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Loki Renard

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Yesterday I was his equal. Today I am his property.

When I inherited my father’s fortune, I became a billionaire… but not a billionaire like Darko Lijander. I thought wealth meant power, until he stripped me bare, spanked me until I called him master, and then showed me what real power looks like in the most shameful way possible.

As I am taken from my home to his waiting helicopter, naked, blushing, and already very, very thoroughly used, I have no idea what he has in store for me, but one thing is abundantly clear.

I am now his property.

Publisher’s Note: Property includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

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Loki Renard Books

Chapter One


“Can I get you anything, Miss Parker-Baskerville?”

“No, thank you, Miles. I’m just going to grab a shower and get some sleep.”

“Very well. And, miss… I am very sorry. Let me know if you need anything.”

Miles has never had any expression on his dour face, not since he came to work for my family twenty years ago, but today, the lines and wrinkles droop just a fraction more, and the corners of his lips describe an even deeper reverse crescent. This is the face of his mourning. The only genuine one I’ve yet seen.

My father died four days ago. The funeral was yesterday. Today I have been called into meeting after meeting, each one of them so allegedly important there is no time for me to grieve. None of them have been important at all, as far as I can tell. I am the last of my line. I have no brothers, no sisters. My mother is dead. My father had no siblings either. His entire estate has been left to me, and the vultures are gathering.

Forty three point six billion dollars sit in accounts. And that’s just what’s liquid. I own assets across the world. Businesses, buildings, thousands of hectares of real estate and three islands.

I’d give it all away for one day with the man who earned it.

I just want to be alone. I’m sick of simpering sad faces, people playing at grief. They can’t hide the avarice in their eyes. People look at me and they see money. They always have, one way or another. Boys wanted to date me because they knew my father was loaded. That turned into young men trying to seduce me for the same reasons. It’s the reason I’m single. I never know if people are interested in me or my money, and that problem just got a whole lot worse.

Retreating to my bedroom, I try to pretend to myself like none of this has happened. If I just push recent events out of my mind, it’s almost as if my father is still here. We were never an overly close little family, but his existence was a happy weight in my mind. I knew he was there if I needed him. And now he’s not.

The world has come unanchored, and I am adrift. Nothing seems to have meaning anymore, and I have little interest in the life I have inherited.

Once I am fully alone, I strip the black lace dress from my body and fight my sad brain for an idea that might make this somehow okay. I have a vague notion of doing good. My father already owned several charitable foundations, but I intend to increase those givings several-fold. I used to think money was everything. It seemed to separate us from the suffering the rest of the world had to endure, but I have just discovered in a harsh way that all the money in the world doesn’t protect you from the realities of life. Anyone can get sick and die. My father got sick and died. He was only forty-nine years old. Far too young but it happened anyway.

Life is short. I’m going to live it my way. Everybody I’ve met with today has had an idea for my money and my life. They’ve wanted me to be a spokesperson, a model. That’s all I’ve done up to this point, after all. Counting carbs and stalking runways and pretending that meant something.

My mind is whirling with misery and regret as I step into the shower. The twin jets cascade over my skin. They feel incredible. I take a deep breath and try to take stock of myself. I have the kind of wealth and power people dream of. I have the world at my feet. Once my grief passes, I will start making a difference.

There’s a little voice in the back of my head that snorts at that thought and asks me what difference I’ve bothered to make up until this point, but I push it away. I don’t need to feel any more worthless than I already do.

I hear something outside the bathroom door. A creak in the floorboard that only registers when men of certain weights step on it.

I stick my head out of the shower and call out.

“Miles? Is that you?”

There’s no response. But I’m sure there’s someone out there. I can just… feel it. Miles never listens to me. He does what he believes needs to be done, no matter what he is told, and most of the time he is right. He has been in the background of my father’s life for decades, making things a little more comfortable one little touch at a time. You know when Miles has been in a room. The bed will be turned down. There won’t be a hint of dust. There will be a drink of sparkling water, cooled to the perfect temperature. He is the perfect servant. Right now, I don’t need him.

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