"This company is dead," he hisses. "It’s a rotting corpse. I’m the only thing keeping the vultures from picking the bones clean."
"You are the vulture!" I spit, tears of rage leaking from my eyes.
"I’m the King!" he roars.
The volume of his voice shakes me to the bone. The mask is slipping.
"And you," he drops his voice to a whisper, "are a subject. You exist because I allow it. You breathe because I permit it."
He shifts his grip, releasing my hair only to slide his hand down to the back of my neck. His large fingers wrap around my nape, thumb pressing into the sensitive spot behind my ear.
"You want to fight?" he asks softly. "Good. Fight. But know the cost."
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
I shudder.
"If you don’t sign that paper," he whispers, "I’ll make a call."
I freeze.
"I’ll call the men in the lobby," he continues, his tone conversational. "And they will signal the team I also have stationed at your father's house. I won't kill him. No, death is too easy.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch.
"I’ll start with his hands. I’ll break every finger, one by one, as I did to Alexei. Then I’ll move to his knees. I’ll shatter him, Helena. I’ll leave him a conscious, screaming ruin."
A sob catches in my throat. "Please..."
"And then," he goes on, relentless, "I’ll burn this tower down. With everyone inside. Sarah. Dave. The girl at the reception. I’ll lock the doors and strike a match."
"You're a psychopath," I whisper, my voice breaking.
"I’m a businessman," he corrects. "And I’m closing a deal."
Hauling me up from the desk, he spins me to face him before he marches me backward, forcing me to stumble as my heels catch on the carpet, until the back of my legs hit the leather executive chair.
He shoves me down, and I fall into the seat, breathless and disheveled.
He straightens his jacket and takes a deep breath.
And just like that, the monster recedes. The rage vanishes, replaced by that terrifying, icy calm.
He walks around the desk, methodically gathering the scattered pages from the floor and arranging them into a neat stack. Without a hint of the beast who’d lunged, he places the document in front of me and uncaps the black pen.
Then, he walks behind my chair and leans over my shoulder, placing both hands on the desk, one on either side of me, caging me in his arms. I’m trapped in his scent, in his heat.
"Pick up the pen, Helena.”
The utensil doubles as a weapon. An object of my undoing.
"If I sign this," I whisper, "I’m helping you steal everything."
"If you sign this," he counters, "you’re saving your father's life. And, of course, the lives of your precious employees."
He reaches out, covering my right hand with his.
He forces my fingers to uncurl, presses the pen into my palm, and wraps my fingers tight around it.
"Be the dutiful daughter," he mocks. "Clean up his mess."
