I keep my voice low. Controlled. “It’s a blood debt.”
Her gaze snaps to mine. “And that means?”
“That the original agreement no longer held enough weight to justify the money your father kept demanding. So he had to sweeten the pot with something priceless.”
Her hand drifts to her throat as if she can feel the noose coiling around her neck.
“Your father named you as collateral, Isla. In writing. In blood.” I give the truth time to sink in as fear creeps into her eyes and drains those tempting lips of color. “And now that you’ve violated the agreement, it means that I own you—either as a possession, a commodity, or a future wife, if I demand.”
Chapter
Nine
ISLA
Shock doesn’t renderme speechless. Rage does.
I drop the folder and launch to my feet.
Raffael doesn’t move. Just stands there, infuriatingly poised, as if the vile words he spoke mean nothing.
“Youownme?” I stalk toward him and plant both palms into his chest with a shove. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He absorbs the strike with a subtle shift of his weight, his arms remaining still at his sides.
I shove him again. And again.
Not only fightinghim—fightingeverything. The disgust. The betrayal. The overwhelming hatred of having clawed my way to the top of a man’s world, only to be told I’m now owned by one of the bastards. “This isn’t 1865. I’m not some fucking slave to be traded behind closed doors and passed off as compensation.” I shove him again. “How could you do this?”
He snatches my wrists and yanks me against him. “Ididn’t do this. It was your father.” He walks into me, forcing me backward until my ass hits the desk. “But if you want me to be the villain, then I’ll be the fucking villain.”
“Are you going to claim you’ve gained no benefit when the preferential treatment you received must have been next level to allow for those type of debts?”
He gets in my face, those dark eyes violent. He’s furious. Enraged.
Same, bro. Same.
“This agreement has been nothing but a thorn in my side,” he snarls.
“Must be hard, drowning the inconvenience in vintage scotch on a yacht financed by betrayal.”
His nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling with rough restrained breaths.
We stare at each other, hatred thick between us. Then, jaw tight, he releases my wrists and turns his back.
“This isn’t legal,” I grate. “It can’t be enforceable.”
“Maybe not in a court of law.” His tone is cold. “Contracts like this are upheld in ways far more permanent than legal proceedings.”
I pause, the words turning over in my head. Slowly. Heavily.
Does he plan to force compliance? To hurt me? Hurt my father?
My thoughts stutter, chasing each other in mindless circles. I try to latch onto something rational. Some plan or angle. But grounding slips out of reach.
He glances at me over his shoulder, self-assured. “I think you understand exactly what I’m trying to say.”
Oh my God.
