Page 14 of The Bargain

But I refuse to go back to square one, no matter what. I’ve got one foot on the ladder, and it might be on the lowest possible rung, but I’m not allowing myself to be shaken loose, to drop back into the squirming, suffocating mud of poverty.

I’m going to keep climbing until I reach the top.

And to get to the top, I need to get into the Brotherhood.

And the one person who can help me do so is standing in my bedroom, and I’ve just told her to kneel at my feet.

“Come on, get on your knees, love, and take your money back.”

My voice comes out soft, and I’m surprised by the amount of tenderness I feel right now. She’s looking at me with hatred and fear and shame all burning in her eyes, but what I feel in this moment isn’t the triumph of bringing my enemy down. It’s the possessive affection of acquiring something precious and useful.

A beautiful tool—a golden key.

Will she do it? I wonder. Is she desperate enough to stoop this low?

Of course she is. She wouldn’t have come to your door if she wasn’t.

Desdemona descends to her knees with supreme grace. Her back is straight the entire time. When she leans down to retrieve her money, her long hair slides forward; she pauses, tucks it behind one ear. She doesn’t say a word. I have the feeling that what I’m making her do is binding her to me, more intimately than if I’d asked her to part her lips for my cock.

When she’s done, she stands. She places the money back in the envelope, which she slides into the pocket of her blazer. She gazes down at me, utterly cold and somehow unfathomably distant.

“Was that nice for you?” she says.

It falls from her lips like she can’t help it. I smile.

“You think you’re the first pretty girl I’ve gotten to her knees in my bedroom?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I imagine none of them made you feel as good as you feel right now.”

Hah, clever girl.

“Maybe,” I concede.

“Are you going to tell me what it is you want?” It’s almost impressive, how still she is, how blank she can make her face. “You’ve clearly got something in mind, and I’m clearly going to agree, so why waste your time?”

“I thought you said time was a commodity I had in abundance?”

“I insulted you, granted, and you’ve insulted me back. Anything else we need to tick off before you name your terms?”

God, she’s fucking cold. The blush is still in her cheeks, though, and I know she won’t soon forget the humiliation I forced her to endure.

Will she relive this whole moment later? When she gets back to her room, lying in her clean, monogrammed pyjamas, in her clean, tidy bed? Will she cry bitter, angry tears, muffle choking sobs into her pillows?

“I’ll do it,” I tell her. “I’ll go to prison for beating up Hastings.”

“You might not have to,” she says stiffly. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

“But it might come to that,” I tell her. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

She’s silent for a moment.

Then she bites out: “Yes.”

“There’s only one thing I want in exchange.” I smile. And then I finally bring down the guillotine that’s been hanging over her neck since she walked in. I name my price. “You.”

I don’t know quite how I expected her to react. Maybe I expected her to gasp, to reel back in dignified shock. Maybe I expected her to flinch, to gather her pride. Maybe even slap me and tell me she’s not for sale.

She doesn’t do any of those things. She misinterprets me, exactly as I thought she would. Her clever eyes move from me to my bed, and back to me.