It all started because my husband Martin Collins's first love had a thing for freak shows. So he secretly kidn*pped and locked up an orphan just to entertain her. After I'd begged and pleaded with him for ages, he finally gave in and set the poor kid free. Martin was still shaking from the fear. He pulled me and Kyle—our autistic son—tight against his chest. "If it weren't for you, I would've been ruined forever," he whispered. "Starting today, I'm right here with you. We'll help Kyle get better together." I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I thought he'd finally come to his senses, shaken off his madness. But the next second, everything went black, and I blacked out. When I finally pried my eyes open, I stared in horror. My little boy's feet had been shattered, and he was stuffed into a vase. A cold, calm voice drifted from right behind my shoulder. It was Martin. "You couldn't even carry a normal child to term. How dare you screw up my plans?" he said, his voice flat as ice. "My gift for Aria was missing a piece. Your useless son fills the spot perfectly." I watched my son writhe in pain, his cries crushing my chest. I pulled out my phone and dialed my brothers, who were all commanders at the military base. "My nine brothers, your little sister and nephew are about to be turned into living trophies. Help!"