Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Lucian
“Feed should be ready,” Caleb says.
I grin.
The penthouse hums with the low, steady pulse of the city thirty-eight floors below us.
Sleek lines define every inch of this space we claimed years ago—dark walnut paneling that absorbs light rather than reflects it, leather sofas the color of midnight arranged in precise, masculine angles.
No clutter, no fuss, just clean surfaces and technology woven so seamlessly into the walls that the monitors blend like art until we wake them.
Caleb stands beside me, his shoulder brushing mine in that familiar way that says we are aligned without needing words.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod. I need this. Need it.
He thumbs the remote that pulls up the private feed from Sophie’s apartment.
The image flickers to life on the center screen. Her modest living room is empty, the secondhand sofa with its colorful throw pillows exactly as we left it when we walked out an hour ago.
My pulse kicks once, hard.
She is not in frame. The kitchenette sits quiet, and the small dining nook is untouched.
A flicker of panic races through me.
She should be here, visible, safe under our watch.
Then the faint sound of running water drifts through the hidden speakers, soft and steady, and my shoulders ease.
The bathroom. Of course. No camera there.
We drew that line ourselves, even in the long years of watching from the shadows.
Some privacy remains hers until she is fully ours.
Caleb’s phone that’s on the low console table vibrates. I glance at the screen—Ms. Inamorata. She’s head of ops for Hawkeye Security and the right-hand person to the man himself.
He answers on speaker. “Inamorata. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Mr. Pierce.” Her tone is crisp, efficient, the kind of professional calm that has kept her at the top of her field.
“The team finished at Ms. Langford’s office twenty minutes ago.
New locks were installed, a full camera array is online, and all motion sensors are calibrated.
We swept for anything that might have been left behind by her father’s associates.
The place is clean, but once your marriage is announced, you know she’ll be a target.
” She pauses. “As you requested, she’s being treated as priority one. ”
Caleb and I exchange glances as satisfaction rolls through me.
“Good. Double the perimeter at the penthouse entrance starting tomorrow. She’ll be moving in here as soon as we can arrange.”
“Of course. We have eyes on both locations.”
This is Caleb operating at his best—making threats disappear before they form. Sophie should have always been protected like this.
After ending the call, Caleb glances at me. “He should have kept bastards like us away from her.”
I nod. How perfectly he’s read me.
Movement on her apartment screen captures my attention.
The sight of her beautiful, slender body wrapped in a thick white robe hits me low in the gut, and a slow, heavy throb spreads outward until my fingers flex at my sides.
Part of me aches to tug on her belt and part the lapels as her body is revealed in all its sensual glory.
Trying to keep control, I exhale and focus on her instead of my very fucking dirty thoughts.
Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she’s twisted a towel around her hair. Loose strands have escaped to curl against her neck.
She looks vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I possess surge forward.
I can’t help but notice her sigh or the way her shoulders are rolled forward, as if exhausted from the weight of everything we have set in motion.
Maybe I should feel guilty for invading her privacy like this.
But I don’t.
Instead, I watch intently as she moves through the narrow length of her living room, the robe swaying against her calves.
In the tiny kitchen, she pulls a bottle of cheap red wine from the refrigerator and pours a generous glass.
Resting her hip against the counter, she takes a long drink.
A faint grimace crosses her face at the taste, but she keeps drinking, as if the burn might steady her.
Her phone rings on the counter.
With a sigh, she snatches it up, and I’m able to see Clinic on the screen.
She answers on the second ring, voice steady but threaded with the tension I can hear even through the feed.
“Yes, this is Sophie Langford.” A pause. Her free hand grips the edge of the counter. “The next payment wasn’t due for three weeks. My father said…”
There’s another pause, this time longer.
Caleb and I exchange glances as the color drains from her face.
“Yes.” She closes her eyes. “I understand the next cycle starts soon. I’ll make sure it’s covered. Please, just hold the slot.”
She ends the call and sets the phone down with deliberate care, but she curls even more tightly into herself.
“Fuck.”
Sophie should not have to carry the burden alone. And from this moment on, she won’t have to.
After another drink of wine, she picks up the phone to call her father.
The line rings. Rings.
The bastard doesn’t answer.
The frustration that flashes across her face is brief but vivid—lips pressing thin, eyes narrowing.
Without leaving a message, she stabs the icon to end the call.
After a sharp inhalation, she squares her shoulders and moves to her laptop to login to her bank account.
The screen fills the feed, and the bottom-line number is stark.
Far too low for the bills she is juggling. Her breath catches, audible even here, and the microthought crosses her face clear as day: how much longer can she stretch this before something breaks?
Caleb and I exchange a look. His jaw tightens, the predatory edge of him surfacing. I nod once, decisive.
“On it.”
He walks away toward the secondary office, already dialing his phone.
I hear the faint click of keys as he begins rerouting funds. She will not know it came from us until we decide to inform her.
Once more, Sophie dials.
When the call connects to her mother, Sophie’s entire demeanor shifts.
The exhaustion becomes warmth. Her voice is soft as she leans back against the sofa cushions. “How are you feeling?” She listens, a small smile curving her lips despite everything.
Then she looks at the ceiling. “Yes. Dad looked so handsome. I’ll send you pictures. I even took a video.”
How does she do this?
Protecting her father even now.
“You’d be so proud of him. He even got to shake hands with the mayor.”
Caleb returns, and I know he’s cataloging the fact she doesn’t mention us, her father’s outrageous gamble that cost her everything, or the fact there’s no money for the upcoming treatment.
Instead, she keeps her tone light, and I can’t mistake the fierce love for her mother that’s woven through every syllable. “I’ll come to see you soon. Promise.”
She clutches her lapels, as if to protect herself from her lies.
I rock onto the balls of my feet. “We’ve got you.
I promise.” The words settle deep in my chest, solid as the city lights beyond the glass.
She will visit her mother whenever she wants, in comfort, with every treatment secured and every worry lifted from her shoulders.
That is part of what it means to be ours.
After ending the call, she drops the phone.
Then a minute later, she heads to her room.
On the bed, she pulls her knees close to her chest, then drops her head onto them. The towel around her head slips, allowing damp strands of hair to spill across her shoulders.
Her posture is pure vulnerability—small, curled in on herself, the weight of reality pressing her down.
My hand twitches with the need to reach through the screen, to pull her against me, to replace that cheap robe with the silk we will wrap her in soon. Instead, I watch, cataloging every rise and fall of her breath, the way her fingers tighten around her shins.
Enough.
I snap the feed off with a decisive press of the button. The screen goes dark, and the study feels suddenly quieter, the city hum more distant.
Moments later, Caleb enters.
His solid, reassuring presence fills the space beside me. “Transfers are live, and the clinic confirmed receipt.”
“Fucking Langford.” The words leave me on a low exhale, laced with the frustration that has built for months. She should not be in this position—alone in that modest apartment, carrying the weight of her mother’s illness and her father’s failures on her slender shoulders.
Then again, if he wasn’t a bastard, we might not be claiming Sophie as ours.
Caleb’s hand lands on my shoulder, brief and grounding. Without him in my life, I would not be this successful. “It won’t be long.”
“Yeah.” I let the word settle, then shift my thoughts deliberately to something warmer, something that eases the tension in my chest.
I prefer to remember her as she was at the event, in my arms on the dance floor. The way her body fit against mine—curves yielding yet resistant, the heat of her palm in mine.
We moved together seamlessly, her steps mirroring mine without conscious effort, as if some part of her already recognized the rhythm we would build between us.
She smelled of jasmine and something uniquely hers—warm skin, a faint trace of shampoo. The gown had clung to her hips when she turned, outlining the flare that my hands itched to map properly.
Tonight confirmed what I’ve always known: she will fit between Caleb and me like she was designed for it.
“Great work tonight,” Caleb muses.
“From both of us.” The culmination of our relentless focus.
I head for the master bathroom, already shedding my tuxedo jacket, then the shirt, letting the fabric fall to the floor. The shower stall is oversized, black marble veined with silver.
I turn the water hot, step under the spray, and let it pound against my shoulders. Steam rises fast, filling the space with heat that sinks into my muscles. My mind drifts back to her—always back to her.
The memory from the Reserve surfaces unbidden.
But this time, I imagine her there with us, her wrists bound in soft rope above her head, body arched, the same fire in her green eyes turning molten as Caleb and I circle her.
Then I picture her on her knees between us, skin flushed the same pink it wore tonight after her bath. My cock hardens instantly under the spray, heavy and aching. I wrap my hand around the length, grip firm, and stroke once, slowly, letting the water slick the way.
Thoughts tumble through my mind vividly, relentlessly.
Then I fast forward to our wedding night when we will claim her for the first time. I see her in white, veil tossed aside, body trembling as we strip her bare in this very penthouse.
We’ll spread her on our bed, Caleb’s mouth on her cunt while I take her mouth. Her thighs will tremble on his shoulders, and the little, broken sounds she’ll make when pleasure finally overrides everything else will be our sweetest victory.
I stroke faster, sweeping my thumb over my cockhead, spreading the bead of precum that mixes with the water.
And then…
I’ll slip my fingers inside her virgin-tight pussy.
Fuck.
The thought of her full and claimed, ours, sends heat spiraling tighter at the base of my spine.
I brace one hand on the cool marble tiles, forehead dropping against my forearm, water cascading down my back.
My fist pumps harder now, rhythm urgent, balls drawing up tight.
“Sophie,” I mutter under the roar of the water, the name raw on my tongue.
The orgasm builds fast, unstoppable, pleasure coiling vicious and undeniable.
I jerk my hips once, twice, and then I come hard—thick ropes of hot cum pulsing over my knuckles, dripping from the head of my cock to swirl down the drain.
The release leaves me shuddering, breath ragged, every muscle locked and then easing in the aftermath.
I stay braced there, water still pounding, chest heaving. Even if I married her tomorrow, it would not be soon enough. The thought settles deep, a vow and a hunger all at once. She is already ours. The rest is simply time closing the final distance.
That month I gave her?
That was generous.
No fucking way am I waiting that long…