I think about the cold metal of the handcuffs. About twenty years in a concrete box. About my father, out there somewhere.If I go to prison, I can't find him. I can't get answers. I can't scream at him for what he did.
Konstantin has backed me into a corner so tight I can't breathe.
"This is a trap," I whisper, my voice shaking. "You planned this. You set up the shipment and waited for the warrant. You engineered this whole thing to force me into a marriage."
"I’m a strategist," he taunts. "I told you. I don't leave things to chance."
He checks his watch.
"They’re returning in sixty seconds to fingerprint you. Once ink touches your fingers, the offer expires."
Footsteps sound in the hallway. They’re coming.
Panic floods through me. I can’t breathe or think. The only thing I know is that I can’t go through that door in handcuffs. I can’t let them take me.
Konstantin is calm, waiting. He’s the devil, yes. But he’s the only thing standing between me and the void. The only hand reaching into the dark water to pull me out, even if that hand is holding a blade.
I have no leverage. No allies. And no time.
The terror of the cage outweighs the terror of the man.
I look at the pen. Then at him.
He isn’t offering me a lifeline. More like a different kind of sentence.
"If I sign this," I whisper, "I belong to you."
"In every way that matters," he confirms. His attention drifts to my lips, then to the pen. "Sign, Helena."
"I’ll never forgive you for this," I say, tears spilling down my cheeks.
"I don't need your forgiveness," he says. "I need your signature."
My vision blurs with a fresh wave of hot tears. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run, to fight, to throw the pen in his face. But fear is a heavier weight. And right now, it pins me to the chair.
I don't want to die in prison. I don't want to die, period.
I press the pen to the paper. The nib scratches against the fiber.
Helena Blackwood.
With every swoop, I sign my life away. The ink flows black and permanent, binding me to the monster.
Konstantin takes the paper before the ink is even dry and slides it into his breast pocket, close to his heart.
Then, he picks up the ring.
"Give me your hand."
I extend my left hand, trembling.
He slides the ring onto my finger. The heavy band fits perfectly, sliding over my knuckle to claim me.
"Done," he says.
The heavy metal door buzzes.
Agent Miller walks in, his face set in a grim sneer, handcuffs dangling from his belt. "Time's up," he barks. "We need to process the suspect. Get up, Blackwood."
