Page 39 of Violent Possession

“You’re dangerous, if I’m not careful.”

I don’t expect respect from Alexei. No one expects respect from a Malakov, only efficient disdain. That’s why, when he looks at me with that blue fissure of someone who truly sees, I falter.

He swirls the glass between his fingers.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says, and his voice is gentle now, which is a thousand times more disturbing than his threats.

Used to what? To luxury? To the cage? Or to this fucked-up tension between us?

I don’t answer, so he finishes his drink, sets the glass on the table, and returns to executive mode.

He opens the same drawer as before and pulls out a single sheet of paper. He places it on the smooth surface of the marble table and slides a fountain pen to his side.

“What’s that?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like it. “The contract for me to sell you my soul in triplicate?”

He almost laughs. He doesn’t vocalize it, but the corner of his mouth gives him away. “Please,” he says, with that minimal, irritating smile, “read it. We have all the time in the world.”

I pull the paper towards me. Small print, real estate jargon, all neatly done. Blah, blah, blah, “Blackwood Properties LLC”, blah, blah, blah, “resident”, blah, blah, blah, “liabilityfor damages”. It’s a normal rental agreement, and there’s no Malakov name anywhere, just impersonal clauses. The absolute denial of connection. If shit hits the fan, no one will ever prove anything.

“Blackwood Properties LLC,” I read aloud. “Who the hell are these guys?”

“Just a holding company. It’s irrelevant. The only name you need to worry about is yours.”

“Right. And how long does this… ‘hospitality’ last?”

“As long as necessary. As long as you are useful.”

Funny how he turns a rotten deal into a poisonous compliment. “Useful.” All I can offer, deliver, sacrifice. At least the bastard is honest on that point. Which brings me to the real question: what happens when I stop being useful?

There will be nothing left of me. When it’s over, I’ll just be another forgotten record, like all the others who crossed this man’s path and disappeared without a trace.

“Fuck it,” I murmur, picking up the pen. A unique, personalized piece, like everything else there. Offensive luxury.

I am forced to seal the agreement of my own obsolescence. I sign the paper, and it all boils down to being “useful”.

Right arm. It’s my dominant hand, but control is never total. The prosthetic thumb trembles, and the pen tip slips. I don’t remember the last time I had to write with this thing.

I hate this. I hate this goddamn piece of metal.

I try again. The pen nearly tears the paper, because force is the only adjustment I can control in this.

I don’t want to lift my head, but I know he’s watching. I know he sees every second of my humiliation and is storing it to use later.

I want to explode the pen in his face. There are worse things than losing your hand to a mafia subordinate. Perhaps being atthe mercy of the only man who can turn a mechanical gesture into public humiliation.

The pen tip slightly tears the paper.

I will never get used to the violence of my own movements.

“Shit,” I hiss, low.

“Having trouble?”

I don’t ask for help, but he doesn’t ask permission either. He moves. Suddenly, my field of vision is just his shadow, cast over the contract.

The hairs on my arm bristle. I feel his presence before he touches: a magnetic field, a pressure. He leans in until his breath brushes my ear, and with a simple gesture, covers my prosthetic hand with his—long, thin, elegant fingers, opposite to everything that makes me up. It’s enough to take control of the entire arm, reconfiguring the joints and the tension of the synthetic tendons. I hate that he knows exactly how to do this.

“Allow me,” he whispers close to my ear. Each syllable slides down my spine. I should fight. I should.