RETINAL SCAN ACCEPTED.
SHIPMENT AUTHORIZED.
"There," Konstantin says. "Done."
He releases me.
I slump forward onto the desk, my cheek pressing against the cool wood.
Through half-closed eyes, I watch the screen as the status bar turns green.
Authorized.
I launched the ship.
Whatever is on that boat—whatever illegal, dangerous cargo he’s moving—my name is on it now.
"Why?" I whisper. A tear leaks out of my eye to track through the makeup on my cheek. "Why did you make me?"
He leans down, brushing the hair off my forehead. His touch is surprisingly gentle now.
"Because now we are partners," he whispers. "Now, you cannot run to the police. You are as guilty as I am."
He scoops me up into his arms.
I don't fight him. I can't.
My head lolls against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat.
"Sleep now," he says.
The darkness rushes up to meet me. The last thing I feel is the movement of his walking, carrying me deeper into his lair.
And the last thing I taste is the bitterness of the wine he forced past my lips.
The poisoned cup.
And I swallowed it all.
8
KONSTANTIN
She fights the darkness. I have to give her that.
Most people, after ingesting that much Triazolam on a half-empty stomach, would be comatose within minutes. But Helena Blackwood is fighting.
She’s slumped against my chest as I carry her toward the private elevator, head lolling against my shoulder. Her breathing is jagged. She’s trying to stay awake, trying to command her limbs to move, but the chemical tide is pulling her under.
"Put... me... down," she slurs.
"Save your breath," I say, adjusting my grip on her, pulling her higher against my chest.
She feels impossibly fragile in my arms. The red silk dress slides against my suit jacket like spilled water, but beneath the crimson fabric, her skin is burning hot.
I look down at her. Her eyes are half-open, darting around the hallway as if she’s looking for an exit that doesn't exist.
"You bastard," she whispers. It’s a pathetic sound, but the defiance in it makes something tighten in my chest.
