Chapter 11 – Elara
I sit alone on the edge of the bed in our suite—though the word tastes foreign, wrong, in my mouth. My wedding dress still clings to me, heavy with lace and heat, and my heart feels torn somewhere between fury and exhaustion.
Luka had insisted I come here after the wedding, saying it was the “tradition” and that Roman would expect it. I’d wanted to argue, but something about Luka’s tone made it clear that arguing wouldn’t change a damn thing. So now I’m here, sitting like a doll waiting for the scene to play out.
Vivian left a few hours ago for a hotel—her flight to Paris is at dawn.
She didn’t want to go, not tonight, but I made her.
The others—Jennie, Sasha, Zoe, Violet—had all tried to cheer me up before leaving, each sharing a small piece of their story, their version of how they’d found something like happiness here.
I’d smiled. I’d even laughed once or twice. But I didn’t see myself in their stories.
I don’t see myself ever submitting to Roman Rusnak, or feeling anything remotely tender for him.
I don’t like him.
That’s it.
The clock ticks somewhere in the corner, steady and merciless, and the longer I sit, the more my chest tightens. Every creak of the floorboards outside makes me jolt, wondering if he’s coming. Wondering what he’ll do.
The night feels endless—and I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of his footsteps approaching…or of how much I expect them to.
I tell myself I won’t let him touch me.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
He might have forced a ring on my finger, but he won’t claim my body just because he can. I swear it over and over again in my head, like a prayer—or maybe a curse.
Then the door opens.
I freeze.
Roman steps inside, silent, steady, his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat. The sight of him hits me like a storm—sharp, dark, controlled. He doesn’t say a word at first, just studies me from across the room, his gaze burning with something I can’t name.
Then he moves.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He circles me like a predator gauging the right angle of attack, his boots soft against the carpet. My pulse jumps, and I hate that he can probably hear it.
He stops behind me, so close I can feel the heat of his breath ghosting over my neck.
“Get used to it,” he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous. “You belong to me now.”
Every nerve in my body goes taut. I turn sharply to face him, forcing steel into my spine even though my hands tremble.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I whisper.
Roman’s lips twitch—half-smirk, half-warning. He tilts his head, eyes glinting under the dim light. “We’ll see.”
The tension between us thickens, electric and suffocating. I should move. I should run. But my body betrays me, rooted to the spot, trembling with anger and something I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge.
I snap. The word is ugly, desperate, and meant to repel. “I’m a virgin.” I clench my teeth, throwing the truth in his face as if it’s a shield, a mark of impurity he wouldn’t dare touch. “You wouldn’t want me anyway.”
A dark smirk breaks across Roman’s mouth, a cold, indifferent gesture that makes my blood run cold. It’s the look of a man who has just been given a pointless piece of information.
“I know.”
The casualness of the reply is a violent blow. It drops the air right out of my lungs.
“What?”
“I know everything about you, Elara Chang,” he continues, his voice a low, gravelly counterpoint to the ticking clock. He steps closer, closing the last few inches between us. “Your habits. The precise route you drive to work each day. Your history. Your secrets.”
He lifts a hand and gently touches the sharp curve of my jaw. The sheer humiliation of being so thoroughly studied, so known without my consent, is worse than the kidnapping.
“You have no secrets from me,” he murmurs. “Only things I haven’t yet decided to tell you.”
Furious that he has pried so deeply into my life, furious at the soft invasion of his touch, I shove at his chest with both hands. “Get away from me, you monster!”
He doesn’t budge. My resistance feels like batting against granite. Instead of using his strength to hold me, he uses it to strip away my defenses. His touch changes. The cold, assessing quality disappears, replaced by a devastating, deliberate tenderness.
He reaches for the thick lace bodice of my wedding gown, his thumbs tracing the fabric that covers my collarbones. His eyes, fixed on mine, are no longer rifle sights, but deep, smoky pools of something complex and unsettling.
“I’m not here to taunt you,” he says, his voice losing its edge, becoming rough, almost coaxing. “I’m here to claim what is mine.”
His fingers find the small silk buttons lining the back of the dress. Slowly, methodically, he begins to undo them, the sound of the fabric parting a quiet, intimate violation in the silence.
His gaze never leaves my face, compelling me to watch his intent. He is offering me a strange, horrific choice: to fight him physically, or to submit to this careful, terrifying seduction.
Shame and power scramble inside me, and my frantic defiance begins to bleed into a confused, agonizing heat. He is using tenderness as a weapon, and it is working.
He works the last of the buttons free and then, with a swift, predatory movement, he hooks his hands beneath the heavy layers of lace and silk. He lifts me slightly, easily, and the wedding gown slides down my body, pooling on the carpet like a discarded shell.
The sudden cold air on my skin forces a gasp. I look down, shocked into stillness. I’m naked before him. By the time I realize my vulnerability, he’s already claimed my lips.
His mouth is hard, hot, and utterly relentless. There’s no coaxing here, only command. The kiss is a violation and a promise, driving out the last reserves of my hatred. The soft, seductive touch is gone, replaced by a raw, demanding hunger that I find—to my horror—I’m starving for.
My carefully built walls collapse. My body melts into him so easily it infuriates me, yet I can’t stop.
I latch onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, my hands trembling against the hard planes of his back.
He kisses with abandon, not seeking my permission, but taking my surrender. It tastes of fire and sin.
He deepens the kiss, using his body to pin me against the desk, my dress still in a puddle at my feet.
The metallic scent of his cologne, the sharp musk of his skin—it all floods my senses, cutting off every thought but the urgent, desperate need to be closer.
Our hate burns into a wild, consuming passion, leaving me boneless and trembling beneath him.
He pulls back, his hazel eyes dark and narrowed, tracking the shift in my composure. He doesn’t need to ask a thing; he can feel my answer in the frantic rhythm of my heart beneath his palm.
“Mine,” he breathes against my mouth, a single, violent vow.
He pushes me further onto the bed, never breaking contact.
The sheets are cool against my heated skin, but Roman is fire—a consuming, brutal heat that chases away all the coldness of the world.
He makes no move to take off his own clothes, the dark material of his shirt an additional, hard boundary against my exposed skin.
I’m too consumed by my own desperate, shocking need to even register the unfairness of it.
His hands leave my face and move lower, touching me everywhere.
He shifts his weight, pressing me deep into the mattress, and then, with a surprising yet soft precision, he parts my legs.
My mind screams No, but my body arches upward, desperate for contact, desperate for him to finish what he started.
He settles his hand between my thighs, touching my clit with a finger, and I whimper, the sound stolen from my lungs. I beg, silently at first, then I choke out his name, a desperate sound that holds surrender: “Roman….”
He stops. His breath hitches, the sound rough. “You’re mine.” He lowers his head to claim my lips again, his eyes dark, merciless. “Say it.”
The surrender tastes like ash and honey on my tongue, but I give it to him. “I’m yours.”
“Fuck.”
He drags his lips away from mine and begins kissing down my neck.
He captures a nipple in his mouth, the unexpected heat and suction tearing another gasp from my throat.
He sucks and licks and teases with his tongue, a primal, consuming intimacy that steals my air and my sense of self.
I’m a mess beneath him, trembling, overheated, and utterly consumed by the terrifying man who owns me.
He shifts his attention, moving to my other nipple and giving it the same brutal, pleasure-inflicting treatment, all while his finger works magic on my clit.
I feel like I’m on fire. I’ve never been pleasured like this before.
Yeah, I’ve fooled around, inexperienced attempts that barely registered, but this—Roman is a real man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
He knows where to touch, how to pressure, and how to use my body’s response to fuel his control.
He pops my nipple out of his mouth, leaving the skin hot and damp, and begins kissing a searing trail down my stomach, stabbing his tongue into my belly button. I writhe, desperate and exposed. He holds my legs up and spreads them far apart, opening me up completely to his merciless gaze.
Before I can adjust to the shocking vulnerability, his head descends. His mouth covers my pussy.
I scream. It’s loud, a raw, uninhibited sound I’m afraid the entire mansion will hear. The pleasure is too sharp, too immediate, too much, and it breaks through all my carefully constructed silence.