I seat myself in the Dean’s chair, leaning back, letting the leather creak under my weight. “Sit,” I command, pointing at the guest chair in front of the desk.
She hesitates, but sits.
The contract sits in front of me and I spin it around and slide it toward her. “Read the last paragraph,” I say.
She does. Her lips move as she reads: “In the event that the Marcus family line is in jeopardy, the Academy may enforce provisional terms of alliance, subject to immediate binding.Recipient is to comply with all directives as determined by the Board and its proxies.”
She looks up, eyes wide. “This isn’t binding. I could run. I could leave.”
I smile. “No. You can’t.”
She sets the paper down, careful not to tear it. “You think you’re going to intimidate me into compliance?”
Leaning forward, I prop my head on my hand. “No, Amara. I think you’re already compliant. I just want to see how long it takes you to admit it.”
She looks away, jaw working. I can almost taste the tears collecting in the side of her eyes.
I stand, slow and deliberate. “You can fight it,” I say, moving around the desk again, “but it’s already over.”
She tenses as I draw near, her breath sucking in and blowing out in rapid succession.
I stop in front of her, so close I can smell her skin. It’s not perfume, just the raw, clean note of someone who spent the last hour in a cold room. There’s a red mark on her wrist, probably from a cuff or a bracelet. I want to touch it, but I don’t.
Instead, I watch her, watching me.
She holds my gaze, but only just.
“You’re not afraid of me,” I say. “Why?”
She swallows, then lifts her chin. “Because you want to see if I’ll bend, if I’ll bow to you, and quite frankly, I want to see if you can make me.”
The answer stuns me, briefly. It’s so audacious, so unflinching, I have to laugh.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But I guarantee you want to kneel before me. I can still feel how wet you were for me in that bathroom. Fucking delicious. Maybe we should test my theory, hmmm?”
She doesn’t reply. She’s staring at the desk, at the line in the wood where perfect meets flaw.
I reach out, slow, and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, but I can feel the shiver ripple down her neck.
“This is what’s going to happen,” I say. “You’re going to sign this contract, because that’s what your family wants. And after that, you’re going to realize that there’s nothing left to do but survive.”
Her eyes are huge. “And you?”
“Do you know what the difference is between value and worth?” I ask.
She looks up at me, wary.
“Value is what the market decides. Worth is what I decide. And somehow… I find you very, VERY worthy of carrying not only my name, but my child.”
She blinks, and I see a muscle in her jaw twitch. “Is this supposed to be comforting?”
“No,” I say, “but it is clarifying.”
She glares, but the effect is ruined by the tremor in her hands.
I grab her father’s bourbon off the desk and pour a glass, taking a sip before leaning closer, until our faces are almost even. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?”
She shakes her head, but I keep talking.
