Chapter 9
HELENA
The first thing that registers is the smell.
Not the sterile, floral scent of the guest room, but something richer—darker, overwhelming in a way that makes the air feel thick in my lungs.
Safe.
A little sound escapes my throat as I burrow deeper into the warmth, nuzzling my face into the pillow. A dull ache throbs behind my eyes like the worst hangover of my life, yet the rest of my body feels heavy and boneless, wrapped in something impossibly soft.
Another slow breath fills my lungs.
The scent twists low in my stomach, sending a strange heat through my chest. It pulls at a memory just out of reach—warm skin, a steady heartbeat, a large hand closing over mine and pressing it against a hard chest.
Then reality crashes down.
The dinner. The wine. The docks. The ship.
My eyes snap open.
This isn’t the guest room.
A massive bed stretches beneath me, sheets of black silk tangled around my legs. The room itself is stark and masculine—every sharp line and dark surface screaming control.
A predator’s room.
Glancing down reveals another problem.
The red dress is gone.
Instead, my body is swallowed by a black cotton T-shirt, the fabric huge against my frame. It smells unmistakably like him.
Konstantin.
Panic slices through the drugged haze. My body jerks backward, heels digging into the mattress until my spine collides with the upholstered headboard. The duvet comes with me, yanked to my chin, fingers biting into the heavy fabric.
A quick, frantic inventory follows.
Bare legs. Under the shirt, the faint lace of my panties. Nothing else.
A cold knot forms in my stomach.
Did he…?
Memory refuses to cooperate. The last clear moment is the car ride back from the docks—his hand resting on my leg, the heat of his body beside mine.
And then nothing.
Darkness.
“You slept well.”
My head snaps toward the sound.
Konstantin sits in a gray wingback chair by the window, fully dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit, white shirt, and a silk tie knotted perfectly at his throat. He looks as though he’s been awake for hours.
Like the devil on a Sunday morning.
A small espresso cup rests in his hand as he watches me over the rim, long legs crossed, completely unbothered by the fact that I’m practically hyperventilating in his bed.
"Where are my clothes?" I croak, my throat raw.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "On the floor. Where I left them."
He gestures vaguely to a pile of red fabric near the foot of the bed.
My stomach drops. "You... you undressed me?"
"You were struggling," he says simply, setting the cup down on the saucer. "You were fighting the dress like it was choking you. Scratching your own skin. I removed it."
"You had no right!" I shout, but it comes out as a weak rasp. "Did you touch me? Did you take advantage of me while I was drugged?"
He stands up and walks toward the bed, hands in his pockets. He stops at the edge. His eyes scan my face, drop to the T-shirt, then rise back to mine.
"If I had taken you, Helena," he says softly, "you wouldn't have to ask."
He leans down, placing a hand on the mattress beside my leg. The bed dips under his weight.
"You would be sore," he whispers, his eyes darkening with a predatory promise. "You would be marked, and you would remember every second. I don't fuck unconscious women. When I take you, I want you to scream my name, not mumble it in your sleep."
The vulgarity shocks me into silence. My face burns with humiliation and a sudden, confusing spike of heat.
"Then why am I here?" I ask. "Why am I in your bed?"
"Because I didn't trust you to stay in your cage," he says, straightening. "You proved last night that you are resourceful. I wanted you where I could see you."
He reaches for the nightstand, picks up a tablet, and tosses it onto the bed.
It lands near my knees. The screen is glowing with a satellite map. A single green dot is moving across the blue expanse of the ocean.
"Look at it," he commands.
I look down.
VESSEL: BLACKWOOD STAR. STATUS: INTERNATIONAL WATERS. JURISDICTION: NONE.
My stomach turns.
"It's gone," I whisper. "The Atlantic Loop actually left."
"It crossed the maritime border ten minutes ago," he informs. "The cargo is now untouchable. The US Coast Guard can't board it. The Port Authority can't recall it. It’s a ghost."
"What is on it?" I demand, my voice trembling. "What did you make me sign for?"
He smiles.
"Read the manifest, Helena."
He taps the screen and enters a passcode. The screen flashes red as the encryption dissolves.
CONTENTS: UNMARKED PHYSICAL CURRENCY (USD/EUR). ORIGIN: MOSCOW.
My blood runs cold. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
"Cash?" I choke out. "You're shipping... cash?"
"Digital trails are easy to follow," he says calmly. "Banks talk. Servers can be hacked. But physical cash? That is the only true ghost in the system."
His face hardens.
"That ship is carrying the operational funds for the entire Eastern Seaboard. You moved the Bratva's treasury, Helena. You are no longer just a CEO or a Director. You are now the banker for the Russian Mafia."
He taps the bottom of the screen.
AUTHORIZED BY: DIRECTOR H. BLACKWOOD. BIOMETRIC CONFIRMATION: VALID.
"You launched it. Your biometric signature is on the release. Your retinal scan authorized the departure."
He looks at me with those predator eyes.
"If the Feds board that ship, they won't see tractors. They will see the largest money laundering operation in history. And they won't arrest me; I’m only the investor. They will arrest the Director of Operations who signed the illegal override. You."
I stare at the screen, at my own death warrant.
"Why?" I whisper, tears threatening. "Why did you need me to sign it? You own the company."
He walks back to his chair and retrieves his coffee.
"It was almost too easy," he muses. "Your father's security protocols... the port officials... they all crumbled the moment your name hit the system."
He studies me, calculating.
"You see, Helena, financial regulators are watching me.
They watch the Russians. They watch anyone with a name ending in 'ov'.
But they aren't watching the 'innocent' Blackwood heiress.
The moment you scanned your retina, the system rolled out the red carpet.
You are the ultimate skeleton key. You make the Bratva's crimes appear legal. "
I’m sickened. He used my reputation, my name, my very identity as a shield for his organization. I’m working for the Russians. I’m one of them now.
"And now," he adds, voice dropping, "the next one won't be so easy."
I freeze.
"The next one?" I ask. "No. There’s no next one. You said—"
"I said we are partners," he cuts me off. "And now that the Blackwood Star has launched, the Italians will be watching. They will notice the movement. Next time, they will watch the Director much closer."
"I won't do it again," I whisper. "I'll go to the police."
"And tell them what?" he counters. "That you authorized the shipment? That you are the one on the manifest? You go to prison. Not me."
He checks his gold Rolex.
"But we will worry about the Italians later. Right now, get up."
Blinking, I struggle to make sense of what he’s saying. My head is still spinning. "Get up?"
"It’s 7:00 AM. We have to be at the office by 8:30."
"The office?" I stare at him. "Konstantin, I... I can barely see straight. I'm sick. You drugged me."
"You drugged yourself," he corrects coldly. "I ensured you swallowed your own medicine. And yes, the office. You are the Director of Operations. Assets don’t get sick days."
He turns and walks toward the bathroom.
"You have twenty minutes. Shower. Dress. Fix your face. You’re a wreck."
"I'm not going," I hug the duvet, finding a spark of rebellion. "I'm staying right here. I'm not helping you run your criminal empire today."
He stops at the bathroom door but doesn't turn around.
"If you don’t show up to work today... If you look guilty... I might accidentally leak that manifest to the FBI. Your father would die of shame before the trial even started."
How dare he?
I bite my lip, fighting back a rush of tears.
It isn't just the threat of prison that stings; it’s the thought of my father alone in the house. Without me there to answer the phone, who is handling the creditors? Who is making sure he eats? He’s a broken man, fragile as old glass.
I miss him. I worry about him waking in the silence of that big, empty house, wondering where his daughter has gone. He doesn't know how to survive without me.
And Konstantin knows that. He’s holding my father's fragility over my head like a blade.
He has me completely trapped. Ensnared. Helpless.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"Get in the shower, Helena."
He walks into the bathroom.
I don’t move for a moment but simply tremble with rage, my head aching like it's about to split open. It isn’t only his words but his arrogance. He doesn’t mince words or leave an opening to fight back. He commands, and that’s the end.
Without a choice, I drag myself out of bed on wobbly legs and walk to the bathroom.
It’s a vast space, with black marble floors, a glass-walled shower big enough for four people, and a soaking tub.
Konstantin stands by the sink, adjusting his cuffs in the mirror.
I stop in the doorway. "Get out."
He meets my eyes in the reflection. "Excuse me?"
"I’m about to shower," I say, clutching the T-shirt. "I need privacy."
"This is my bathroom," he says, unbothered. "And you forfeited your right to privacy when you tried to drug my Cabernet."
He turns on the tap and washes his hands, taking his time.
"Strip," he orders. "The water is warm."
"I’m not taking my clothes off in front of you."
"I saw everything last night," he says dismissively. "There’s nothing left to reveal."
He dries his hands on a black towel, then turns to face me, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms. He isn’t leaving.
He’s doing this on purpose. He’s breaking down my boundaries, inch by inch. Proving that he owns me.
I grit my teeth. I’ll not give him the satisfaction of crying. I walk past him into the shower.
Defiant as ever, I keep the T-shirt on and step into the shower.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Modest," he comments.
"Go to hell," I mutter.
He may hold every other card, but he won’t get this victory over me or my body.
I stand under the spray. The hot water hits the cotton shirt, instantly soaking it. The fabric clings to my skin, probably revealing more than it hides, but I don't care. I need to wash the night away. To wish him away.
Closing my eyes, I let the water run over my face. I feel sick. Used. Exposed.
The bathroom door opens.
"There are clothes in the closet," he calls out over the rush of the water. "Business attire. Look like a professional, not a hostage."
"I am a hostage!" I shout back, the water filling my mouth.
"Only on paper," he says. "Only on paper."
The door clicks shut.
With it, my strength disintegrates. Legs giving out, I slide down the glass wall until I’m sitting on the floor of the shower, hugging my knees to my chest. The water beats down without mercy.
I’m the Director of Operations. An accomplice to the Bratva. All while wearing my captor's T-shirt.
I touch my swollen lips. I can still taste him. Taste his kiss. Feel his heat.
I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to erase the memory of his tongue, of the wine, of the kiss that felt less like punishment and more like ownership.
It doesn't work.
He’s in my head. He’s in my blood.
Now I have to go to work and pretend he isn’t destroying me.