Chapter 13 – Calista
It’s been a week since Riven died, and I swear if I watch one more rerun of a crime show, I might actually throw the TV out the window. The estate is way too quiet—like a mausoleum with too much gold and not enough life. I’m curled up in my suite, wearing a silk robe and half-watching Die Hard, but mostly just staring at the ceiling. Even the dramatic explosions can’t distract me from the gnawing boredom.
I hate it, but I miss him.
Not in the romantic, swoon-worthy way. God, no. But Lazaro’s presence—his intensity, his constant looming energy—it’s like a gravitational pull. And now that he’s been locked in meetings and offices, I feel his absence.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I toss the remote across the couch, get up, and storm out of my suite. My footsteps echo down the marble corridor as I make my way toward Lazaro’s office. The penthouse feels colder, emptier with every step—too many chandeliers, not enough warmth. I go down the grand staircase, nod slightly at a guard stationed near the hall, and keep going. I don’t knock. I never do anymore.
He’s behind his desk, hunched over a stack of files, pen tapping against the paper like a ticking bomb. He looks like hell—dark circles under his eyes, tousled hair, and that black shirt clinging to him like it hasn’t been changed in a while. Still, somehow, he makes exhaustion look like a designer suit. Infuriatingly hot.
"I assume you’re not here to complain about the TV channels again," he says without looking up.
"No," I reply, arms crossed. "I want to help."
That gets his attention. He lifts his gaze slowly, eyes sharp. "Help? This isn’t a family bakery, Calla."
I roll my eyes. "I’m serious. You said it yourself—I’m not a pawn. Prove it. Put me to work."
He leans back in his chair, clearly amused. "So go find a better Netflix series."
"I’m bored out of my mind," I snap. "I’m capable, and you know it."
He studies me, eyes travelling down then back up. "And what exactly do you think you’ll be helping with?"
I take a step closer, planting my hands on his desk. "You said trust is earned. Well, I’ve been here long enough. Test me."
"And if I say no?"
I smile sweetly. "Then I’ll just keep showing up until you say yes."
His mouth twitches, almost a smirk. Almost.
"You’re not gonna give up, are you?"
"Even the person closest to you betrayed you," I say softly. "So what’s one more risk?"
His eyes narrow, glinting with intrigue. "Dangerous logic. But fine."
He sighs and tosses the pen onto the desk. "You mess anything up, you go back to reruns and silk robes."
"I'm already in a silk robe," I say, grinning.
He rolls his eyes and spins his laptop toward me. "Start with the inbox. You’ll read everything first. You’ll ask before you move a finger."
I go to sit beside him, but before I can settle into the chair, he grabs my wrist and tugs me gently—yet firmly—onto his lap instead. I let out a surprised breath, eyebrows shooting up. "Seriously?"
"It's my office," he says simply, as if that explains everything. His arm wraps casually around my waist, fingers resting just under my ribs, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every inch of my body touching his.
I shift slightly, trying to focus, but it’s impossible to ignore how warm his body feels beneath mine—or how steady his heartbeat is against my back. His scent surrounds me, that mix of expensive cologne and danger. It should annoy me. Make me want to snap a sarcastic comment. But all I manage is a sharp inhale as I reach for the laptop.
"Comfortable?" he murmurs near my ear, voice low and teasing.
"Hardly," I mutter, fingers poised over the keyboard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering me further. But the leather chair is nothing compared to the fire brewing within me- and the proximity between us is what sends the real tremor through me.
We begin reviewing coded emails—shipments logged under aliases, encrypted names that reference locations in code, and upcoming dock arrivals tagged with suspiciously vague timestamps.
Lazaro leans closer, pointing at a pattern in the routing codes, his finger brushing mine as he explains, "This one here? It’s a decoy drop. Real cargo shifts two hours before." I nod, following his cues, clicking through spreadsheets and manifests while he adds, "If they use 'Crimson Tide' as a reference, it’s usually weapons—not textiles like they claim." His voice is calm, but there's steel beneath the words.
My eyes flick from line to line, and I pick up the threads quickly, recognizing inconsistencies others might miss. Lazaro watches me work in silence, nodding occasionally, his arm still snug around my waist. I can feel the heat of his body through the silk of my robe, the thin fabric barely shielding my skin, especially where it ends at my upper thighs. Every subtle movement reminds me of just how close we are—too close. I can feel his gaze every time I move the mouse—and I hate how aware I am of it.
Eventually, he leans in, hand brushing my lower back, fingers lingering.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs near my ear, voice low and laced with heat.
A shiver dances down my spine, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “Told you,” I say, trying to sound composed, but my voice already betrays me—just slightly breathless.
His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the soft skin of my inner thigh beneath the robe, slow and careful, like he’s savoring every inch. My breath catches. I tense, pulse jumping wildly in my throat. Then he does it—his fingers tug at the silk belt, and the robe slips apart, falling open like it knows exactly what’s coming.
I’m bare underneath. No bra. No panties. Just me—exposed to the cool air and the inferno in his stare.
One of his hands drifts upward, lightly tracing the curve of my breast. His thumb traces the shape of my breasts and slowly reach my nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before pinching it between his fingers. I gasp—sharp, raw, unable to stop myself. My breasts aches beneath his touch.
The other hand glides back down, grazing my thigh, teasing the skin just shy of where I need him. My whole body leans into him like it’s not mine anymore, like it belongs to him and only him.
“You need to focus,” he says, voice dark and thick, though his smirk tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Maybe I will. If you stop distracting me,” I breathe, already trembling.
His response is a low, dangerous chuckle.
Then his fingers dip between my thighs—no underwear to stop him, no barrier between his touch and the soaked heat he finds. He parts me with practiced ease, and when he slides a single thick finger inside, it’s unhurried, the stretch immediate and impossible to ignore. My gasp bursts out before I can catch it—sharp and loud, my head falling back as my hips twitch forward.
He chuckles darkly, voice thick and full of want. “So fucking wet,” he groans, thrusting shallowly. “Dripping for me already. You needy little thing.”
I feel filthy and feral and absolutely helpless to the way his touch owns every nerve in my body. His thumb finds my clit, circling with maddening pressure, the contrast of slow strokes inside me and tight rhythm outside sending my nerves into a tailspin.
“I should be fucking embarrassed,” I whisper, my face hot with the thought of how exposed I am, sitting in his lap with my robe pooled around my hips and his fingers inside me.
But I’m not. I’m fucking thrilled.
“No,” he murmurs. “You look perfect like this. Desperate. Open.”
His second finger joins the first, and I bite my lip hard, breath punching out of me as he begins to move them in slow, relentless strokes.
“You like when I do this, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “When I fuck you with my fingers until you forget your own name.”
I hesitate at first, lips parting but no sound coming. Pride tries to hold the words back, but the way he moves inside me—precise, deep, devastating—makes it impossible to keep pretending. My body arches into his touch, surrendering piece by piece.
“Fuck… Lazaro…” I gasp, barely able to hold it in anymore. My resistance crumbles, and the truth spills out in a ragged breath. “God, yes.”
My hips grind into his palm, chasing the pressure, desperate for more now that I’ve given in.
He shifts slightly, angling his hand just right, and my back arches off his chest as he hits that spot inside me.
“Right there—fuck, don’t stop—”
He groans into my neck, his free hand sliding up my body, palming my breast again, fingers toying with my nipple while his mouth finds the spot beneath my ear.
“You’re so fucking tight around my fingers,” he whispers. “Bet you’d feel even better around my cock.”
“Then why the fuck are you still teasing?” I pant, clawing at his wrist.
His laugh is low and filthy.
"Not yet, Calla. That’s for another time. Right now, I just want to watch you fall apart on my fingers—feel you soaking me, shaking for me. Come on, show me how desperate you are."
His pace quickens, the wet, obscene sound of his fingers moving inside me filling the room, mixing with the sharp gasp that escapes me. I can’t stop grinding against him—against his palm, his thigh, everything. I know I’m seconds from coming apart.
“Don’t be loud,” he growls against my throat, hand suddenly clamping over my mouth. “Anyone could hear how filthy you are.”
I whimper against his palm as my body curls inward, thighs trembling, core clenching around his fingers. He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop until I fall apart.
“Come on,” he urges, voice low and rough. “Soak my fingers. Let me feel how bad you want it.”
That’s all it takes.
My orgasm slams into me like a freight train. My hips jerk, my body goes rigid, and I cry out against his hand—muffled, breathless—as I come all over his fingers. The pleasure rolls through me in overwhelming, relentless waves, and I shake in his lap, thighs clenched tight, heartbeat thundering.
He keeps me there, holding me through every aftershock, fingers still inside me, coaxing every last drop of release from my trembling body.
When I finally go limp against him, boneless and dazed, he pulls his fingers out slowly. They glisten with proof of what he’s done to me. What I let him do.
He holds them up like he’s admiring them. Then he brings them to his mouth, sucking one clean, eyes locked on mine the entire time.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he mutters.
My breath catches, heat flaring all over again.
He reaches for a tissue and cleans his hand, slow, unhurried, cocky as hell.
And I’m still in his lap, heart pounding, thighs wet and shaking, completely and utterly ruined.
Then he leans in, voice low and gravelly against my ear. “You can be such a good girl when you want to be.”
My cheeks burn, and my chest tightens. I want to say something smart, something cutting, but my voice won’t cooperate. So I just nod slightly, pulling my robe closed and fastening the belt with trembling fingers, still feeling the echo of his touch between my thighs. This can't go on. This needs to stop.
"Same time tomorrow. Be in my office. On time."
I raise a brow, lips curving. "Anything else, boss?"
He smirks, eyes lingering on me. "Yeah. Dress appropriately. We’re going to the docks in Veldenport tomorrow."
I arch an eyebrow. "What? You want me in a pantsuit and pearls now?"
"Just not a robe," he says dryly. "And preferably something that doesn’t turn the hallway into a damn staring contest."
I snort. "Tough luck. I'm still wearing boots."
"Fair enough," he mutters, already turning back to his laptop, but there’s a glint in his eyes—an unspoken force between us.
I walk out with a half-smile tugging at my lips. It’s strange—how quickly power can start to feel like purpose. And now I’m not just some pawn playing pretend in silk and shadows.
I’m in this world now. On purpose.
Because if I want to tear down the man who sold me off like property—my own uncle—I need more than anger. I need control. Knowledge. Strategy.
I need to learn how the monsters move, so I can outdance every single one of them.
And then I’ll burn their world to ash, one piece at a time.