Page 12 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

My name is listed, marked as collateral, flagged for exposure and transfer like I’m something that can be moved if the right conditions are met. “When debts can’t be repaid,” I read slowly, because if I don’t say it aloud it might stay unreal, “men put something priceless into this ledger.”

“Yes.”

“And once a name enters it…”

He steeples his fingers in front of his chest. “They may be claimed.”

A wave of nausea slams through me so hard, I have to push back from the table. My chair scrapes, and I’m on my feet before I fully realize I’ve moved.

Maksim rises too, instantly. I point at the file with a shaking hand. “He put me in a ledger? Like a shipment? Like fuel? Like a goddamn warehouse line item?”

His voice stays level. “Elena.”

“No.” I back away from the table. “No, you don’t get to calm-voice me through this. My father put me in some underground debt book, and now what? Men get to decide whose problem I become?”

His eyes shift for a second, then settle back into that cold gray. “It’s not that simple.”

I stare at him and sputter. “Oh, good. I was worried the human trafficking angle might be too straightforward.”

His gaze hardens. “Watch yourself.”

The fire snaps behind him, and for the first time since this started, I see something dangerous move cleanly to the surface. He takes one step toward me. “You are not a shipment.”

I flap my hands uselessly around me. “Tell that to the ledger.”

He stops, close enough now that I can see the strain he keeps under control in the line of his mouth. “I am telling it to the ledger,” he says. “That is why you are here.”

I turn away from him and press both hands to the back of the chair. “How many people know?”

He looks away from me. “Enough that you’ve nowhere to run.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he agrees. One of his hands lifts, and he rests those long fingers along the back of the chair near mine, just close enough that I’m suddenly very aware of the size of his hand compared to mine. “It’s a warning.”

I squeeze the wood so hard, my fingers hurt. “Who sees my name and thinks they can claim me?”

“Rivals. Opportunists. Men owed favors. Men who think access through you is worth blood. Men who would marry you, move you, sign through you, or bury you, depending on which version profits them most.”

My stomach turns.

The worst part is not the brutality. I grew up around that. It’s how administrative it is. My father took my body, my future, my legal identity, and turned them into instruments that could keep working after he was gone.

“Mama would kill him for this,” I say before I can stop myself. Then I remember what house I’m standing in, and I straighten slowly. “So, that’s it, then. I sit here while half the criminal world argues over whether I’m more useful alive, married, hidden, or dead.”

His eyes stay on mine. “No.”

He’s beginning to infuriate me more than any man ever has, though my father will beat him to the title. I stomp my foot on the ground. “Can you be less cryptic?”

His mouth twitches again, and he still takes his time with his answer, damn him. I’m beginning to understand that slowness is one of his weapons.

“You stay here because this estate is the only place I can control every door, every record, every approach, and every person who gets within reach of you,” he clarifies, his voice deepening. “If you leave my protection now, you won’t reach the end of the week unclaimed.”

I swallow.

His voice dips to a midnight rasp while tendons stand out as his hands flex like he’s barely leashing himself. “And you stay here because until I know exactly who holds the rest of Sergei’s map, I am not putting you where anyone else can touch you.”

I stare at him, open my mouth once, and close it again. “Wow,” I mutter after a breath or two. “I’m out of words.”