Chapter Twenty - Miron
Tonight, I stand at the heart of my own empire—steel and marble and glass—filled with men who smile through their teeth, women who watch every movement, every rumor. I wear my usual mask: calm, untouchable, the king behind the scenes.
Except tonight, something is different. Sera walks at my side, her arm looped through mine, her posture perfect, every inch the part I chose for her. She wears the violet gown I selected, her hair swept up to expose the elegant curve of her throat, her lips painted the shade of bruised roses.
I cannot look away. She is beautiful—undeniable, arresting—but it isn’t the dress or the diamonds at her ears that hold me. It’s the memory beneath it all, the way she looked, wild and unguarded, beneath me in the dark.
Only I know the shape her body takes when she gives in, the desperate sound of her voice when she breaks.
Around us, men notice her. I see it in the way they pause, the way conversations dip when she passes, the hunger in their eyes. My hand never leaves her back—a subtle claim, a warning. Some nod with wary respect; others are bolder, approaching with practiced smiles.
Emil finds us early, his usual bravado barely masking the calculation in his gaze. He takes Sera’s hand, kissing the air above her knuckles.
“You must be the famous Sera,” he says.
I stiffen, just a little. Sera responds, her own shoulders straightening. He adds some snide remark about my taste improving, and I glare, hand tightening. “Careful, Emil.”
“Relax, Miron.” After speaking of her beauty and that she’s not the first woman I’ve stolen, Emil turns to Sera, asking ifshe knows what kind of man I am. His smile turns gentle, almost kind as he warns, “Miron protects what’s his, and he never, ever lets go.”
She isn’t fooled by the finery or the false warmth. She’s searching for cracks, plotting escape. The realization stirs something inside me, sharper than pride: I want her to keep fighting. Her cleverness is a fire I feed.
As the evening wears on, I watch her with the other guests. She smiles at the right moments, laughs quietly when the joke demands it.
She asks polite questions about business and art, feigning curiosity. She plays the role beautifully, but I know the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she positions herself with her back never quite exposed.
At one point, she slips away to fetch a drink. I watch as Viktor, one of my more ambitious men, approaches her. His intentions are obvious. He leans in close, speaking too softly, eyes dropping to the bare skin at her collarbone.
I move to her side before she can answer whatever question he’s asked. My hand finds her waist, firm.
“Viktor,” I say, my voice soft but carrying. “Enjoying yourself?”
He straightens, eyes darting from Sera to me. “Of course, sir. Your guest is charming.”
“She’s more than charming,” I say, holding Viktor’s gaze until he blinks first and excuses himself. I look down at Sera. Her lips twitch, half amused, half defiant.
“You’re overprotective,” she murmurs.
“You’re mine to protect,” I answer, leaning in close enough that my words are for her alone. “Don’t mistake it for anything else.”
Her eyes flash. “You like owning things, don’t you?”
I let the question linger. “I like what’s earned.” I pause. “And what fights back.”
Her mouth parts, but she swallows whatever retort she has. For a heartbeat, the noise of the room fades. I see the pulse in her throat, the stubborn line of her jaw. I want to take her somewhere quiet, pin her against a wall, and remind her who she belongs to.
Instead, I lead her back into the crowd. We make the rounds, talking with allies and rivals alike. Sera never falters. She keeps pace with me, her poise unbreakable.
When she grows tired, I press a drink into her hand, brush my thumb along her spine, a private message that makes her shiver.
I’m aware, always, of the hunger clawing at me. Every time she laughs at another man’s joke, every time she looks too long at an exit, the possessive urge flares.
Beneath that is something darker, more dangerous. Watching her try to outsmart me—watching her weigh every word, every gesture—lights a fire in my chest that nothing else can. I crave the challenge, the knowledge that even here, surrounded by my power, she is planning, scheming, refusing to break.
Between conversations, I pull her aside, pressing her into a shadowed alcove. The music and laughter drift past, muffled.
“You play your part well,” I murmur, my hand on her bare shoulder. “I know you, Sera. I see you searching.”
She lifts her chin, fearless. “Maybe I’m just bored. Or maybe I’m waiting for a chance.”
