Alpha by Jasinda Wilder Page B

the time as if he was merely turning up the heat, as if we were discovering things together. That’s how it had felt to me.
    But now, with what I was being told, I wasn’t so sure. Innocent, plain vanilla missionary sex…a little smack on the ass…and then the sex got rougher, more inventive…and I’d gone along with it all. Nothing untoward had happened. He’d never hit me on the face, never tried to choke me or tie me up, but I could easily see how that could have happened. If Steven had suggested tying my hands up, just to try it, I would have gone along. I knew that for a fact. And then I would have been totally at his mercy, because I’d started trusting him.  
    “You’re not lying, are you?” I asked, my voice shaky.
    “I never lie. Never . And, furthermore, I have no reason to exaggerate or invent such things. I can see that you’re beginning to believe me.”
    I shrugged. “It makes a scary kind of sense. The slow progression of things, it was exactly as you said.” I thought back to the way things had ended and that, too, fit with what I’d been told. “He just vanished. I was really hurt, actually. Between one date and the next, he just…vanished. No call, not even a text. Like, I thought he’d just…left, without even dumping me.”
    “It was the safest thing, Kyrie. I’m sorry that his disappearance caused you pain, but it was that or allow you to suffer at his hands, and that was simply not an option. I will not allow you to come to harm, Kyrie. Not ever. I may not be able to prevent you from suffering emotional pain, but believe me when I say that I would if such was within my power.”
    The sincerity in his voice surprised me. It sounded for all the world as if he really did care, as if he felt deep and powerful emotions toward me. But yet he wouldn’t even tell me his name, or let me see him. It didn’t make any sense, and it scared me. Was he unstable? There was no way to know, and I’d put myself right his hands.  
    “If you’re willing to believe me, I’d rather not let you see the file,” he said. “It’s…very graphic, and very disturbing.”
    “I still want to see it,” I said.
    “Are you sure?” He sounded closer, but I hadn’t heard or felt him move. “It’s not pretty, what he does to women. And the most awful part is that he gets away with it. If a girl were to report him, he’d just say it was consensual, because…it was. At the beginning. But by the time they realized what was happening, it was too late. But it becomes their word against his, and the girls are often too traumatized, too frightened of him to say anything.”
    “I want to see it. I also want to see the information you have on me.”
    “I’m not sure that’s wise. It wouldn’t do you any good. It’s nothing but basic information. Photographs of you going about your day. Financial information, medical information, university records.”
    “Why do you need all that information on me?”
    “Because I wish to know who you are.”
    “And who am I?”
    “Hmm…” He sighed, the sound of someone gathering his thoughts. “You are Kyrie Abigail St. Claire. Twenty-six years old. Daughter of Katharine Eileen Tilson St. Claire and Nicholas Calvin St. Claire. Your mother suffers from bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, and is currently residing at the Ravenwood Care Home in Auburn Hills, Michigan. Your father is deceased. You have one brother, Calvin Matthew St. Claire, who is currently attending Columbia College in Chicago. Your best friend is Layla Irene Campari. You have one living set of grandparents, maternal, living in Fort Lauderdale. No other immediate family. You have a bachelor’s degree in social work from Wayne State University, and are currently pursuing your master’s. You are five foot seven, and your weight fluctuates between one-thirty and one-forty. Blonde hair, blue eyes. No medical conditions. You had your appendix out when you were sixteen. You have been supporting your