a giant fiasco. At my… request, Lauren will turn Piper away, bringing my toy one step closer to me.

She doesn’t know what she stirred. Doesn’t know she was owned the second I felt my cock twitch behind a ten-thousand-dollar suit. That she never stood a chance the moment I wanted her.

I’ve made presidents. I’ve dismantled administrations. There isn’t a powerful man in this city who doesn’t flinch when my name is whispered in the dark. I don’t hold office—I hold reins. They don’t come to me for votes. No, they come to me when they need the power they can’t touch without bleeding.

Unlike my cousins, I don’t collect debts or favors. I collect the things I can toy with; leverage, power, alliances… and now—her. She’sthe first thing I’ve ever wanted for myself—not for leverage, not for legacy. For me. And she doesn’t even know my name… yet.

My phone buzzes, and a familiar name flashes on the screen: Remus Russo. I answer, keeping my tone casual, but the weight of our shared understanding hangs heavy in the air.

“Remus,” I say as a way of greeting my cousin.

“Lorenzo,” he mirrors. “How’s the empire-building going? Is the last political candidate ready?” he asks, voice low, steady.

Closing my eyes, I try to come up with something—anything—useful from my meeting with the candidate Remus wanted me to meet with yesterday.

“Too average,” I reply brusquely. “There was nothing memorable about him, and his ideas were too far-fetched.”

“I see—”

Interrupting Remus, I carry on. “Plus, the skeletons in his closets aren’t good. His penchant for chasing the secretary without bothering to be discreet is too cliché. Not to mention he seems to have an issue with consent, and according to his two ex-wives, he lets his fist do the talking once he’s had a bit too much to drink.”

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