Chapter 51 Zara
The echo of footsteps fades down the hall, the weight of the meeting trailing after them like a shadow. The door clicks shut, and the silence that settles isn’t relief—it’s aftermath. My pulse still drums a steady war beat in my throat, even though the battlefield is empty now.
I let my shoulders relax, the rigid posture I held finally cracking. My spine protests, stiff from the strain of sitting straight for so long, and the ache in my jaw reminds me just how hard I’ve clenched it.
Lars shifts beside me, dragging a hand across his face before stretching his neck until it pops.
The sound breaks the quiet. “You know,” he says, eyes cutting toward me, “I’ve sat through more Syndicate meetings than I can count.
And I’ve never seen half of those bastards look that focused.
” His tone isn’t light, not teasing. It’s weighty, bare.
“You ran it like you’ve been doing this your whole life. ”
The words catch deeper than I expect. Not because I need the praise—Enzo pours that over me like it’s his second language—but because it’s Lars.
Enzo’s closest ally. For a man who’s bled beside him, who sits at the center of this empire, to look at me and see something worthy…
it roots in a place I didn’t even know was still raw.
His voice softens. “I’m proud of you, Zara.”
My throat goes tight.
And then Enzo cuts through, his grin sliding into view from the edge of my vision, smug and molten and entirely him. “She’s fucking brilliant,” he says, his pride a rasp against my skin. “Of course you’re proud.”
Lars offers a lazy salute with two fingers, already backing toward the door. “I’ll leave you two to…celebrate. Or strategize. Or whatever it is you Marchettis are calling foreplay these days.”
He leaves, and instantly the air changes.
Enzo leans forward, palms braced on the edge of the table, caging me in.
The same table where we just orchestrated Lachlan’s destruction now waits for something more primal, something that belongs only to us.
My pulse spikes, and I can feel it echo in every part of me—throne, altar, battlefield. All of it.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, voice deep and soft. “You were so brave.”
Heat sparks under my skin when his fingers brush my shoulder, trailing down like fire leaving its mark. Possession without chains.
Then his mouth dips closer, breath teasing across the shell of my ear. “Tell me,” he whispers, sin wrapped in silk, “how do you want your king to make you come?”
The words coil around me, pulling tight, making it hard to breathe. My body is already wound like a bowstring, trembling with expectation.
His tone sharpens, a dark edge beneath the velvet. “Because right now, I want to wreck my queen.”
The words hit like a live wire, fire shooting straight through my core. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, a desperate attempt to contain the ache building inside me, sharp and insistent.
“Right here?” The question comes out hushed, ragged, as if my lungs are too full of him to manage more.
He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give me even a moment to reconsider. “Right here,” he growls, his mouth grazing my jaw, his stubble scraping a line of possession across my skin. “Where you took control. I want your moans echoing off these walls. I want this table to remember you.”
The way he says it—like the room itself will be branded with us—sets fire to my belly. My skin tingles, every nerve sparking, my pulse pounding like a war drum ready to march me straight into surrender.
Enzo moves, fast and commanding. One hand grips my wrist as the other hooks my waist, dragging me to my feet and crushing his mouth against mine.
There’s no soft prelude, no mercy. Just hunger—feral, claiming, undeniable.
His tongue tangles with mine, his teeth nip, and I’m left gasping into him, clinging like oxygen.
Then I’m lifted, set on the edge of the table.
The same table where I just wielded my power is now about to hold me while he worships and ruins me in equal measure.
My skirt is shoved up without ceremony, the fabric gathering high on my hips.
His fingers hook beneath the lace of my panties, and I lift my hips, allowing him to drag them down slowly until they slide off my ankles and fall forgotten to the floor.
His eyes burn up at me, no disguise left in them—just hunger, reverence, obsession.
A curse slips from his lips, rough and reverent all at once.
“You’re dripping for me,” he mutters, thumb grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
His gaze cuts back up to mine, sharp as a vow.
“God, I fucking love how your body begs before your mouth ever does.”
Then he finds me with a single stroke, tracing down my seam, circling my clit with maddening precision. A jolt rips through me, hips jerking forward against his touch, shameless in my need.
He drops to his knees in front of me like I’m an altar and he’s my most devoted disciple. My legs are pushed wider, his hands strong as they hold me open for him—then his mouth claims me.
He devours me like nothing in this world could satisfy him but the taste of me.
His tongue flicks, circles, plunges, each stroke rougher, hungrier than the last. He groans into my pussy like it’s his favorite meal, the sound vibrating through me.
My fingers dig into his hair, anchoring myself as wave after wave of sensation breaks against me.
Every moan I let slip only seems to drive him harder.
His grip on my thighs is bruising, the kind of hold that says he’ll keep me grounded while he tears me apart piece by piece.
My breath stutters in ragged bursts, my body trembling on the knife’s edge of release.
Then his voice—rough, dark, commanding—rumbles from between my thighs.
“Come for me,” he growls, lips slick with me. “I want your legs shaking when I fuck you.”
The orgasm creeps in slowly, until I’m overtaken—pure white heat ripping me apart. My head falls back, a cry spilling from my lips as I shatter for him, undone completely. He doesn’t let up until I’m trembling in his grip, wrecked, exactly as my king intended.
The rasp of his zipper cuts through the silence. He frees his cock, already thick and swollen, the silver barbells at the tip glinting like a promise of ecstasy. He strokes himself once, then again, rougher, as if restraint is already slipping through his fingers.
When his gaze finds mine, it’s molten. His hands clamp on my hips, dragging me forward until I’m balanced on the very edge of the war table, caught in the path of the ruin he’s about to deliver.
“I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns, voice ragged, frayed at the edges. “I’ve got one goal right now—and it’s to fuck my queen until she can’t speak. Until you can’t walk.”
He slams into me in one brutal thrust, stealing every ounce of air from my lungs. My head tips back with a cry as my body stretches around him, forced wide, claimed by every thick, merciless inch of the man who already owns me.
“Do you feel that?” he groans against my throat, his voice breaking on the word. “That’s what you do to me. You can command a room full of killers—and then unravel for me like this. Only for me.”
My nails carve into the muscles of his back, my legs locking around his waist, taking him deeper, clinging to him.
Each thrust drives harder, sharper, his hips a relentless force that pins me to the table.
His hand drops between us, fingers finding my clit, making soft circles until sparks explode behind my eyes.
“Fuck I hope you get pregnant right here,” he growls, dirty and reverent all at once. “Right where you crowned yourself my queen. Mark your body where you marked your place at my side.”
“Enzo—oh my God—” My voice breaks, high and raw.
His hand clamps the back of my neck, forcing my gaze to his through the haze of pleasure. His eyes are molten, demanding, absolute. “Eyes on me, Angel,” he snarls. “You come when I tell you. Not a second before.”
“Enzo—please—let me come,” I gasp, shaking in his hold, pleasure coiled so tight I could break.
“No,” he rasps. “Not yet. You’ll come with me.”
I whimper, clinging to him, my body trembling under the demand as he pounds into me with devastating force. The denial is agony, my release strangled in my chest as he drives me closer, over and over, keeping me pinned on the knife’s edge.
Then his thrusts turn jagged, desperate, his control slipping as a guttural growl rips from his chest. His hips slam forward one last brutal time, burying him to the hilt, spilling deep. His voice breaks as he finally gives the command I’ve been dying for.
“Now, Angel. Come.”
The permission grants me relief. I scream as I splinter around him, clenching tight as he floods me, both of us shaking, undone, ruined in the way only we can do to each other.
We stay tangled—sweat-slicked, trembling, still caught in the aftershocks of ruin and worship. His lips brush mine, his voice shredded but reverent.
"Every scar, every sin, every breath I’ve ever taken—you own them now. There’s not a piece of me that isn’t yours."
The words sink into me, raw and unshakable, as his forehead rests against mine. My fingers thread through his damp hair, grounding us both, pulling him closer even when he’s already inside my heart.
My voice is soft but certain, a vow carved from everything we’ve survived. “And I promise to hold you safe. Always, my King.”
The Marchetti estate kitchen is an expansive space, but somehow still holds the warmth of family.
Lars is barefoot in front of the oversized gas range, wielding a wooden spoon, his expression pure focus.
Violette lounges nearby with her martini, perched like a queen on a velvet stool, shoes long forgotten on the tiled floor.
And Enzo? He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold.