Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“Among others.” His eyes searched my face. “You haven’t noticed anything unusual? No strange messages, unexpected visitors?”
The phone in my pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Nothing,” I said. “Though if you want tighter security you should probably let them put cameras in the way they wanted to do when we moved in.”
For a long moment, he studied me, as if trying to figure out whether I had meant my words as honest advice or as a taunt. Then, apparently satisfied, he stepped back. “Probably nothing. Some teenager thinking he’s clever with his VPNs.” He turned toward the door. “I have calls to make. Don’t wait up.”
CHAPTER 3
Lorna
The reception managed both to bore me and to terrify me, from the very start. The crystal chandeliers of the Synergy Group’s Jagborg headquarters cast everything in a cold, expensive light that made my skin look washed out and Takken’s smile appear even more artificial than usual. I clutched my champagne flute—my third, though I’d barely sipped any of them—and tried to look fascinated as Comte Gaston Brenteuil droned on about sustainable energy partnerships. His French accent made the corporate doublespeak sound almost romantic, but I could hear the predatory calculations beneath each carefully chosen word.
“Your husband is a visionary, Madame Norquist,” Brenteuil said, his dark eyes sliding over me in a way that made my skin crawl. “To see beyond the… traditional limitations of national sovereignty.”
Traditional limitations. He meant our laws, our resources, our independence. I forced my lips into what I hoped looked like an admiring smile. “Takken has always been forward-thinking.”
My husband’s hand settled on the small of my back—a possessive gesture for the audience, nothing more. Through the silk of the blue Valentino dress he’d ordered me to wear, his fingers felt like ice. “Lorna understands the importance of progress,” he said, though his tone suggested I understood nothing at all.
Pay close attention, my mysterious Herra had commanded. But to what? The reception hall teemed with the usual suspects—oligarchs, ministers, their ornamental wives and mistresses. I recognized most of them from countless similar events, each face a mask hiding various flavors of corruption.
Then I saw the man I suddenly felt sure whoever had made me humiliate myself last night must be interested in.
Georgy Horakovsky stood near the bar, his barrel chest straining against a bespoke suit that probably cost more than most Jaglandic families earned in a year. The scar across his left cheek caught the light as he laughed at something his companion said. But it wasn’t Horakovsky that made my breath catch—it was the two young women flanking him.
They were beautiful, and they held themselves in a particular way that suggested extensive training rather than natural grace. Both wore designer dresses that covered everything while somehow emphasizing their submission in every line. The blonde kept her eyes downcast, her posture perfect, but somehow conveying complete deference. The brunette stood with her hands clasped in front of her, and when Horakovsky’s massive hand settled on her neck, she leaned into the touch like a well-trained pet.
I shouldn’t have recognized that look but, God help me, after last night, I felt suddenly certain I could tell the signs of a woman who was thoroughly owned by a powerful man. The thought sent an unwelcome pulse of heat between my legs, and I pressed my thighs together, horrified at my body’s reaction.
“Ah, Horakovsky,” Takken said, steering me toward the Russian. “We should pay our respects.”
As we approached, I caught the blonde’s eye for just a moment. Something flickered there—not quite fear, not quite embarrassment, and definitely not quite self-assurance, but a complex mix of all three that made my stomach twist with recognition.
Again without really understanding how I could tell, I saw that this girl knew exactly what she was, what she was for, and to whom she belonged.
“Georgy,” Takken said warmly, extending his hand to the Russian oligarch. “So glad you could make it.”
Horakovsky’s grip looked crushing even from where I stood. His gray eyes swept over me with the casual assessment of a man pricing livestock. “Prime Minister. And the lovely Fru Norquist.” His accent turned my title into something that sounded vaguely obscene. “You are radiant as always.”
“Thank you,” I managed, though my attention kept drifting to the two women. Up close, I could see the faint marks on the blonde’s wrists where something had been fastened tightly. The brunette had a small bruise just visible above the neckline of her dress, the kind that came from fingers gripping too hard.
“These are my… assistants,” Horakovsky said, noticing my gaze. “Katya and Mila. They help me with various… projects.”
The blonde—Katya—glanced up at the word ‘projects,’ and I caught a flash of something in her eyes. Not quite fear. More like anticipation, I realized, with a sudden flash of recognition that made me feel faint. The brunette—Mila—shifted slightly, and I noticed how she moved to present herself better to Horakovsky’s view, an unconscious adjustment that seemed to speak of intense conditioning.