Watch Point (A Holiday Charity Novel)

Watch Point (A Holiday Charity Novel)

Author: Cecilia Tan

Eric Sakai-Johnson joined the Navy SEALs to protect his country and the people he loves. After discharge, he finds himself relegated to protecting big pharma billionaire Aiden Milford from assassination attempts and kidnapping. Until Aiden reneges on a promise, fires Eric, and lets Eric’s mother die with millions of dollars in medical debt.

Now Eric is the kidnapper. Snatching Aiden’s twenty-two-year-old son, Chase, for a multi-million-dollar ransom is the only way to get justice. It’s time for Aiden to learn what it’s like when someone you love is at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Eric has it all planned out. The one thing he didn’t plan for is the intense erotic spark between him and Chase.

Chase has been chafing under his father’s autocratic control. A gay hookup app has been his only ticket to rebellion—to clandestine moments of freedom, excitement, and danger. Now it’s his ticket to a deep connection and amazing sex with his “captor.” On the rocky island where they’re sequestered, Chase finds Eric to be everything he wants in a man: quiet, strong, capable, and honorable . . . until he finds out he’s been captured for real.

 

NOTE: 20% of all proceeds from this title will be donated to the Russian LGBT Network. The Russian LGBT network was founded in April 2006. It is an interregional, non-governmental human rights organization that promotes equal rights and respect for human dignity, regardless of sexual orientation and gender identity. They unite and develop regional initiatives, advocacy groups (at both national and international levels), and provide social and legal services.

Price: $3.99

Reader discretion advised. This title contains the following sensitive themes:

dubious consent, explicit violence, heavy kink, sexual assault

CHAPTER ONE

Time stamp: 2104 Monday, Middleborough, Massachusetts

I used to think I was a good man. My mother died believing that I was. If I am, though, there’s no way I should be here. I check the equipment: gag, restraints, hood, all in place.

Target acquired.

I knock on the door of room 212 at the Super 8 Motel three times: rap-rap-rap. Chase Milford opens the door without hesitation. Oh, sure, according to the app his name is “Randy Houle,” but it’s unmistakably him. He’s making this way too easy. A gay hookup app, a secret rendezvous—he’s already covered his tracks.

I stare into wide hazel eyes framed by blond-frosted hair, barely registering that he’s already shirtless, wearing only running shorts. Never mind that it’s December—apparently, this motel room is the Tropic of Chase. He licks his lips hungrily as his gaze travels down my body, then back up to my chest without meeting my eyes again.

I wonder what he sees. Hopefully only the superficial: cotton T-shirt a size too small molded to a hard chest, black jeans, gear bag and coat in my hand. At last his eyes flick up to take in my face. I match my photo on the app, black hair grown out, black goatee, a tanned face that could be almost anything: Native American, Italian, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian. I’ve been mistaken for all these things. (The last man who asked me “what” I was, was politely encouraged by a good friend of mine to choose between “American” or the slug of a .44 as an answer.)

Chase doesn’t seem to recognize me. Good.

I push my way into the room, impatient to get this part of the operation over with, but I’m not expecting his hand to slide right into my jeans, his palm fitting perfectly against the bulk of my cock. He has mistaken my forcefulness for ardor and met it with unexpected boldness of his own. I would have pegged him for the passive type, a do-me queen. He’s the spoiled son of a spoiled-rotten man. The last time I saw him, he was barely a teenager, a near-silent homeschooled wallflower. Maybe time—or a stint in culinary school, if my intel is correct—brought him out of his shell?

He’s bold enough to cruise for gay sex via app, anyway.

I thrust into his warm hand while trying to make sure we move away from the door. It shuts behind me, and I reach back to throw the latch. If he tries to escape, that should slow him down.

Right now, escape seems the furthest thing from Chase’s mind. My cock is hardening, lengthening in his grip, and he’s making needy sounds in the back of his throat like the anticipation is killing him. My mind races. You’re here to kidnap him, not have sex with him. A half-naked man is too conspicuous. I need him to put clothes on. I need to take control of this situation. I need to keep my head clear.

I need his mouth on the full package inside my briefs as he strips my jeans down to my thighs and sets his tongue against me. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. I haven’t been touched like this in forever.

“You hungry?” I hear myself say, and he nods, popping my boner free above the waistband and swallowing me. If I’ve ever had a more eager mouth, I literally can’t remember.

He’s on his knees and has worked his own hand inside his shorts, tugging on himself, and something in me snaps.

“Greedy little fuck.” I grab him by the hair and pull him off me. “Who said you could touch yourself?”

He raises his hands like I’m pointing a pistol at his face, not my dick, but his eyes are bright and eager, and my blood pulses even harder. Eyes looking upward always seem beseeching, don’t they Those eyes give me ideas. “Put your hands behind your head.”

He does it. I whip his cheeks with my cock, and he sticks out his tongue as if he can catch it, like a frog catching a fly. Ha.

“Will you fuck me?” he asks, and it doesn’t come out wanton at all, just breathless and heartbreakingly simple. His need is so raw and undeniable as he adds “Please?” that I’ve said yes before I think it through.

I’m a man of my word. I keep my promises. If I don’t have that, I have nothing. But I’m not sure promising to fuck my former boss’s son counts as upholding my honor. I’m not sure of anything, because I can’t think straight with all my blood in my dick instead of my damn brain.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” I add. I’m not even sure why. Maybe to remind myself that fucking him isn’t my end goal. I’ve got to keep this operation moving.

“Okay,” he says, like this is some kind of negotiation. “The only foreplay I need is, um . . .”

His boldness finally falters. He jerks his head toward the bed, where his own gear bag lies unzipped. I edge toward it, never turning my back to him, and reach into the bag.

Restraints. Rope. Leather. The heavy canvas of a straitjacket. Chains.

Chase Milford is a kinky fucker. And he’s making it way, way too easy for me. “On the bed,” I bark.

He scrambles up naked, leaving his shorts on the floor as if he moved so fast they fell on the spot like something dropped by Wile E. Coyote.

I know in that instant I am going to fuck him. I’m going to go through with it. It’s just a slight change of plan. He asked, I promised, and if I need a justification, it’ll only help me if I want to put him in restraints. Hell, it means I’ve already got his trust. Getting him into my truck might not even require a struggle. I’d like to avoid that. My beef is with his old man, not him.

Wrist cuffs attach his hands together, and I use rope to secure him to the headboard. If he notices the extra rope that ensures he can’t free himself, he says nothing about it. His cock is red and straining upward against his belly, straight as an arrow, complete with triangle-shaped head. Pre-come drips from the slit onto the plane of his stomach, glistening in the bedside light. I used to crave that flavor, that salt and musk.

I have jittery momentary flashbacks to Cassidy, to Ruiz, to Garrett, three cocks I used to suck on a regular basis, on my knees in the back of a moving vehicle, rough cloth of their uniforms chafing my cheeks, a lifetime ago. I wonder vaguely where they are now, dead or alive.

The man under me is most definitely alive. I press my tongue against his cock and run it up the ridge, then tickle his slit with the tip and revel in the salty-sweet taste. His legs are free, but they twist ineffectually as he tries to push more of his flesh into my mouth. I pull up and work him with my hand.

“I don’t want to come yet,” he pleads, voice rough and breathy with desperation. “Please, please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me first. Or during. Whatever. Please.”

I had no idea Chase Milford had grown up to be such a slut. His father would shit himself if he knew. His father, Aiden, hates cocksuckers so much that he’ll break a promise to one just for finding out that man is gay.

Maybe I should’ve let Aiden take that bullet himself. Maybe he would’ve survived it. Maybe.

There’s no use regretting the past. I’m too caught up in the present: Chase is wiggling his ass enticingly, and I’m pouring lube into my hand and slicking him with it—cock, balls, hole, everywhere. I can’t tell if the lube has some kind of stimulating chemical or if something about Chase himself is making everywhere our skin touches tingle. His noises have never stopped—like a puppy or a baby bird—something utterly helpless, utterly needy.

Getting the condom on proves tricky because my hands are so slippery I can’t get the packet open. It takes bared teeth to do that, my need for him growing more feral by the moment, and I’m barely adequately sheathed before I search the trough between his cheeks with the head of my cock for the way in.

When I finally shove at the right angle—and pop, there goes what I fantasize is his cherry—his desperate noises stop, and he sighs like an alcoholic drinking from the altar wine, like it’s everything that makes him whole, body and spirit.

I am suddenly no longer in a hurry. I am buried in a warm body, a willing man, a consenting partner. This part is true. He thinks this is what I came here for.

Maybe I did. That at least would be honest.

I begin a slow fucking the likes of which I’ve not often performed. Too many couplings in my life have been in haste, in barracks, on benches, all the more passionate for their brutal quickness. But there’s no need to hurry now. Chase is at my mercy.

My cock luxuriates inside him, riding him slow and easy until his hole is fully stretched, then pulling all the way free to plunge in with sudden force. He gasps as if each penetration pushes the air right out of him, his eyes closed and mouth slack in rapture.

It’s good. It’s very, very good. When he begins to moan, there’s a tinge of disbelief in the sound, as if he never dreamed it could be this good.

My hands are still slick from the lube, and I switch to short thrusts as I work his cock. He comes suddenly, far more quickly than I thought possible. Every muscle of his trembles as he turns to jelly on my prick, completely helpless under me. I take gouts of his come on two fingers and shovel them into his mouth. He eats it just as hungrily as he’s taking my cock, and I come just as unexpectedly, triggered by something primal and deep about this coupling, something beyond understanding. I search his mouth with my tongue then, chasing that primal need myself, leaving us both gasping.

His eyes search mine for a few long moments. “You look familiar,” he says.

Shit. “Everyone says that,” I reply, and slump against him as if I’m exhausted, slowing my breathing purposefully, letting tension leave my body with each exhalation. He’s caught up in it, too, unknowingly matching his breathing to mine as his eyes flutter shut. I’m lulling him to relax and keeping myself calm at the same time.

Before long he’s asleep of his own accord, still tied to the bed, still covered in spunk and lube. I decide not to take any chances with him remembering me or getting suspicious. A little needle prick, a small dose of sedative—he’ll remain asleep as I clean him up, dress him in some nondescript clothes I brought, and prepare him for transport. The operation hasn’t gone at all as planned, but the outcome will be exactly as desired. I will have kidnapped Chase Milford without hurting him.

After all, I wouldn’t want to lie in the ransom note when I say he’s unharmed.

CHAPTER TWO

Time stamp: 0114 Tuesday, Natick, Massachusetts

My next stop after acquiring Chase is a rest area off the interstate that has free wi-fi. I park as close to the building as possible on the far side of the gas pumps, and a giant inflatable Santa looms from the roof over the truck. At this time of night, the restaurants are all closed except for one crappy drive-thru window, but even if the place is nearly deserted I don’t dare go inside the building and get caught on camera. I can hop on the wi-fi from the truck. A wordy box pops up on my tablet screen, and I click on it: “I agree” not to commit any crimes through the service. I have a feeling if I get arrested for kidnapping, violating this Terms of Service agreement won’t be high on the list of charges.

I send the ransom note through the darkweb. Anonymous. Untraceable. I’m demanding $4.17 million. It’s a very specific amount, and even though giving a clue to who I am could be a tactical error, part of me is counting on Aiden knowing why this is happening. I want him to realize that if he’d just kept his promises to me, none of this would have ever happened.

Next stop is a mom-and-pop motel a couple of hours north of here, barely on the grid. They don’t even take credit cards. I prepaid them in cash and have established a routine while staying there over the past few days. They think I get up early every morning to go ice fishing. The actual owners appear to be largely absentee and the clerks mostly underpaid local teens.

No one is awake at four in the morning to see me carry Chase into my room. He murmurs a few words as I lay him on the bed farther from the door. Starting to come around. I can’t take chances. This might all be over within an hour. Maybe Big Daddy will get the message, wire the money, and I’ll be on my way by dawn.

More likely Aiden won’t even see it until after breakfast, though.

I’ve brought Chase’s bag of gear with us because I left no trace behind, but as I look through his rope and restraints now, the temptation to use them is too great to pass up. I roll him onto his face and bind his wrists together.

He’s murmuring something into the pillow.

“What’s that?” I pull one shoulder back.

“Gotta piss.” He hasn’t opened his eyes. “Are we going to do it again?”

He still hasn’t realized he’s being kidnapped. “You wanna piss?”

“Yeah. Why, you into that or something?”

I don’t answer other than to haul him to his feet and march him into the tiny bathroom. With his hands bound, I have to be the one to drag the cargo pants down.

He bends his knees. “Um. Aim me? I don’t want to piss on your pants. It’ll get everywhere if I just let fly.”

He’s right. And he doesn’t seem put off by the fact he’s wearing mostly my clothes now. I slip my hand around him and feel him quickening from my touch. “You better hurry up, or you’ll be too hard to get it out.”

“Working on it,” he says, breathy, eyelids fluttering.

A hot stream starts to flow, and I can feel vibrations in my palm, the scent musky and thick, my own cock hardening like some kind of instinctual response. When he’s done pissing, I shake him a couple of times, unable to resist flicking my thumbnail through the last drop at the slit, invading him just that little bit.

He wants more. His hips curl and he bites his lip. This one craves being violated. I can smell it in the sweat that breaks out all over him as I pull my hand away. I know his type. I was his type. I used to be the butchest butch bottom there was.

“I’m going to tie you to the bed,” I say as I wash my hands in the sink.

“All right.”

How a suspicious backstabber like Aiden Milford raised such a trusting son, I can’t fathom. Chase follows me puppylike to the bed, leaving the pants and underwear behind, and my cock throbs. It’s only been a few hours since I fucked him, and here I am wanting more already. This is the problem with sex, always has been. I do better when I do without it entirely. The need ebbs. But give me a taste and I’m all hunger. Not that I was different from the other guys on my team that way: once we got going, all of us could be insatiable.

Time to shut that right down, though. If the plan goes perfectly, I’ll be a very rich man in a couple of hours, and I’ll never see Chase Milford again.

I say nothing as I tie him faceup, limbs spread-eagled to the corners of the bed.

Then I sit back on the other bed, taking my time removing my boots. I can feel a chill coming from the badly insulated window. I check the latch, the blinds. This place is not the slightest bit soundproof. I dig through the rest of Chase’s gear: sure enough, there’s a gag. It’s almost cute, a dinky black rubber penis that goes in the mouth like a pacifier. “You buy this online?”

“Yeah.” He blushes deeply, though, like just being caught owning it is humiliating.

“You ever worn it before?”

He shakes his head this time.

I should resist. I should have better self-control than this. But a lot of virtues about me have been stripped away of late. I straddle him and rub the black rubber back and forth on his lips like I’m putting ChapStick on him. He whimpers.

“Is that your I-want-it whimper or your I-don’t-want-it whimper?” I demand.

He closes his eyes. So ashamed.

“It’s okay, Chase,” I say, like I’m talking to a hurt dog. “It’s okay to want it.”

His eyes open then, full-on sultriness hitting me like Superman’s heat vision, and he licks his lips. “Make me.”

I get it. I really get it. He wants everything, all the dirtiest fantasies imaginable, but he can’t bring himself to do them. But when the big, bad wolf comes along, it isn’t Little Red Riding Hood’s fault, right? Okay, Chase. I’ll play bad guy for you. “Open.”

“No.” He likes being defiant.

Fine. This one’s easy. I don’t have to be physically rough on him to wrestle the gag into his mouth. All I should have to do is pinch his nose shut . . .

But he’s tricky. He breathes through his teeth, baring them at me, again daring me to force him.

There are other forms of coercion. “You’ll take the gag now or you won’t get my cock later,” I say.

His mouth pops open like the beak on a new-hatched chick. Ha. I push the gag in, and he makes a satisfied grunt.

And yeah, I just promised him my cock later. We’ll see if he still wants it when he finds out I’m ransoming him. My jeans feel two sizes too small.

I force myself to climb back onto the other bed, where I waste a little time unzipping my own gear bag and checking the equipment. I’m not carrying a gun. That’s just asking for trouble in more ways than one. There’s a fake in there that would be convincing to an amateur but not to anyone who knows firearms. The knives, though, those are real.

The most important thing in the bag is a paperback book. I settle back on the bed, turn on the reading light, and cross my ankles as I try to find the place where I left off.

Chase makes a whimpering sound. I’m assuming this is when he would normally make a sarcastic or seductive remark. But he’s wearing this gag, see. You’re not really going to do the fake-nonchalant dom thing and pretend to read that book, are you? I imagine him asking.

You bet I am, kid. You bet I am.

I read for an hour. He falls back to sleep, despite the gag, despite the ropes, despite his erection. Maybe it’s the sedative still in his system. I check the time, then check my email. If a reply comes to the darkweb inbox, it’ll set off a couple of scripts that will trigger a notification in the email accessible on my phone. It’s getting harder and harder to be untraceable these days, but there are ways to do it.

Still no answer from his father, but he probably hasn’t discovered Chase missing yet. I resolve to read for one more hour. If there’s no reply by then, we’ll move on to another location.

Reading is the only distraction I’ve found is worth a damn. Anything else I try, television, movies, music . . . my mind wanders, and all too often I don’t like where it wanders. When I read, though, every sense is engaged, every nerve. My entire self is transported into someone else, and that’s the best thing for my mental health, honestly.

When Mom was dying, I would read to her. She wanted me to read aloud because she couldn’t hold the book anymore. And then we’d both escape into the world of Harry Potter or The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo or whatever her partner, Melinda, had brought her, saying their book club was reading it and Mom should catch up in case she got out of the hospital in time for the next meeting.

She never made it to book club, never left that hospital again, unless you count when she was transported through the pages of a book.

I realize I’m not reading, other than imagining what my name would look like tattooed on the inside of Chase Milford’s thigh. His cock deflated earlier, but as I stare I see it’s lengthening again, filling up and stiffening. His hips begin to undulate like he’s dreaming about fucking, or being fucked, and his head thrashes a little as he moans into the gag.

Shit. It’s like his cock and mine are connected. Every time he gets hard, mine Pavlovs right along. I free mine and stroke it for a moment of relief, but the need for more quickly surpasses what my own hand can satisfy.

I set the book down, move to his bedside, and loosen the ropes leading to one wrist restraint to give that hand a few inches of freedom. Not enough to untie himself or touch himself. Just to see what he’ll do. To see if he’ll do what I hope he will.

He does. He’s not afraid to look me in the eye as that hand pats my thigh, feeling for my cock, finding it, stroking it.

So long since I’ve been touched. So long since I’ve spoken to anyone but doctors or lawyers or bank clerks or collection agents. The little voice trying to tell me this is wrong is silenced by how deeply right it feels in my gut. He makes a soft grunt into the gag like he likes what he feels in his fingers.

“You want it?” I hear myself saying. He nods enthusiastically. “Where, in your mouth?” Another nod. “Your ass?” Again. “Should I choke you with it until you can’t breathe?” The most enthusiastic yet. “You’re a sick little fuck, aren’t you?”

This time he shakes his head no, though, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to show reluctance, trying to tell me to back off, or just disagreeing with my assessment of his mental state.

“Keep pulling on me. Nice and easy,” I say. His hand hasn’t stopped moving this entire time, and it’s hypnotic watching the red bulb of my dick disappear and reappear from the tunnel of his fingers. Over and over. Pretty soon a big bead of pre-come has gathered, and just when I think it’s going to fall he swipes his thumb over it, smearing the whole sensitive head, and I’m as close to coming in another man’s hand as I’ve been in years.

Across the room, the phone in the pocket of my jacket vibrates. I can barely hear it over the harsh sounds of my breathing and the muffled moans Chase is making as I get close, but I do hear it. I force myself to pull free of his grip and check the messages.

There’s a reply from Papa Bear. My heart rate, which is already racing from arousal, spikes higher and I feel light-headed. This is no time to have some kind of spell or episode, for fuck’s sake. I force myself to take slow, even breaths. The text I just received has no content in it. It’s just the last piece of a technological Rube Goldberg chain set off when my darkweb inbox receives a reply. Untraceable, but it means now I have to log in to see the message.

I take out the prepaid smartphone I plan to discard as soon as I no longer need it. Time for a quick access. I just need to open the anonymous browsing app. As soon as I remember the unlock code for the phone. That’s hard to do with Chase making whining puppy noises at me. Impossible, even.

Fine. Is it really giving in to temptation when he’s begging me? The gag is still in his mouth, but he’s begging with every sound he can make, every motion of his hips, every bit of body language he can muster.

I pull the gag free, and he gulps air. “Tell me what you want,” I demand.

“You want me to talk dirty? Is that it?”

I slap him sharply on the cheek—not hard enough to ring his bell, but to send a message. Obey or pay. “Tell me.”

“I w-want your cock. I want it, all of it.” He looks up at me as he talks, awkward and embarrassed at first, but his tongue loosens as he warms up, as his own words stoke his fire. “Want every inch, hard and fast, hard and slow, any way you’ll give it to me, gore me with it, stuff me with it.”

Pre-come is dripping from me now, and he’s not even touching me. “Such a dirty mouth.” I straddle his face and feed my cock to him until he gags. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

I pull free to hear his answer. “Fuck me, sir, fuck me, please, anything you want, sir, anything.”

Every time he says the word “sir,” it’s like a jolt of electricity zaps me right in the ’nads, making my cock stand on end. “Who taught you to say that word?” I breathe, sticking two fingers into his mouth just to make sure he doesn’t go more than a couple of seconds without knowing he’s mine to invade any time I want. I circle his lips with the wet tips. “You got some topman somewhere, some leatherdaddy gonna come looking for his boy?”

“No, sir, only you, sir. You’re the only one.” His eyes are glittering with a kind of triumph, or maybe it’s just pure thrill. Only you, sir. Does he know how deep under my skin his words just went? Does he?

So deep I’m too impatient to untie him all the way. If there was any chance of me stopping short of fucking him again, it was gone the moment he said that. I pull a knife from the bag—not the really big one, just a sharp, useful one—cut his ankles and one wrist free, then turn him over and attach his free hand to the rope I left intact.

“Ass in the air. Come on. Up if you want any lube. Otherwise I’m fucking you dry.” It’s just tough talk and I know it—who would fuck without lube? He knows it, too, probably, but that doesn’t stop it from being hot. He gets that ass in the air with alacrity. I waste no time in drilling him with a couple of fingers slicked from a bottle, corkscrewing until he groans. He’s all moans and passion until he feels the chill of the lubricated condom between his cheeks and goes completely still. I’m so eager to fuck him that it hasn’t even warmed up from my body heat by the time I’m trying to get my cock inside him.

In. I’m in. Now we’re both still as statues. In the battle between my body and my brain, my brain takes this moment to force a pause in the action, maybe to force me to think about what I’m doing. What am I doing? Besides giving us both what we desperately need? Right. I’m doing the only sensible thing. I’m maintaining my cover as a hot trick. I’m keeping him happy. I’m keeping him lulled into a sense of security.

I’m spanking his ass as I thrust, as he matches my rhythm back at me, meeting the blows of my palms and my prick. Sweet mother, it’s so fucking good I can’t think of anything else until after I come, until after I’ve cored him but good. I’m still inside him, afterpulses of my own orgasm rocketing through me as I reach around to give him a quick jerking off. It doesn’t take long, the ring of my fingers around the head of his cock moving lightning fast until he makes a puddle on the bedspread. I flatten him into it then, biting the back of his neck and licking his sweat in a last indulgent overdose for my hormones.

Okay, enough. He’s now either passed out, asleep, or pretending to be, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter which. Time to get focused on the operation again. I pull the comforter over him to keep him warm and then check the messages. It’s a bit of a process to get logged in and retrieve what I need, but it’s only a matter of time before I’ll see his father’s reply. Aiden Milford made millions in pharmaceutical price speculation and healthcare consolidation, the kind of scum who’ll close a hospital for not being profitable enough. Never mind that the job of a hospital isn’t to make money, or that maybe it could be profitable if his own companies weren’t also responsible for jacking up the price of drugs so much. I guess in his twisted mind that’s win-win.

You can see why a guy like that needs a bodyguard. Rich as fuck and an obvious target for grudges.

The reply is pure Aiden. Arrogant, nonsensical, posturing, and stubborn.

TOUCH A HAIR ON HIS HEAD I WILL END YOU MOTHERFUCKER I HAVE NAVY SEALS ON MY PAYROLL NSA CIA FBI ALL IN MY POCKET WE WILL BE ON YOU LIKE A HEAT SEEKING MISSILE YOU LOWLIFE TRASH PUT MY BOY BACK IN HIS BED YOU STOLE HIM FROM AND ILL LET YOU LIVE

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General Details

Word Count: 49,500

Page Count: 191

Cover By: Natasha Snow

Ebook Details

ISBN: 978-1-62649-670-5

Release Date: 11/04/2017

Price: $3.99

Physical Editions

ISBN: 978-1-62649-674-3

Price: $16.99

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