Just like before, a wave of dizziness slammed through her. This time, Jane pressed on, even as her chest constricted. “‘He was kept clean and oiled. Always. Just in case Princess Laila had need of him in her bed. And the princess did have need of him. Often. Her cruel, twisted desires left him beaten and bruised. Not that he ever accepted defeat. The man was wild, nearly uncontrollable, and so filled with hate anyone who looked at him saw their death in his eyes.’”

The dizziness intensified. Hell, so did the desire. To tame a man like that, to have all of his vigor focused on you, pounding into you…his participation willing… Jane shivered.

Lose the ADD, Parker. She cleared her throat. “‘He was hard, merciless. A warrior at heart. A man used to absolute control. At least, he thought he was. Even with his lack of memory, he was patently aware that every order directed his way scraped his nerves raw.’”

Another shiver rocked her. She grit her teeth. He needed her compassion, not her desire. He’s that real to you? Yeah, he was. “‘At least he would have a few days’ reprieve,’” she read on, “‘forgotten by one and all. The entire palace was frothing over Princess Odette’s return from the grave and—’”

The rest of the page was blank. “And what?” Jane flipped to the next, but quickly realized the story had ended on an unfinished cliff-hanger. Great.

Thankfully—or not—she discovered more writing toward the end and blinked, shook her head. The words didn’t change. “‘You, Jane Parker,’” she recited hollowly. “‘You are Odette. Come to me, I command you. Save me, I beg you. Please, Jane. I need you.’”

Her name was in the book. How was her name in the book? And written by the same hand as the rest? On the same aged, stained pages, with the same smudged ink?