The Contract of Fate

"Lyra, I'm not requesting your consent."

The cold, marble-floored hallway's heavy air was broken by the words. Despite the cold, a surge of heat causes my pulse to quicken. As I turn to face the tall, broad-shouldered man at the other end of the room—a shadow in the strong lighting—my father's voice wanes.

Wolfe, Damian. I get chills just thinking about the term. He is a force—a man who doesn't beg for permission, doesn't bend, and doesn't break. Not to anyone, not to me.

I can't take my eyes off it. I attempt, but his eyes, which are as keen and steely blue as a predator's, keep me in place. For me, they don't have any warmth. Never, ever.

I mumble, my voice hardly audible above a whisper, "I'm not agreeing to this."

A smile that is anything but kind curls Damian's lips. A harsh curve of power that suggests he has already won, is a parody of one.

"Lyra, your father's debt is more than just figures on a page." His voice is soft and deep, yet it has a sharp edge that makes my stomach turn. Additionally, I'm not a gamer. He will lose everything if you don't sign the deal.

Everything.

I understand his meaning perfectly. We are now at the mercy of men like Damian because of my father's careless choices, his gambling, and his ongoing failures. Similar to him.

I take a step back, my heels tapping on the cold stone floor, and yell, "I won't be your bargaining chip." I have no idea why I continue to try to defend myself. I am aware of how this ends.

"You already are," Damian responds in a tone that borders on pity. However, his eyes are not nice. Not even a hint.

The contract that he is holding between us and that I am expected to sign weighs heavily on me. Standing behind me, my father moves uneasily. His hands are wringing the cuff of his jacket as if he's undecided about whether to stay or run, and he's too scared to even look me in the eye.

I'm paying for this disaster, even if it's his.

I look down at the beautiful paper and the rough black lettering that promises my life to a stranger, a man I'm afraid of, and a man who can destroy me. Destroy everything.

"Damian, I'm not a commodity." At last, I stutter the words out. "I am a human being. You don't win some award.

In that one instant, I see the truth in his eyes as they dart to my father and back to me. He is doing this because he can, not out of avarice or power. Beyond that, he doesn't require an explanation.

His voice is as frigid as ice as he continues, "You're wrong about that." "You are no longer a person. Not regarding the debts owed by your father. You serve only as a tool.

His remarks are like a ton of bricks hitting me.

I have a thing-like feeling. A tool. A reward to be won.

With an overwhelming presence, Damian takes a step closer. I feel small and unimportant in his black, perfectly cut suit. The sharpness of his jaw, his height, and his broad chest all shout power. Command. And I feel helpless for the first time in my life.

He holds the contract out to me and begs me to sign it, his icy gaze never leaving mine. "And I'll see to it that your father doesn't wind up in a ditch."

I want to shout, but I nearly choke on my words. I'd like to fight. To decline. To reclaim the parts of myself that seem to be vanishing.

However, I am unable to.

I look at the pen in his hand as the dense, oppressive quiet between us stretches.

"I—"

"You have no other option." He speaks in a forceful tone that pierces the quiet like a blade.

I want to tell him no, toss the contract in his face, and slap his hand away, but I can't. Not when the future of my father is at stake. Not when refusing will ruin my own life.

"Sign it." His order tightens around my throat like a chokehold.

I extend my hand, shaky fingers removing the pen from his grasp. I'm annoyed at how simple it is for him to force me to do this. How easy it is for me to comply with his demands. But there's nothing else I can do.

My life is gone along with the ink that scuffs the page.

Feeling as though it has become a part of me, I give him the signed contract. Something heavy and gloomy that I will always be unable to get rid of.

Damian accepts it without even glancing at me; his eyes are already calculatingly sweeping past me and straight ahead, past who I am.

His voice is low and decisive as he declares, "You'll be mine."

I'm not struck by the words at first. I don't feel his heat until he approaches and his large frame casts a shadow over mine.

He moves confidently and slowly, and before I realize it, his hand is on my arm, holding it tight and almost possessively.

With my heart thumping in my chest, I hiss, "Don't touch me."

I am reminded of his authority by the slight tightening of his fingers. His breath feels warm on my ear as he inches closer.

With a gravelly voice, he murmurs, "Lyra, get used to it." "Due to this contact? This is just the start.

My body is tight under his hold, and my breath hitches in my throat. The way he holds me and his presence permeates every part of me is oppressive, even if I want to run and pull away.

He says, stepping back just enough to meet my gaze, "You'll learn to accept it." He looks colder now, as though he has already determined that I am his to dominate, to shatter.

He says, "I don't need your acceptance," and releases me by taking a step back.

With my legs limp and the floor spinning under me, I stagger back.

I want to yell. To strike out. I know it's pointless, though. Right now, I'm just a pawn in his game. It's his to shatter, his to play.

He turns on his heel and leaves the room after saying, "Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Wolfe." I stand there gasping for air, a signed contract burning a hole in my fingers.