Bound to the Volkovs

The contract sat on my father's mahogany desk, still warm from the printer.

Sign it, and I'd marry a stranger in three months. Refuse,

and our family empire would crumble by morning. "Evangeline, we're out of options,"

my father said, his voice hollow. "The Volkov family owns our debt. This alliance is

the only way." I stared at the ornate signature line. Twenty-four years

old, and my life was being sold to save a business I never wanted.

That's when he walked in. Tall, dark-suited, with eyes like frozen

steel. He moved like violence wrapped in expensive fabric. "Your new bodyguard,"