I wake up with my head aching, and the Devil of Miami looking down at me.

His eyes are narrow, probing. There's implied ownership there—like I'm his pet. His plaything. When he sees that I'm awake, he smiles.

"Well, Dora, that was unexpected. I spoil you rotten with a whole new wardrobe and offer you breakfast and you try to run away from me and hurt yourself in the process? I knew your issues of self-worth ran deep, but I underestimated just how deep. I will have to up my efforts."

Up his efforts?

"Wh-what are you talking about?" I ask, sitting up. I realize I'm in bed. His bed,...