Page 18 of The Debt

“You belong to me now, Venus.” His voice rasped in powerful command against her ear.

With her face pressed against his neck, she inhaled his scent, but even this intimate gesture felt alien—as if she were simultaneously herself and someone else, someone who could surrender so completely, it made her question everything she thought she knew about control, desire, and her very identity. Each tremor that wracked her body felt like a small death, a letting go of who she was, leaving behind a stranger in her skin.

“Say it, little one. Tell me you belong to me… and only me.”

“Yes,” she whispered as her eyes clashed with his. “I belong to you, Master Hades.”

The peace that settled over her wasn’t gentle. It was devastating in its totality, like the calm in the eye of a storm. She felt herself fracturing and reforming, the pieces of her psyche rearranging themselves into patterns she didn’t recognize. This submission, this complete surrender, frightened her with its intensity, with how right it felt, and with how it erased every certainty she had ever held about herself.

In his arms, she was lost and found, broken and whole, herself and someone entirely new. The contradiction tore at her sanity, even as it filled her with a truth so profound it brought tears to her eyes. This experience hadn’t been about pleasure or passion—it was a shattering of self, a rebirth that left her gasping, not just from physical exertion but from the weight of her own transformation.

For once, she was exactly where she was meant to be, and that certainty terrified her more than any doubt she ever harbored about the elusive Master Hades.

Her eyes fluttered open as he tilted her head back to stare at her for long, tense moments. Then, a smile broke through like a beam of sunlight through a thundercloud.

“Since this scene catapulted us into a completely new dimension, I believe it’s time we officially meet.” He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Hi, miss. I am Jarek Farrel, investor and owner of Deluxe Enterprises Incorporated, located in Boston.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Farrel.” Her smile was blinding, but her voice trembled. “I am Tatiana Polov, CEO owner of TAP United Logistics at the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport here in Atlanta.”

“Now… we’re on the right path, Ms. Polov.”

“Indeed, we are, Mr. Farrel.”

Chapter Ten

Jarek

Sweetwater Creek State Park, Mt. Vernon Road, Lithia Springs, Atlanta…

Moving to Boston a decade ago had been an adjustment in many ways for Jarek. Having grown up in the rolling hills of Ireland, he was nature’s child.

“I never realized how I miss this,” he murmured as he breathed in the fresh air. His shoulders relaxed as birdsong replaced the city’s constant drone. Ten years of Boston’s cramped streets and artificial canyons had worn on him. There were times he found the city stifling and longed to be back in his birth country. Here, in this little oasis, the scent of pine needles and damp earth transported him back to Ireland’s Wicklow Mountains, where he’d spent countless days roaming with nothing but a backpack and his thoughts.

Shifting his weight, he adjusted the prosthetic mask as its edges caught the morning humidity. The salt-and-pepper wig was carefully arranged, with the hair teasing his nape. Since the length was much shorter than his own, feeling it brush against his neck was a constant reminder of his disguise.

“Would I ever be rid of living this double life?” he wondered out loud. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, he surveyed the area. “Hmm, he’s not here yet.” Letting the glasses drop to hang from the strap around his neck, he hiked on.

The park sprawled before him in a stark contrast to the city’s concrete maze. Red clay trails snaked through stands of towering pines, with their canopy filtering the morning light into dappled patterns on the forest floor. White-tailed deer tracks crossed his path, leading toward Sweetwater Creek, where the water rushed over worn granite. The scent of the forest that showcased ferns, magnolias, wild azaleas, and hardwoods hit the spot of nostalgia inside him that had become dormant over time.

“What a story you tell,” he said as he stood gazing at the ruins of the New Manchester mill before him. Five stories of weathered brick stretched skyward as if begging for mercy. Jarek ran his hand along the crumbling walls. He imagined he could feel the destruction and despair in each scorched stone. Empty window frames gaped like hollow eyes—a testament to Sherman’s apocryphal campaign. Kudzu draped the remaining walls in a green shroud as nature slowly reclaimed what man had built.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” A voice carried from behind him.

Jarek’s muscles tensed, but outwardly, he was calm. Charles Harold stood at the edge of the ruins. He presented every bit the corporate conveyance lawyer in hiking gear that didn’t quite fit his frame.

“The old girl’s got character,” Jarek replied in an impeccable Southern American accent. “Shame about the fire.”

“Some would say it was justice.” Harold walked closer. “Though I prefer to think of it as... progress.”

Jarek studied the man for long moments. His dark hair was peppered with silver at the temples. The expensive haircut spoke of regular visits to an upscale salon, yet the styling product was quickly losing its hold in the Georgia humidity. The hiking clothes, which Jarek was relatively certain were new and branded, strained against his protruding belly—evidence of too many business lunches and scotch-soaked evenings.

Standing around five-foot-seven, Harold compensated for his lack of height with an air of authority that came from years of manipulating the law to serve his clients’ needs. His beady eyes were set deep in his round face and held the prepence assessment of a man accustomed to weighing risks against rewards. Jarek had done due diligence on Charles Harold and knew that he had witnessed countless shell company deals in smoke-filled back rooms, where the line between legal and illegal had been significantly blurred.

Suppressing a grin, he watched Harold’s manicured hands grip a walking stick that he clearly didn’t know how to use. He might not cast a formidable appearance, but every movement, every gesture carried the mass of a man whose confidence had built a fortune by knowing which secrets to keep and which to leverage.

“Progress has many faces, Mr. Harold.” Jarek finally responded as he adjusted his cap. He kept his movements measured yet confident to align with the age he portrayed. “Some are more profitable than others.”

“Speaking of profit…” Harold cleared his throat. “Am I correct in assuming this meeting is to make me a proposition that might… financially benefit me?”

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