"I'll make it worth your while," Jairo said, lowering his voice. "Give her to me, and my ports in the South are tax-free for your fleet. Permanently."

Isela stopped breathing.

It was a fortune. Millions of dollars a year. For one disposable doctor.

Clinton tilted his head. He seemed to be considering it. He looked at Isela again, his gaze lingering on her neck where he had bitten her.

"Please," Isela gasped. She dragged herself forward on her knees. "Mr. Collier... last night... you know..."

She tried to appeal to whatever twisted intimacy they had shared in the tub.

Clinton's face hardened. A mask of ice slammed down.

"Last night?" Clinton raised an eyebrow. "Nothing happened last night, Doctor. You were delirious."

He was denying her. He was erasing the connection.

Isela's heart shattered. He was going to sell her.

Jairo laughed. It was a bark of a sound. "See? He's done with you. Take her."

The agents grabbed her again. This time, they didn't drag. They lifted.

Isela watched Clinton. He was just standing there, watching her be carried away. He was testing her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow.

He didn't save damsels. He invested in assets. If she went into that helicopter like a sheep, she was worthless to him.

She had to be a wolf.

They reached the helicopter door. The agent on her right reached up to grab the handle.

Isela let her body go dead weight. As she dropped, she twisted.

She lunged her head forward and clamped her teeth onto the agent's wrist, right over the radial artery.

She bit down hard. She tasted salt and copper.

The agent screamed and let go.

Isela dropped to the deck. She didn't try to run. She knew she couldn't outrun bullets.

She grabbed the tactical knife from the agent's belt sheath.

She scrambled back against the landing skids of the helicopter.

"Back off!" she screamed.

She didn't point the knife at them. She reversed the grip and pressed the blade against her own jugular vein.

"Stop!"

Jairo froze. "Don't shoot! I need her brain intact!"

Isela pressed harder. A thin trickle of blood ran down her neck, staining the black silk collar of Clinton's shirt.

She looked past Jairo. Straight at Clinton.

"Mr. Collier," she yelled, her voice steady despite the blade at her throat. "If you let him take me, you are admitting that you don't control this ship!"

Clinton's eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, intrigued.

"This isn't about law," Isela continued, her knuckles white on the handle. "This is about sovereignty. If Jairo can land here and take who he wants, when he wants... then you aren't the King of the Leviathan anymore. You're just his landlord."

Silence.

Even the rotor blades seemed to quiet down.

She had challenged his ego. She had framed her survival as necessary for his dominance.

Clinton started to clap.

Slow, rhythmic applause.

"Well argued," Clinton said.

He walked toward her. He walked right past Jairo, right past the agents with guns.

He stopped in front of her.

"Give me the knife, Isela."

"Make them leave," she whispered, her hand shaking.

"Give me the knife," he repeated. "Or cut your throat. But don't bore me with hesitation."

Isela looked into his eyes. She saw the abyss there. He meant it.

She slowly lowered the knife.

Clinton reached out. He took the blade from her hand by the sharp end, not caring that it cut his palm.

He turned to Jairo.

"She stays."

Jairo pulled his gun. He aimed it at Clinton's chest.

"You're making a mistake, Clinton. Over a piece of tail?"

"She's not a piece of tail," Clinton said, tossing the knife overboard. "She's my legal counsel, apparently."

---

Clinton didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the gun as if it were a mildly interesting piece of modern art.

"Shoot me, Jairo," Clinton said softly. "But know this. My security team has a lock on you from the bridge. You pull that trigger, you and your men turn into pink mist before I hit the ground."

Red laser dots appeared on Jairo's chest. One. Two. Five.

Jairo looked down at the dots. He looked at Clinton's calm face.

He lowered the gun.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You win this round, Collier. But the investigation continues. If I find out she knows the code... I'll burn this ship down."

"Fair enough," Clinton said. "Now, get off my deck."

Jairo holstered his weapon. He walked over to Isela, who was still huddled by the landing skids.

He leaned down and wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with his thumb.

"Pray, Doctor," he whispered. "Pray he never gets tired of you."

Jairo boarded the helicopter. His men followed.

The chopper lifted off, banking hard to the west.

Clinton watched it go. Then he turned to Isela.

She tried to stand, but her legs gave out. She slumped back against the skid.

Clinton signaled. Two of his personal guards approached.

"Get the handcuffs off her," he ordered.

The guard unlocked the cuffs. Isela rubbed her raw wrists.

"Thank you," she breathed. "You saved me."

Clinton looked down at her. "Get up."

Isela forced herself to stand. She swayed.

Clinton caught her elbow. His grip was bruising.

"Don't thank me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear. "You manipulated me in front of my business partner. I don't like being manipulated."

Isela swallowed hard. "I had to."

"Yes. You did." Clinton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the blood from her neck. His touch was clinical, yet intimate. "And because you survived, you are now my problem."

"I can work," Isela said quickly. "I can pay off the debt."

"Money is irrelevant," Clinton said. He dropped the bloody handkerchief on the deck. "You need a reason to be here that Jairo respects. A reason that explains why I would risk war for you."

"What reason?"

"You are no longer a surgeon," Clinton said. "You are my private Caretaker."

Isela frowned. "Caretaker?"

"My health is... fragile," Clinton said, his eyes darkening. "You are the only thing that works. You belong to me now. Body, mind, and soul."

"That sounds like slavery," Isela whispered.

"It's survival," Clinton corrected. "For both of us."

He turned and began to walk toward the interior doors.

"Follow me," he commanded. "We have paperwork to sign."

Isela looked at the open sky one last time. Then she looked at Clinton's retreating back.

She followed him.

---

He led her through a private elevator to the very center of the ship. The doors opened to a dimly lit, opulent room.

The Elysium Lounge.

It was empty of patrons, but the smell of stale smoke and spilled cognac lingered.

Clinton sat on a velvet sofa in the center of the room. He pointed to the floor in front of him.

"Stand there."

Isela stood. She felt exposed in the oversized shirt and sweatpants.

"Jairo questioned your loyalty," Clinton said. "He thinks you're a spy. I need to know you can handle pressure without a knife in your hand."

He pointed to a bottle of vodka on the table.

"Pour."

Isela reached for the bottle. Her hands were shaking.

"Not for me," Clinton said.

He gestured to the shadows.

A man stepped out. It wasn't Jairo. It was Huston Lyons.

Isela's stomach turned.

"Mr. Lyons feels... aggrieved," Clinton said lazily. "He feels you disrespected him. Pour him a drink. Apologize."

It was a test. A cruel, twisting test.

Huston grinned, stepping forward. He sat opposite Clinton, looking like a toad on a throne.

"Yeah," Huston said. "Pour it, sweetheart."

Isela picked up the glass. She poured the vodka.

She held it out to Huston.

Huston reached for it, but at the last second, he slapped her hand.

The glass flew. Vodka splashed all over Isela's shirt and onto Huston's boots.

"You clumsy bitch!" Huston yelled. "Look what you did to my boots!"

He pointed at the wet leather.

"Clean it up," Huston sneered. "Use your mouth."

Isela froze.

She looked at Clinton.

Clinton was watching her. He didn't intervene. He didn't blink. He was waiting to see if she would break.

If she refused, Huston would attack her, and Clinton might let him. If she did it, she lost everything she was.

Isela looked at Huston's boots. Then she looked at the napkin holder on the table.

She knelt.

Huston laughed, spreading his legs.

Isela took a linen napkin. She didn't lower her head. She grabbed Huston's ankle with a grip of iron.

She scrubbed the boot. Hard.

"Mr. Lyons," she said, her voice clear and loud. "As the Caretaker, hygiene is my priority. But as Mr. Collier's property..."

She stood up, dropping the dirty napkin in Huston's lap.

"...my mouth is reserved exclusively for my owner."

Silence.

Huston turned red. He opened his mouth to shout.

Clinton chuckled.

It was a dark, rich sound.

"She has a point, Huston," Clinton said. "She's exclusive stock."

Clinton stood up. He walked over to Isela.

He took off his white suit jacket. He draped it over her shoulders, covering the wet stain on her shirt.

"Test passed," Clinton murmured.

He looked at Huston. "Get out."

Huston scrambled away, defeated again.

Clinton put his hand on the small of Isela's back. "Now. The contract."

---