He gives me everything, rough and gentle, claiming and worshipful, the line between pain and pleasure blurring until I’m begging, sobbing his name, the world splintering around us. He grinds his hips, finding that spot that makes me cry out, over and over, until I shatter for him again, clenching around him, nails digging into his back.
He follows with a groan, driving deep, spilling inside me a second time, his body shaking with the force of it. We cling to each other, trembling, breathless, our bodies tangled, our hearts racing in unison.
He doesn’t let me go. He kisses my lips, my cheeks, my eyelids, holding me close as if he could protect me from thestorm outside, and from everything that waits beyond these walls.
In his arms, sated and raw, I finally understand what it means to belong… to be claimed and cherished, ruined and remade.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Lukyan
The morning after the storm, I sit at the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, jaw tense from a night of restless sleep.
I’m still the same man, the same beast who signs death warrants and counts loyalty by the drop of blood, but something in the air feels off-kilter. There’s a heaviness in my chest that has nothing to do with business or the weight of the empire.
It’s her—Clara—rooted in my thoughts so deep, I can’t shake her loose, no matter how many times I try to convince myself it was only one night.
The house is silent except for the faint hum of the city outside. For a moment, I almost believe I’ve dreamed her up—messy hair, bitten lips, the delicate shiver in her hands when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Then she appears at the doorway, barefoot, an oversized T-shirt swallowing her shape, hair tangled from sleep. Her gaze finds mine, wary and stubborn, and I know right then that any lie I tell myself is already rotting at the core. The night didn’t mean nothing. Desire changes things, whether I want it to or not.
Clara doesn’t say good morning. She crosses the room with quiet purpose and stands by the window, arms folded, studying the city like she might will it to open up and swallow her. I watch her in silence, trying to catalog the ways she’s different from the women who came before.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t grovel. She doesn’t try to charm me into kindness. She is simply herself, and that—more than anything—makes her impossible to ignore.
I should keep my distance. Put her back behind glass, like every other precious thing I’ve lost. When she finally speaks—voice low, scraping over the morning quiet—I find myself listening, against my better judgment.
“You always up this early?” she asks, not looking at me.
“Only when there’s something worth waking up for.”
She snorts, the sound half amusement, half disbelief. “Sure.”
We don’t talk about the storm. We don’t talk about what happened in the dark, with the world shaking and her breath hot against my neck. Instead, I offer her coffee and watch her struggle not to seem grateful. She tries to act like she doesn’t need anything from me, and I let her pretend. Maybe I need to pretend too.
Later, I have to check on a shipment at the warehouse. Normally, I’d leave her behind, lock her up for her own safety or my own peace of mind.
Something’s changed, and I find myself telling her to get dressed. She raises an eyebrow—skeptical, curious—but disappears to do as she’s told. When she returns, she’s pulled her hair back, slipped into clothes that don’t belong to her but fit well enough. Her eyes are wide, a little nervous, but she keeps her chin lifted.
We ride in silence, the city blurring past. In the back seat, I feel the tension between us—thick, electric. Every so often, I catch her watching me, studying the scar at my temple or the way my hands rest on my thighs. She doesn’t look away when I meet her eyes. Instead, she holds my gaze, searching for something she never seems to find.
At the warehouse, my men gather quick, snapping to attention. They look at Clara with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, and I can feel the questions simmering beneath thesurface. Who is she, that I bring her into my world? What hold does she have on the boss?
I ignore them. Clara sticks close, watching every move, every exchange. She doesn’t flinch when I raise my voice, doesn’t blink when a man twice her size backs down under my stare. After the meeting, I catch her muttering under her breath—something about overcompensating and fragile egos. It amuses me. She’s braver than she knows.
“You have something to say?” I ask her, arching a brow.
She shrugs. “Seems like a lot of show for a simple delivery.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I let my mouth twist into a rare, genuine smile. “Men like to believe they matter. Give them a stage and they’ll put on a play, even if the script never changes.”
She grins, just a little, and I feel the warmth of it down to my bones.
As we leave, I hear the whispers start up. Soft, cutting, always in the corners where they think I won’t hear: “She’s making him weak.”
Once, that kind of talk would have drawn blood. Once, I would have made an example. Now, I let them talk. They can’t see what I see—the way she looks at me and doesn’t flinch, doesn’t see a monster, doesn’t treat me like a goddamn animal to be feared or worshipped. She’s the only one who ever meets my eyes and sees something human left.
In the car, Clara leans her head back, closing her eyes. Her hand rests on her knee, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm. I want to reach for her. I want to tell her to stay, to stop running in her mind to places I can’t follow.
Instead, I watch her in silence, caught between the need to possess her and the urge to set her free.
