Epilogue
Sabien
One year later
It's been one year since I claimed Clara as mine, and she still takes my breath away every damn time I look at her.
I stand in the shadowed corner of the gallery, champagne flute untouched in my hand, watching her work the room like she was born for it.
Every painting in this solo show has a red dot beside it.
Sold out. The entire collection gone before the night is halfway through.
My chest swells with a pride so fierce it almost hurts—but it's nothing compared to the constant, low-burning hunger that never leaves me when she's in my sight.
She's wearing that sleek black dress I chose for her, the one that clings to every curve I know by heart. She's laughing at something some pretentious curator is saying, head tilted just so, and my cock is already hard, straining against the wool of my trousers. Mine. Still mine. Always mine.
The gallery is thick with New York's elite—collectors, critics, influencers—all clamoring for a piece of the brilliant young artist who's taken the art world by storm in under a year.
None of them know the strings I pulled behind the scenes: the calls to the right people, the quiet investments in the right galleries, the attention I made sure the critics paid.
Clara believes it was all her talent—and it was.
I just cleared every obstacle so the world could finally see what I saw the moment I laid eyes on her: extraordinary vision, raw and undeniable.
She catches my eye across the crowded room.
That secret smile passes between us—the one that says everything without a single word.
She excuses herself from the admirer with polite grace and makes her way toward me, moving through the sea of people with a confidence she didn't have twelve months ago.
My ring glints on her finger as she walks—five-carat cushion cut, platinum setting.
The wedding was small. Private. Just us and a judge in a quiet room.
No one else needed to witness what was already sealed between us.
"You're lurking," she teases when she reaches me, sliding her arm through mine like it's the most natural place in the world.
"I'm observing," I correct, pressing a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. "You're magnificent."
She blushes—still so easily undone by my praise—and murmurs, "It's all because of you."
"No." I turn her to face me, tilting her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. "This is all you, Clara. Your talent. Your vision. Your hard work."
Her eyes shine with tears and gratitude, and the urge to drag her somewhere private right now—to bend her over the nearest surface and remind her exactly who she belongs to—nearly overpowers me. My cock throbs painfully at the thought.
"Take me home," she whispers, reading my mind the way she always does now. "I want to celebrate properly."
I don't need to be told twice.
Back in our penthouse—ours now, not just mine—I watch her kick off her heels with a soft sigh of relief.
The city sparkles beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the same view that once made her eyes go wide with wonder.
So much has changed since that first night.
Her career. Her confidence. The way she carries herself like she knows exactly what she wants—and what she wants is me.
I loosen my tie, shrug off my jacket, and stay where I am, drinking her in. That look she gives me—half heat, half adoration—still makes something primal snap inside my chest.
"Come here," I say, voice dropping to the register I know makes her wet.
She obeys instantly, crossing the room like she's drawn by gravity. My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly how hard I am for her. Thick. Ready. Always ready for her.
"Did you enjoy watching everyone fawn over your talented wife?" she asks, fingers already working my shirt buttons open.
I growl low in my throat. "I enjoyed watching you shine." My hands slide down, cupping her ass through the thin fabric. "But all night I kept thinking about getting you home. Getting you naked. Reminding you who you belong to."
A year ago those words might have made her flinch. Now they make her arch into me, thighs pressing together as heat gathers between them. She's learned to crave this side of us—the raw possession, the complete ownership. Just as I've learned every secret place on her body that makes her tremble.
"Show me," she whispers, pressing closer. "Show me who I belong to."
The words snap something inside me.
I pin her to the wall, mouth crashing down on hers. She opens immediately—sweet, eager, mine. My hands are everywhere: fisting her hair, kneading her breasts, shoving up under her dress to find—
No panties.
She came to the gala bare beneath the silk, knowing exactly how this night would end. My good girl.
"Such a perfect pussy," I murmur, spreading her open with my thumbs. "All mine."
I drop to my knees and bury my face between her thighs. She cries out, fingers tangling in my hair, holding me exactly where she needs me. I eat her like a man starved—sucking, licking, devouring her clit until her legs shake and her pleas turn desperate.
When she's right on the edge, gasping, begging, I pull back.
"Not yet," I tell her, rising. "Want you coming on my cock."
I spin her, bend her over the back of the couch. She goes willingly, eagerly, arching her back to offer herself. I free my cock from my trousers—don't bother undressing fully. Too desperate. Too hungry.
"Gonna fuck you deep tonight," I promise, notching myself at her soaked entrance. "Put my baby in this belly."
Last week's test was negative again. The disappointment in her eyes mirrored the ache in my chest. We've been trying since the wedding. Soon. It will happen soon. I'll make damn sure of it.
I thrust in hard—possessive, claiming. She moans, pushing back to take me deeper.
"Feel that?" I growl, setting a brutal rhythm. "That's your husband claiming you."
"Yes—Sabien—please—fill me!"
My hand snakes around to circle her clit as I pound into her. Filthy promises spill from my mouth—words that once would have shocked her innocent ears, now making her wetter, tighter, clenching around me like a vice.
"Gonna keep you pregnant, baby," I vow, driving deeper. "Keep this pussy dripping my cum. Make sure everyone knows you're mine. Only mine. Forever mine."
She comes with a scream, walls pulsing rhythmically, milking me. I follow right after, burying myself to the hilt and emptying deep inside her with a guttural groan, grinding against her ass to force every drop as far as it will go.
We collapse onto the couch together, her body cradled against mine. I'm still inside her, softening but unwilling to pull out. My hand rests possessively on her flat stomach. Soon, I think. Soon it will round with my child.
Her smaller hand covers mine, fingers lacing together.
"I love you," she whispers.
The words land like they always do—quiet, devastating, everything. I tighten my arm around her.
"I love you." Three words I don't say often, but I show them every day—in protection, in support, in the fierce, unrelenting devotion that would burn the world down for her.
"Mine," I murmur against her hair.
She sighs, soft and content, and I feel her relax completely against me.
Wrapped in each other, city lights glittering below, our forever sealed in sweat, love, and the kind of filthy devotion most people will never understand.
And I wouldn't trade a single second of it.