Chapter Twenty - Lukyan
Returning to the world is a calculated risk, but tonight it feels inevitable. The gathering is small by Bratva standards—only a dozen power brokers, politicians, and old friends whose loyalty I trust more than most.
For Clara, it’s the first time beyond the gates since the night bullets shattered our home. I watch her dress in the fading afternoon light, her reflection nervous and determined as she smooths the pale silk over her hips.
When she emerges, every head in the foyer turns. She doesn’t see it—the way conversations stall, the way eyes track her every movement—but I do.
I see it all, and every appreciative glance, every soft murmur in Russian or English, sets my jaw a little tighter. I offer my arm, and she slips her hand through, a tentative trust that sends a charge through my blood.
We arrive at the venue just as the city glows gold outside.
It’s an old mansion, candlelight and piano music, the air heavy with expensive perfume and the sharp tang of ambition.
I keep her close, my hand at her waist, guiding her gently through clusters of men and women who know how to look friendly while measuring weakness.
She smiles when she must, answers questions with poise, but I can feel the tension humming through her.
It’s there in the way her shoulders stiffen when someone asks about her family, in the way her fingers twist the stem of her glass.
I lean down, lips brushing her ear, murmuring, “You’re doing fine. ”
She glances up at me, eyes bright. “You make it sound like a test.”
“It is,” I reply, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “You’re passing.”
For a moment, I forget everyone else. The crowd is a blur. My world narrows to her—how she glows in the low light, how every laugh or polite answer draws attention.
The men, God, the men stare. Their eyes linger on her curves, her mouth, the way her dress clings to her body. They think I won’t notice. They’re wrong.
When she slips away to the bar, I track her every step, heat rising in my chest. A man—an ally’s son, young and careless—leans too close, saying something that makes her laugh, soft and genuine. She smiles, hair falling over her shoulder, and I see red.
I cross the room in three strides, sliding in beside her so smoothly that the man startles, nearly spilling his drink.
I place a hand at the small of her back, just above the silk, and lean in close enough for only her to hear. “You’re mine, Clara.”
Her eyes widen, lips parting in surprise—then something in her gaze flickers, not with fear, but with heat. “Lukyan!” she begins, half reproach, half breathless.
I turn to the man, cold and polite. “Enjoying the party?”
He nods, backing away with the sharp instincts of a man who’s realized he’s already overstepped.
When he’s gone, Clara looks up at me, a flush rising on her cheeks. “Was that necessary?”
My hand lingers at her back, thumb tracing small, possessive circles. “You have no idea what you do to them.”
She swallows, gaze darting away. “What do I do to you?”
The question hangs between us, electric. I want to answer. God, I want to tell her she wrecks me, that every smile she gives someone else is a knife to my chest, that I’d tear the world apart to keep her looking only at me.
I don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I let my hand drift to her hip, grounding us both.
The rest of the night becomes a blur of touches and tension, of eyes meeting across the room and lingering too long. I guide her through introductions, each handshake and compliment stoking the possessive edge in me.
Every time someone looks at her, I draw her closer; every time she laughs, I want to claim her right there, remind everyone who she belongs to.
She senses it, I know she does. The way her breath catches when my hand finds her waist, the way she leans into my touch when we drift into a quiet corner to escape the press of the crowd. The way she glances up at me when a conversation lulls, as if searching for something she can’t name.
In the garden, beneath strings of golden lights, we find a moment alone. She stands in the shadow of a tall hedge, moonlight on her hair, shoulders bare to the breeze. I move behind her, my hand sliding around her waist, my mouth at her ear.
“You’re dangerous like this,” I murmur. “You make me want things I shouldn’t.”
She turns, eyes shining, lips parted. “Maybe I want them too.”
We don’t kiss. Not here, not yet. But we linger, breath mingling, wanting thrumming between us like a promise.
When we return to the party, it’s as if the rest of the world has faded away. Every glance, every brush of fingers, every loaded silence is charged and intimate. The others talk and laugh, the music swells, but all I hear is her.
At the end of the night, as we wait for the car, she stands by my side, her fingers laced with mine beneath the shadows. She doesn’t pull away when I hold her close, doesn’t flinch when I whisper her name, low and rough.
“You’re mine, Clara. Always.”
She nods, eyes dark with longing and something fierce. “Yours,” she says quietly, the word a spark that lights a fire in my blood.
We ride home in silence, the city lights streaming past, her hand tight in mine.
My greatest battle is right here, in the space between her heart and mine.
The city blurs by in golden smears, headlights reflected in the windows, but all I see is Clara—her dress clinging to her legs, her mouth parted in the low light, her hands restless in her lap.
The tension between us has only sharpened. I can feel it thrumming in my pulse, tight in my chest, heavy in my gut. My knuckles go white on the seat; every time she glances at me, something dark and possessive surges inside me.
She’s quiet, but I catch the way her breath shudders, the way her thighs press together when the car rounds a corner. I want to reach for her, to slide my hand over her bare knee, to claim her right there.
I wait, drawing out the anticipation, letting it grow. I want her to feel it—want her to ache the way I do.
When we arrive at the mansion, Clara slips from the car before the driver can even open the door.
She walks quickly, her steps unsteady, her composure cracking at the seams. She doesn’t look back as she heads for the stairs, but I follow, my gaze fixed on the sway of her hips, the soft fall of her hair down her back.
The house is quiet, empty except for the two of us, the silence heavy with everything we haven’t said.
She turns the corner, but before she can vanish down the hall, I catch her wrist—firm but gentle, anchoring her in place. She stops, tension coiling through her body, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Clara,” I murmur, voice thick with everything I’ve been holding back.
She turns, eyes wide, lips trembling. “Lukyan—”
The kiss breaks everything open. I draw her into me, pressing her back against the cool wall, my mouth finding hers in a slow, desperate collision. It isn’t rough. It isn’t about punishment or power. It’s about need, longing, reverence.
My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks, as I kiss her like I’ve never kissed anyone—slow, deep, savoring the taste of her, the way she opens for me, the small, helpless noises that slip from her throat.
She melts against me, fingers twining in my jacket, nails scraping my chest. I let my hands roam, down her neck, her sides, gripping her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us.
Her body arches into mine, soft and urgent, and I feel her shiver as my mouth trails down her jaw, her throat, the line of her collarbone.
“Lukyan,” she breathes, the word half a gasp, half a prayer.
I find the zipper at the back of her dress and ease it down, my mouth worshipping every inch of skin I reveal. The silk slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her in nothing but lace and heat and the wild thrum of her pulse.
I sink to my knees, hands gripping her thighs as I press my mouth to her stomach, her hip, the soft curve where her leg meets her core. She tangles her hands in my hair, urging me higher, needing more.
I hook my fingers in her panties, sliding them down her legs.
She steps out of them, trembling, baring herself to me without shame.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, savoring the way she shudders, then part her legs and find her with my mouth—slow, deliberate, drawing circles around her clit, tasting her, making her writhe against the wall.
She moans my name, hips rolling, one hand fisted in my hair, the other clutching my shoulder.
I take my time, teasing her to the edge, then back again, until she’s begging, breathless and wild. When she’s trembling, gasping, so close she’s almost sobbing, I rise and lift her into my arms, carrying her to the nearest bedroom.
I lay her on the bed and strip off my jacket, shirt, trousers—every layer until I’m bare for her, cock hard and aching, desperate to be inside her. I climb over her, mouth capturing hers again, hands roaming everywhere, as if I could memorize her with touch alone.
I settle between her thighs, the tip of my cock brushing her entrance, slick and hot. I pause, searching her face, giving her every chance to stop me.
“Tell me what you want,” I whisper.
She looks up at me, eyes shining, and nods. “I don’t care, just fuck me.”
I push inside, slow and deep, her body stretching to take me, hot and tight and perfect. She cries out, nails digging into my back, legs wrapping around my hips.
I set a rhythm, slow at first, savoring the way she gasps, the way her breath hitches every time I thrust deeper.
I fuck her with a hunger that’s been building for weeks—months, maybe years—a need so sharp it borders on pain.
Our bodies move together, finding a rhythm that’s equal parts urgency and relief.
Every time she arches, I meet her, driving in harder, deeper, until she’s moaning, pleading, her body slick with sweat and need.