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."

---

Clinton sat behind a massive mahogany desk. He slid a thick document across the polished wood.

Indenture of Servitude & Non-Disclosure Agreement.

Isela picked it up. Her eyes scanned the legal jargon.

Clause 4: The subject agrees to forfeit all rights to shore leave.

Clause 7: The subject agrees to twenty-four-hour on-call availability for private medical care and experimental cooperation.

Clause 12: Term of contract: Indefinite.

"This isn't a contract," Isela said, her voice trembling. "This is a death warrant for my freedom."

"It's a shield," Clinton said, pouring himself a drink. "Sign it, and you become a ghost. Interpol can't touch you. Jairo can't touch you. You cease to exist legally."

"And I become your slave?"

"My Caretaker," Clinton corrected. "You keep the headaches away. I keep the world away."

He held out a fountain pen. It was heavy, gold-plated.

Isela looked at the pen. Then at the dark ocean outside.

She had no choice. She was a fugitive.

She took the pen.

She signed her name. Isela Church. The ink looked like black blood.

Clinton took the paper immediately. He locked it in a drawer.

Then, he opened a small velvet box on his desk.

Inside lay a black silk ribbon. Attached to the center was a small diamond pendant in the shape of the Collier family crest. A leviathan.

"Turn around," Clinton commanded.

Isela turned. She swept her hair up.

Clinton stepped behind her.

He wrapped the ribbon around her neck. It was cool and soft. He tied it at the back. Not a bow. A knot.

"Tight enough?" he whispered against her ear.

"Yes," Isela breathed.

"This is your collar," Clinton said. "As long as you wear this, no one on this ship will dare to look you in the eye. You are untouchable."

He turned her around to face him. He ran a thumb over the diamond.

"But if you take it off... if you try to run..."

He didn't finish the threat. He didn't have to.

"My head," Clinton said suddenly, wincing. The stress of the standoff was catching up to him. The pain was returning.

He sat on the edge of the desk. He pulled Isela between his legs.

"Fix it," he ordered.

Isela raised her hands. She placed her fingers on his temples.

She began to massage.

Clinton groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. Her scent, her touch, it was the only thing that worked.

Isela looked down at him. The most powerful man on the ocean, helpless under her hands.

She was a prisoner. She was a slave.

But as she felt his tension melt away under her touch, she realized something else.

He needed her more than she needed him.

And that... that was a weapon she could use.

Outside, the storm broke, thunder shaking the ship. But inside the library, in the circle of her arms, the monster was finally asleep.