Hours pass in a measured blur. Luka checks in twice more, and the other men report in. The house settles into the low hum of preparation and clean up. I work until the light in the window is gone and the city outside is a smear of orange.
Only then do I allow myself one moment of weakness. I look at my reflection in the glass, and for a single ridiculous second, imagine the stupid small things—her laugh with friends, the way she rolls her eyes. Then I look away and sigh. Duty first. Emotion later. Tonight I build the cage around her safety; tomorrow I decide what kind of man I will be inside it.
After midnight, I finally let myself move. The house is quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that hums in your ears. I tell myself it’s just to check on her, to make sure she’s sleeping, to make sure she’s still breathing beneath my roof. That’s all. Nothing more.
The walk down the corridor feels longer than it should. My footsteps echo against the marble, and the low golden light paints shadows on the walls. When I reach her door, I pause, hand on the handle. She’ll be asleep, I tell myself. I’ll look in, leave, and no one will know.
But when I push the door open, she’s awake. Sitting up in bed. Waiting.
Her eyes catch mine immediately. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she says. Her voice is soft, but her gaze is sharp. Accusing.
I exhale through my nose, step inside, and close the door behind me. “I’m not,” I say. “You needed rest.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she doesn’t believe a single word. Then she shifts, the sheets rustling as she pats the space beside her. “Sit.”
“Elara—”
“Roman.” She arches a brow, daring me.
I start to shake my head, but she rolls her eyes, slides gracefully out of the bed, and crosses the space between us. She smells faintly of soap and strawberry and peace. Her fingers wrap around my wrist—small, insistent, warm—and before I can stop her, she’s tugging me toward the bed.
“Sit,” she repeats, firmer this time.
I let out a quiet breath, the corner of my mouth twitching, and sink down onto the edge of the mattress. Her hand lingers on my arm for a second longer than necessary before she lets go.
The air between us is thick with something that feels like truce and danger all at once.
With a trembling voice, she whispers, “Thank you…for saving me.”
The words strike something in me I can’t hide. My chest tightens, my hands clench, and for the first time, I let her see it—my own truth, raw and unguarded. I reach up, cupping her face gently in my palms, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine.
“Elara,” I murmur, my voice low, steady, unshakable. “I will always put you first…before anyone, before anything. Even before myself.”
Her eyes widen, glistening with unshed tears, and I see it—the flicker of relief, of trust, maybe even awe. I hold her there, letting the weight of my words sink in, letting her feel that she is safe not just from the world, but from me.
“Can I touch you?” she whispers, sliding closer.
The question confuses me for a moment. She’s already mine. She can do whatever she wants.
Before I can answer, she slides off the bed and onto her knees in front of me, looking up with a mixture of terror and fierce determination. She reaches for my belt, her small hands fumbling with the leather. The sight of her, humbled and utterly focused on me, slams a sudden, brutal rush of blood through my veins.
“Elara….” The name is a warning, a question, and a raw admission of my own immediate loss of control. I don’t stop her. Her touch is tentative as she works the buckle, then the zipper. I’m immediately hardened by her sheer proximity and the intense, possessive desire raging inside me.
She pulls my length free. She looks at me once, her eyes wide, before lowering her head.
The contact is warm, wet, and inexperienced. She is clearly inexperienced, hesitant, her mouth clumsy and soft. It doesn’t matter. Her devotion is the greatest turn-on. I hiss, gripping the edge of the mattress, fighting the urge to take over, to rush the moment.
“Fuck,printsessa,” I groan, pulling her hair gently to lift her face. “Just like that. Slow. Use your tongue. Focus on the base.” I guide her hands to where I need her to hold me, and I tell her exactly what to do, instructing her with rough, explicit commands.
She complies immediately, her fear replaced by a desire to please, a willingness to learn the language of my body. Her touch shifts, becoming more confident, more demanding. The pleasure becomes a blinding, consuming edge that threatens to send me over.
I pull her head up by my hair, forcing her wide, glistening eyes to meet mine. “Do you trust me?” I ask, my voice a low, primal rasp.
She nods, the movement barely perceptible.
I release her hair, and she watches in a hypnotic daze as I grab the belt she discarded—the leather one that had just been around my waist. I wind my belt around her neck, securing the leather and tightening my hold on her. It’s a symbol of the control she just promised me, a thrilling, terrifying sensation of ownership.
She breathes in deeply, the leather pressing into her throat, but she doesn’t stop. She continues sucking, focusing entirely on her task, until I come in her mouth.
