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.
