Morning light sliced through the blackout curtains in cruel, narrow strips, painting the room in gold and shadow. I woke up tangled in silk that still smelled faintly of cedar and last night's bad decisions. The necklace had shifted during sleep; now it lay cool against the hollow of my throat like a sleeping snake. I touched it reflexively. Solid. Unremovable. Mine now, whether I liked the fit or not.
The bed was too soft. Too quiet. Too everything. My body felt heavy with the kind of rest I hadn't earned in months, and guilt twisted in my gut for enjoying it. I sat up fast, heart kicking like it remembered the alley before my brain did. The room looked different in daylight: less menacing, more like a very expensive cage with a view.
A soft knock came from the door. Before I could answer, it opened. Lucien stood there in a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair still damp from a shower. He looked annoyingly perfect, like he'd been born in tailored perfection and never had to try.
"Up," he said, voice smooth as the sheets I was still clutching. "Breakfast. Then we talk."
I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. "Do I get a say in that order?"
"No." He stepped aside, revealing the hallway. "But you get coffee. Move."
I followed him barefoot down the corridor, past closed doors that probably hid more secrets than I wanted to know. The kitchen opened up like something from a magazine: black marble counters, stainless steel everything, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city that looked smaller and less threatening from up here. A breakfast spread waited on the island—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon, a carafe of black coffee that smelled like salvation.
He poured two mugs without asking if I took it black. I did. He slid one across to me, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I might bolt mid-sip.
I drank. Hot. Strong. Perfect. I hated that too.
"Better?" he asked.
I set the mug down harder than necessary. "You didn't bring me here for breakfast and small talk."
"Perceptive." He reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a slim black folder. Placed it between us like it was a loaded gun. "This is the deal. Read it."
I flipped it open. One page. Clean, typed, no legalese bullshit. Just bullet points in stark black ink.
- Personal protection detail. 24/7. You shadow me. You carry when I say. You take bullets if necessary.
- Full access to resources: medical, financial, intelligence.
- Revenge. Names. Locations. Evidence. Means. Your relatives will lose everything. Slowly. Publicly. Permanently.
- Compensation: $500,000 upon completion of service term (minimum one year). Additional bonuses for exceptional performance.
- Termination clause: At my discretion. No appeal.
- Loyalty required. Absolute.
I read it twice. My fingers left damp prints on the paper. "You want me to sign my life away for a year?"
"Minimum." He sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "And it's not your life. It's your freedom. You already sold that the second you took the card."
I laughed, sharp and bitter. "This is insane. I'm not some mercenary. I'm not trained. I'm not—"
"You're alive," he cut in, voice dropping low. "You're breathing. You're fed. And you're still standing here arguing instead of running for the elevator. That tells me everything I need to know."
He was right. The truth stung worse than the cold truth of the alley. I could have screamed for help last night. Could have smashed a window. Could have tried anything. Instead I'd slept in his bed. Eaten his food. Worn his necklace.
I looked up. "Why me?"
Lucien studied me for a long moment. Something flickered in those ice-blue eyes—something almost human. "Because you looked at me like you had nothing left to lose. And I collect things that have nothing left to lose. They're the most dangerous. And the most loyal."
I swallowed. "And if I say no?"
"You walk out that door. No hard feelings. No pursuit. But you go back to the streets. Back to nothing. And your aunt keeps the house, the money, the life she stole. She'll never see consequences. Neither will you."
The words landed like punches. I saw Aunt Mara's smirk in my head. The way she'd patted my cheek and said, "You'll thank me someday." I felt the hunger again, the real one, the one that had nothing to do with food.
I picked up the pen lying beside the folder. My hand shook only a little.
"This is blackmail," I said.
"Call it opportunity." He didn't move closer. Didn't touch me. Just waited, patient as stone.
I signed. My name looked small and wrong on the thick paper, like it belonged to someone else already.
Lucien took the folder, closed it, and slipped it into his jacket. Then he reached out and brushed his thumb across my bottom lip, quick and possessive. "Good choice, puppy."
The touch burned. I jerked back, but not fast enough. "Don't call me that."
He smiled, slow and wicked. "You'll earn a new name when you deserve one."
He turned toward the hallway. "Shower. Dress. Black. Everything in the closet fits. We leave in thirty."
I stood there alone in the kitchen, coffee cooling, signature drying, soul quietly screaming.
I'd just traded one prison for another.
And the worst part?
The new one had better coffee.
I touched the necklace again. It felt heavier now. Warmer. Like it had already learned the rhythm of my pulse.
I headed for the bedroom.
Thirty minutes.
Then whatever came next.
I told myself I was doing it for revenge.
But deep down, in the quiet part I didn't want to listen to, I knew the truth.
I was doing it for him.
And that scared me more than any signature ever could.