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.
“Charming,” Takken said, though his tone suggested he found them anything but.
My husband had never shown much interest in women beyond their political utility.
“Georgy, I wonder if we might discuss the energy proposal somewhere more private? I’ve been eager to hear your thoughts on the eastern pipeline routes. ”
“Of course.” Horakovsky’s hand moved to Mila’s lower back, and I saw her suppress a shiver. “Girls, wait for me by the terrace doors. Do not move from that spot.”
“Yes, Master,” they said in unison, their voices soft but clear.
Master. Not sir, not Mr. Horakovsky. Master.
The word sent an unwelcome echo through my body, a much-too-vivid sense memory of me calling my mysterious tormentor Herra the previous night, of the word tearing itself from my throat.
I watched them walk to their assigned position, their movements somehow synchronized while still seeming natural.
They took up poses that looked casual but were clearly prescribed—weight evenly distributed, hands clasped, eyes forward but not making contact with anyone.
“Lorna,” Takken said sharply, and I realized the men were waiting for me. “You’ll excuse us?”
It wasn’t really a question. I was being dismissed like a child while the men discussed carving up my country’s resources. The familiar anger stirred, but beneath it, something else. Pay close attention, my Herra had said.
“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I’d love to hear more about the proposal. After all, as you said, I understand the importance of progress.”
Takken’s jaw tightened. “This is rather technical—”
“Nonsense,” Horakovsky interrupted, his scarred face splitting into what might have been a smile on someone else, but looked predatory on him. “A woman of Fru Norquist’s intelligence should certainly be included. Besides, we may benefit from a… feminine perspective.”
The way he said ‘feminine’ made my skin crawl, but I smiled as if I’d been complimented. “How thoughtful.”
We moved toward a side door that led to one of the building’s private conference rooms. As we walked, I caught a glimpse of Katya and Mila at their post by the terrace doors.
They hadn’t moved a millimeter, standing like beautiful statues despite the crowd flowing around them.
A waiter approached with a tray of champagne, and I watched Mila’s eyes track the movement before snapping back to their fixed point.
She wanted it—I could see the thirst in the subtle shift of her throat—but she didn’t even consider reaching for a glass.
At the last moment, I saw Horakovsky glance over at them and raise his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Instantly they began to glide toward us. The ease of their master’s control of these gorgeous young women sent a shiver up my spine—one that I had absolutely no desire to interrogate.
The conference room featured much dark wood and leather, obviously designed to make billion-kroner deals feel intimate.
Horakovsky settled into a chair that groaned under his bulk, while Takken took the seat across from him.
I perched on a smaller chair to the side, the positioning making it clear I was meant to observe, not participate.
My heart fluttered nervously as Katya and Mila also entered, then went to stand unobtrusively by the wall.
“The eastern routes are problematic,” Horakovsky began without preamble. “Too much local interference. But if we run the primary conduits through the Nordvik corridor…” He pulled out a tablet, swiping to reveal a map covered in red lines that carved through Jagland like surgical incisions.
I studied the map, my stomach sinking. The Nordvik corridor ran through three protected nature reserves and at least a dozen traditional fishing villages.
The environmental impact would be catastrophic, but worse, it would give foreign entities direct access to infrastructure that controlled power to half our population.
“The locals will resist,” Takken said, though his tone suggested this was a minor inconvenience rather than a legitimate concern.
“Locals always resist,” Horakovsky replied with a dismissive wave. “That’s why we have… incentive programs.”
The door opened suddenly, and Brenteuil entered with two more men I didn’t recognize. One was thin and nervous-looking, constantly adjusting his glasses. The other had the dead eyes of a professional mercenary.
“Ah, excellent timing,” Horakovsky said. “Dmitri here handles the technical aspects. And Kristoff… well, Kristoff handles problems.”
Kristoff’s gaze swept the room, lingering on me in a way that made my skin prickle. I forced myself to remain still, to play the decorative wife, even as my mind raced. This wasn’t just about energy contracts. This was about something much darker.
Takken leaned back in his chair, that familiar smugness settling over his features. “I think the matter is in good hands,” he said, his tone suggesting the deal was already done. “You have my word that Jagland will honor whatever agreement we reach here.”