"...I think 'Mrs. Vane' has a nice ring to it, don't you?"
CHAPTER 6
THE GILDED SHACKLE
POV: SILAS
The look on her face is exquisite.
It’s a cocktail of shock, horror, and a breathless, fragile disbelief that I want to bottle and drink like a vintage scotch. Ivy is staring at me, her lips parted, the color drained from her cheeks, making her eyes look impossibly large and dark.
"Married?" she repeats, the word sounding foreign on her tongue. It comes out as a squeak, barely audible over the hum of the servers in the corner.
I don't answer immediately. I enjoy the silence. I enjoy the way the air in the room seems to thicken, wrapping around us, isolating us from the rest of the world.
I walk past her, moving to the massive mahogany desk. I set the bakery bag down next to the surveillance monitors. The smell of warm butter and flaky pastry clashes with the sterile, ozone scent of the electronics. It’s a domestic touch in a room built for surveillance and war.
"Sit," I command, gesturing to the leather chair opposite the desk.
Ivy doesn't move. She’s still standing by the door, her hand gripping the frame as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright.She looks at the corkboard wall again—the shrine of her stolen moments—and shudders.
"I’m not sitting," she says, her voice gaining a fraction of strength. "And I’m not marrying you. You can kidnap me, you can lock me in a tower, but you can’t force me to say 'I do'. That’s... that’s illegal. That’s void."
I suppress a chuckle. It rumbles in my chest, dark and amused.
"Ivy," I say, unbuttoning my suit jacket and hanging it on the back of my chair. "You seem to be laboring under the delusion that the law applies to men like me. The law is a suggestion. A guideline for the poor. For me? It’s a commodity. I buy judges the way you buy... well, nothing, because you couldn't afford anything."
I sit down, leaning back in the leather chair, spreading my legs comfortably. I lace my fingers together and look at her.
"Come here."
She shakes her head. "No."
"I have the paperwork right here," I say, tapping a thick manila envelope lying on the blotter. "Pre-nuptials are already waived. The license is back-dated. The judge is on his way. All I need is your signature. And frankly, even that is a formality. I can forge it perfectly. I’ve been practicing your signature for months. It’s quite elegant, really. A little loop on the 'y' that betrays your artistic flair."
She goes pale again. "You practiced my signature?"
"I practiced everything about you."
I hold her gaze, letting the weight of my obsession crush the air out of her lungs.
"But I want you to sign it willingly," I continue. "I want you to understandwhyyou’re signing it."
"Because you’re a psychopath?" she spits out.
I smile.There’s the fire.
"Because I am the only thing standing between you and a very painful, very short life as a sex slave in the Middle East."
The anger in her eyes flickers, replaced by the memory of what I told her last night. The debt. The Russians.
"You said you paid the debt," she whispers. "You said you bought me."
"I did," I agree. "I killed Alexei and Dmitri Sokolov to do it. Do you know what happens when two high-ranking Bratva enforcers disappear?"
She swallows hard, shaking her head.
"People start asking questions. People like their brother, Nikolai Sokolov. He’s not a businessman, Ivy. He’s a butcher. He will come looking for Marcus. He will come looking for the collateral Marcus offered."
