Chapter Sixteen - Lukyan
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her trembling beneath me, hear her whisper my name with that mix of defiance and need that undoes me completely.
The guilt is a slow, steady ache—not for having taken her, but because I don’t regret a single moment. I replay every sound, every touch, every broken plea, and want it all over again.
My men have started to whisper, though they keep it behind closed doors.
The marriage, the way I’ve closed ranks, the sudden, absolute focus on Clara above all else.
They think I’ve lost my mind. They say she’s a weakness I can’t afford, that I’ve gone soft, that the man who would burn a city to ashes for a threat is now leashed by a woman who stares him down.
Maybe they’re right.
After hours of tossing in the tangle of sheets, her warmth pressed to my back, I slip out of bed.
I move quietly, careful not to wake her, pausing in the doorway to watch her sleep.
She’s sprawled on her side, hair fanned across the pillow, mouth soft in the low light.
For a moment I want to climb back in, drag her against me, and let the world burn.
Instead, I force myself down the hall to my office. The mansion is hushed, shadows stretching long across the old floors. I find Nikolai at my desk, phone in hand, reports stacked in front of him.
He doesn’t look up when I enter, just says, “Couldn’t sleep?”
I pour myself a drink and sit across from him, stretching my aching hand. “What are the men saying?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “That you’re distracted. That you’re softening. Some say you’d rather die for her than do what’s necessary.”
“Would I?” I take a long swallow, letting the vodka burn a path down my throat. “Do you believe that?”
Nikolai’s eyes meet mine, steady, as if he’s weighing every word. “You’ve changed. Everyone sees it. I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”
I lean forward, voice low. “She’s not a weakness.”
He snorts. “You say that, but she’s the only thing you protect above yourself. You never used to care what they thought. Now, you hesitate.”
I feel a flash of irritation, but it fades quickly. “She’s not like the others, Nik. She looks me in the eye.”
Nikolai studies me, then sits back, folding his arms. “You really care for her.”
I set the glass down, fingers tapping the rim. “I don’t know what I feel. Want. Need. All I know is, the world’s smaller now, drawn around her.”
He shakes his head. “You’re reckless, but maybe that’s what you need.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “I’ve seen blood, betrayal, fear. None of it made me hesitate. But her…”
“She’s your equal,” Nikolai says quietly. “Even if you don’t want to admit it.”
I look away, jaw tightening. “She makes me feel human. That’s dangerous.”
Nikolai stands, gathering the reports. “You’ve survived worse. Just remember who you are, Lukyan. Don’t lose yourself.”
He leaves, and the silence returns. I finish the drink and stare at the city lights beyond the window, thinking of Clara, her voice, the heat in her eyes. I want her under my control, but the truth is, I just want her.
The memory of her flushed skin, her breathless pleas, roots itself deep, twisting something in me I can’t name.
***
At breakfast, she’s already seated when I enter the dining room.
The morning sun paints her hair gold. She’s in one of the dresses the housekeeper picked out, simple but beautiful.
She doesn’t look at me as I sit down, but I can feel the wall she’s built between us—a shield and a challenge all at once.
Nikolai sits across from her, and the tension is thick enough to taste. The staff move quietly, careful not to break the brittle peace.
I want to speak, to offer comfort, but she beats me to it. When I reach for the coffee, she glares at me, chin lifted, eyes hard and dark with everything she refuses to say aloud.
She’s angry, but she’s here. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t bow her head. She meets my gaze and holds it, the silent challenge daring me to look away first. No one else does that. Not my men, not my enemies. Only Clara.
A strange heat moves through me—respect and desire, hunger and admiration. She should hate me. Maybe she does.
I can’t look away from her.
“You’re not eating,” I say quietly, voice meant for her alone.
She shrugs, not breaking eye contact. “Not hungry.”
“Clara—”
She stands abruptly, chair scraping. “Don’t pretend you care. We both know what this is.”
She leaves the room, the sway of her hips and the sharpness of her words lingering behind.
Nikolai watches her go, then turns to me, expression unreadable. “You wanted a wife. You got a war.”
I almost smile, but it’s laced with frustration and something sharper. “She’s a fighter.”
He shakes his head. “She’ll either kill you or save you. Maybe both.”
He’s right. Every part of me is tangled up in her now—my need for control, my lust, my craving for something real. I can’t help myself. I’m possessive, territorial, in ways that scare even me. I want to break her walls, but I want her to break mine too.
For the rest of the day, I can’t focus on anything but her—her laughter echoing in an empty hall, the memory of her writhing beneath me, the way her glare cuts sharper than any blade.
Everyone else bows their head when I enter a room.
She looks me in the eye, and I know I’ll never have enough.
***
The afternoon is strangely quiet, the kind of quiet that makes the edges of my temper too sharp. I’m heading down the hall toward the conservatory when I hear voices—one of them hers, tight and clipped, the other low, mocking. A man’s voice.
The sound stops me cold.
“…don’t know why he bothers with you,” the guard mutters, tone dripping condescension. “Pretty face, sure, but you don’t belong here. You think you’re special? You’re not. He’ll get bored.”
My vision narrows.
I move before I think, before reason has a chance to intervene. I round the corner in silence, a shadow more than a man, and find Clara standing stiffly near the window while Mikhail—one of the newer guards—leans too close, smirking.
She doesn’t back away. She never does. If anything, her spine straightens further, chin lifting in quiet defiance.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes flicker, not with fear, but with something sharper—anger, embarrassment, pride refusing to bend. Mikhail follows her gaze and finally realizes he’s no longer alone.
The shift in his face is instant.
“Sir,” he stammers, straightening, “I was just—”
I don’t let him finish. I take a single step forward, and he instinctively takes one back. The hall goes silent except for the low hum of the overhead lights.
“That was a mistake,” I say, voice quiet. Too quiet. “A very big one.”
Clara watches me, jaw tight, and for a moment I don’t know if she’s grateful or furious. Maybe both. It doesn’t matter right now.
Mikhail swallows hard, shifting his weight. “Boss, I didn’t—I wasn’t—”
I move so quickly he flinches. My hand closes around the front of his vest, dragging him close enough for him to feel every ounce of my fury.
“You speak to her again,” I say, my voice a razor drawn across his throat, “and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
His breathing stutters. Clara takes a step forward as if to intervene but stops herself, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Apologize,” I order.
He hesitates. I tighten my grip.
“I’m sorry,” he sputters, not daring to look at her.
She lifts her chin, nods once. “Don’t let it happen again.”
I release him so abruptly he stumbles. He backs away fast, practically running down the hall.
When he rounds the corner, I finally turn to her. Her gaze meets mine, steady despite the tension. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us crackles with everything unsaid.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she mutters.
“Yes,” I answer, jaw clenched, “I did.”
She crosses her arms. “You can’t fight every man who talks to me.”
My eyes narrow. “Watch me.”
She holds my stare, throat working as she swallows. I expect her to argue, spit some cutting reply, but she just shakes her head in disbelief and walks away.
I stay there a long moment, breathing slow and heavy, trying to force myself back into control. But the control doesn’t come. All I can think about is the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her. The way he dared to stand too close.
Every man who glances at her earns my silent wrath. That one earned something much worse.
***
Later, in my office, I’m pacing like a caged animal when Nikolai walks in without knocking—one of the few privileges I allow him.
He shuts the door behind him and folds his arms.
“You need to calm down,” he says.
My jaw works. “Don’t start.”
“I will,” he replies, unshaken. “I heard about Mikhail.”
“He’s lucky he walked away.”
“You threatened to kill him.”
“He deserved worse.”
Nikolai sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Lukyan, this isn’t you. You’re out of control.”
My fists clench. “She’s my wife. He disrespected her.”
“He spoke out of turn. Fine, but you’re acting like any man who breathes near her is marked for death.” He pauses, tone shifting. “I supported this marriage because I trusted your judgment. Now I’m wondering if I was wrong.”
Something inside me snaps.
My fist slams into the table before I even register the movement. Wood splinters beneath my knuckles. Papers scatter. The glass of vodka topples, spilling across the grain.
Nikolai doesn’t flinch. He just watches.
I drag a hand over my face, breath shaking. “Don’t question me.”
“I’m not questioning your power,” he says evenly. “I’m questioning your priorities. You’re letting her become the center of everything.”
“She’s in danger,” I growl.
“Yes,” he agrees. “And you can’t protect her if you lose yourself.”
The words land harder than I expect. I look away, unable to meet his eyes.
He’s right; the anger isn’t at him, or my men. It’s at myself.
She’s becoming my undoing, piece by piece.
I grip the edge of the table, breathing hard.
Nikolai watches me with something like sympathy and something like concern.
“I’ve seen men fall apart over less,” he says quietly. “Don’t let her be the reason you lose the empire you built.”
I lift my gaze to him, the truth bleeding through the cracks I’ve tried to seal.
“I don’t care about the empire,” I admit. “Not like I care about her.”
He exhales, long and low. “Then God help you,” he murmurs.
Nikolai leaves me in the wreckage of my own anger, the office still and heavy with everything I can’t say aloud. My knuckles bleed quietly onto the scattered papers. I stare at the door long after it closes, wrestling with the admission that scares me more than any enemy ever could.
She is my weakness. My obsession. I would raze everything I’ve built if it meant keeping her safe, if it meant she’d look at me with anything but hatred.
Down the hall, I hear her voice, a sharp reply to a maid.
It draws me like a flame draws a moth. I want to see her, to touch her, to remind myself she’s real and mine.
Still, I stay where I am, surrounded by broken glass and splintered wood, knowing she’s already done what no rival ever managed: she’s found the heart I thought I’d buried.