Fine Print
1991 Words
Two words.
That was all Roman Anders said.
And somehow, they irritated me.
My father had introduced me as my daughter, not the woman you apparently paid twelve million dollars to marry, so there was absolutely no reason for Roman to be looking at me like he’d been in love with me for a decade.
I shifted in the chair.
His eyes followed the movement.
Still gold.
Interesting.
Most wolves' eyes changed when they were angry. Threatened. Struggling for control.
Roman looked perfectly calm.
“Have we met?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Then you don't know me.”
His gaze stayed on mine.
“No.”
I frowned.
My father crossed toward his desk.
“We were discussing the agreement.”
Roman finally looked away from me.
Whatever had happened when he walked through that door disappeared behind a perfectly controlled expression.
Almost.
“Were you?” he asked.
“We were discussing why I'm apparently worth twelve million dollars.”
My father's expression hardened.
Roman's didn't.
“The twelve million isn't for you.”
“Somehow, that isn't better.”
“No,” he said. “I imagine it isn't.”
I studied him.
That wasn't the answer I'd expected.
My father set his whiskey on the desk.
“There are other matters to discuss.”
“Then discuss them.”
His eyes moved to mine.
“Your brother crossed into Anders' territory three nights ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“He was pursuing two members of the Veyr family.”
I looked at Roman.
He gave the smallest nod.
“One of them is dead,” my father continued.
Everything inside me went cold.
“What?”
“Your brother killed him.”
“No.”
“He did.”
“There had to be a reason.”
“He says they attacked one of our wolves two nights earlier.”
“Do you believe him?” I asked Roman.
“Yes.”
My father frowned.
Roman didn't bother looking at him.
“If your brother intended to murder a Veyr,” he said, “he wouldn't have done it on my land.”
That sounded exactly like my brother.
“So what's the problem?”
“The Veyrs don't particularly care what I believe,” Roman said.
“They're demanding blood for blood,” my father added. “Three other families have supported their petition.”
“And what are you doing about it?” I asked Roman.
“Refusing to give them your brother.”
I blinked.
“You can do that?”
“It happened on my territory. I can refuse them access and testify on your brother's behalf.”
“But?”
Because there was obviously a f*****g but.
“I can't make the petition disappear.”
“Nor can he prevent the families supporting it from escalating,” my father said.
“So what happens?”
“The Veyrs can pursue judgment through the council.”
“And if they don't?”
“They handle it themselves.”
Oh.
“War.”
“Potentially.”
I looked between them.
“How long?”
My father frowned.
“How long for what?”
“The petition. They can't hold this over his head forever.”
Roman answered.
“One year from the date it's formally filed.”
I looked at him.
“And after that?”
“If no judgment has been entered, the claim expires.”
“They can't file it again?”
“Not for the same death.”
I did the math.
Three hundred sixty-five days from today.
A year.
I looked at my father.
“And marrying Roman fixes that before the petition expires?”
“It creates an alliance no one will challenge lightly.”
I stared at him.
Then Roman.
Then back at him.
“You're putting a wedding between them and a war.”
“I'm preventing one.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“No.”
My father's expression didn't change.
“Sit down.”
“Absolutely not.”
I grabbed my jacket.
“Roman is already refusing to hand him over. You have his testimony. Figure out the rest without marrying me to him.”
“Sixty-three thousand, eight hundred eleven dollars, and 11 cents.”
My hand stopped.
I looked back.
“What?”
“That's what you have left.”
Something cold touched my spine.
“What are you talking about?”
“You paid two hundred and six thousand cash for the warehouse twenty-two months ago.”
Roman's attention shifted to me.
“You spent another thirty-one thousand converting the loft. Plumbing. Electrical. Kitchen. Bathroom. You did most of the framing and finish work yourself.”
“How do you know that?”
“Another eighteen thousand on three-phase power and ventilation downstairs. Eleven on the used forklift. Sixteen on welding and fabrication equipment. Your kiln was eight.”
I didn’t respond.
“You built the spray booth yourself.”
He knew about the f*****g spray booth.
“The ventilation inspection failed the first time. You corrected it yourself and passed the second.”
Nobody in my family knew that.
Nobody.
“You've been watching me.”
“I watch all of my assets very closely.”
I stared at him.
An... asset?
“You are part of this family.”
“That's not what you said.”
He didn't answer.
Of course he didn't.
Apparently, buying my own building hadn't stopped me from sitting on one of my father's balance sheets.
“Your first large commission barely broke even,” he continued. “You underbid the steel by almost twelve thousand dollars and finished it anyway.”
My blood went cold.
“The next one paid thirty-eight thousand. Then fifty-two. Then sixty-four.”
He recited the numbers as if they belonged to him.
Like I belonged to him.
Asset.
The word sat wedged beneath my ribs.
“You've made just over three hundred thousand dollars from sculpture in the last three years.”
Most of what I'd made had gone right back into making more.
Or into the warehouse.
My warehouse.
Five thousand square feet I'd turned into a studio downstairs and a home upstairs without asking anyone for anything.
For the first time, I wasn't mentally assigning every incoming payment to something that needed fixing, replacing, or upgrading.
And there was sixty-three thousand, eight hundred eleven dollars and eleven cents sitting in an account that didn't already belong to something else.
I'd looked at that number three nights ago from bed and thought:
I did it.
Not rich.
But safe.
Secure.
My own.
“How do you know what's in my bank account?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“You have a hundred and nine thousand dollars in contracted work over the next eight months.”
My pulse jumped.
“The hotel installation. The private commission. And the piece for the Ashford development.”
I went still.
He knew specifics of the installations.
Not just the numbers.
The art.
The clients.
“The Ashford contract is the important one,” he continued. “Their architect has already asked whether you'd be interested in bidding on two more developments.”
“Stop.”
That wasn't public.
It was a conversation I'd had over coffee after a site meeting.
One commission becoming another.
One architect remembering my name.
One developer telling another that I delivered on time and didn't lose my s**t when an installation went sideways.
That was how this worked.
Slowly.
Painfully.
One person at a time.
My father knew all of them.
“Ashford's financing runs through a bank whose chairman has been a friend of mine for twenty-six years. The hotel group has three of my companies on retainer. Your Connecticut collector sits on the same foundation board as your mother.”
One by one, he connected them.
My clients.
His network.
I had spent years making sure I never used my father's name to get into a room.
Apparently, I'd never considered how many rooms he was already in.
“You didn't get me those commissions.”
“No.”
“I got them.”
“Yes.”
“They hired me because of my work.”
“They did.”
His agreement made it worse.
“Then what the f**k is your point?”
“That I don't have to give you a career to take one away.”
Silence.
Roman went completely still.
“You'd call my clients?”
“Of course not. That would be crude.”
“Then what?”
“A developer becomes concerned about financing. An architect decides another artist is less complicated. A hotel group delays an installation until next fiscal year. A collector hears there may be problems attached to your name.”
“Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could prove.”
My throat tightened.
“Just fewer calls. Fewer commissions. Longer gaps between deposits.”
My sixty-three thousand dollars suddenly felt very small.
“Until maintaining the warehouse and your business without reliable work becomes impossible.”
“You'd bleed me dry.”
“You’d make your own decisions.”
“After you eliminated all the good ones.”
He said nothing.
“And what? I lose the warehouse, burn through everything I've earned, and come crawling back here?”
“I don't require crawling.”
“How generous.”
“But yes. You come home.”
“Enough.”
Roman's voice was quiet.
My father looked at him.
Roman hadn't moved.
His hands were loose at his sides. His expression was almost unnervingly blank.
But his eyes were gold.
Completely gold.
“You wanted this marriage,” my father said.
“I want her.”
The words landed between us.
Roman didn't look at me.
“Those are not the same thing.”
“Either way, you're getting what you want.”
“Not like this.”
My father looked back at me.
“If you refuse, I withdraw my objection to the Veyr petition.”
Roman's jaw tightened.
“I'll protect her brother.”
“You can protect him on Anders’ land. You cannot claim another Alpha's heir without creating the war you're trying to prevent.”
Roman said nothing.
Because apparently my father had finally found something he couldn't simply buy, threaten, or command out of existence.
My brother.
My career.
My home.
Of course I could leave.
Nobody had locked the door.
But my father would make sure everyone I loved paid for it.
He'd call that a choice.
I wouldn't.
But he'd made one mistake.
He'd given me an expiration date.
“One year.”
My father frowned.
“What?”
I let go of the door.
“You said I'm marrying him because you need the Anders alliance to protect my brother.”
“You are.”
“The Veyr petition expires in one year.”
Something changed in my father's face.
Small.
But there.
“The marriage is permanent.”
“The problem isn't.”
Silence.
Interesting.
I looked at Roman.
“On day three hundred sixty-six, assuming no judgment has been entered, my brother is clear?”
“Yes.”
“They can't bring the same claim again?”
“No.”
I looked back at my father.
“Then you don't need me married on day three hundred sixty-six.”
His jaw tightened.
“There are considerations beyond—”
“No.”
I smiled.
“You don't get to add considerations now. You told me this was about my brother.”
He said nothing.
“So you get exactly as much marriage as my brother needs.”
I held up one finger.
“One year.”
My father's eyes narrowed.
“And if I refuse?”
I picked up my jacket.
“Then enjoy the war.”
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