Chapter 15 – Elara
I don’t know what comes over me.
One moment, I’m staring up at him—furious, breathless, my heart pounding like a war drum—and the next, I’m kissing him. Soft, at first. Then hard. Desperate. Like I’ve been holding my breath since the night he took me, and only now can breathe again.
His hands grip my waist, firm, possessive, and something inside me shatters. Since that first night, I’ve done nothing but think about him—his touch, his voice, his control. The way he makes me feel things I swore I’d never feel for a man like him.
I pull back just enough to whisper against his mouth, “I need you.”
Roman’s eyes darken, his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move. It’s like he’s fighting himself, holding back that dangerous side of him that always hovers just beneath the surface.
“Elara…” he warns, low and rough.
But I shake my head. “Don’t stop me.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he lets out a low, rough growl that vibrates deep in his chest. It’s a sound of surrender—not to me, but to the overwhelming need I've just confessed.
He pulls me off the wall, lifting me as if I weigh nothing at all—like a doll—and takes two swift strides to a small table in the corner.
He places me on top of the hard, cool surface.
The edge of the table presses into the back of my thighs. My silk dress bunches around my waist, and my legs dangle, exposed and vulnerable. This position—high up, laid out—is pure, physical dominance. He is claiming me in this temporary, borrowed space, making it his.
His hands frame my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. His hazel eyes are black with consuming need, and the restraint he showed moments ago is entirely gone. He leans in, his body crowding mine against the table.
“You should not have said that, printsessa,” he mutters against my lips, his voice thick with a deadly kind of satisfaction. “Now I can’t let you go.”
He shifts his hips, pressing his hardness against the slick core he knows he controls. The contact is electric, sharp, and immediate. I arch my back, desperate and ashamed, reaching for the buckle of his belt.
The hatred is lost. All that remains is the dark, terrifying compulsion to obey the only man who has ever made me feel safe and utterly alive.
Suddenly, he pushes my legs apart, and my dress slides open, leaving me fully exposed. I gasp, preparing for the intense friction of his body against mine, but he doesn’t climb up. Instead, he drops to his knees on the carpet beneath me.
His face is inches from my core. I can't breathe. My hands fly up, gripping the edge of the table, ready to shove him away, but his powerful gaze, fixed on my eyes, holds me captive.
Then, his mouth is on me.
The shock is immense. He eats me out right there, consuming me with a focused, savage hunger that steals my breath and my thoughts.
It’s beyond brutal, beyond tenderness—it is possession in its purest, most desperate form.
I scream, silent this time, pressing my knuckles white against the mahogany.
Every muscle in my body tightens and bows against the force of his tongue.
My climax hits hard, a shocking, desperate wave that makes me sob.
He pulls back, his mouth wet, his eyes blazing with a dark victory. He doesn’t waste a second. He works his belt, and then, he is hovering above me, massive and ready.
He spreads my legs with a push of his hips, aligns his rigid length to my core, and then plunges inside, pushing his cock deep, fast, and hard. I cry out against the impact, but it’s quickly drowned out by the intense, grinding pleasure.
He moves with a furious, primal rhythm, fucking me raw against the table. He’s utterly lost in his need, and I’m lost in the overwhelming ecstasy of being claimed like this. The world outside this small room, outside the desperate contact of our bodies, ceases to exist.
I look up at the ceiling, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes, and my heart swells with a terrifying, absolute truth: I’ve never been more elated.
This violence, this control, this fierce, consuming hunger—it’s the only thing that makes me feel safe.
I wrap my legs around his waist, begging him not to stop, not ever.
We climax together, a brutal, synchronized crash that leaves us both shuddering and breathless.
I slide from the table, my legs shaky and weak, the sudden movement causing the silk to fall around me. My cheeks are burning with the sudden, cold return of shame. We’ve just had sex—raw, demanding, exposed sex—in someone else’s house. In a guest room. The sheer recklessness of it is humiliating.
I adjust the dress, pulling the silk tight, desperate to cover the marks he left on my skin. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Without waiting for him, I stumble toward the door and open it.
I leave him standing there, massive and panting, while I make my escape.
The rest of the party passes in a blur. I hardly see Roman until it’s time to leave. The drive home is silent; I stare out the window while he scrolls through his phone, his frown illuminated by the screen’s glow.
As it’s been since the wedding, we share a bed.
There’s a wide gulf between us, even though only hours ago we were tangled together like we were trying to destroy each other.
Now, he stays on his end of the bed. I stay on mine, pretending not to notice how awake I still am, how every toss and turn makes me more aware of him.
When sleep finally comes, it’s restless.
I dream of cages and grasping hands—reaching, pulling, taking. I wake with a start, heart pounding, only to find Roman’s arm heavy around my waist. His grip is protective, possessive, like even in his sleep, he can feel my fear and refuses to let it near me.
For a long moment, I lie still, listening to his steady breathing. Then, slowly, I relax into him.
And this time, when sleep comes back for me, it’s gentle.
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. Roman’s already dressed, standing by the mirror, straightening his cufflinks like he hasn’t just spent the night holding me like I was something precious.
I push myself up, the sheet falling around my waist. “Roman. I don’t want to be used as a pawn between you and my father,” I say, my voice still thick with sleep but firm.
He turns, surprised to see me awake, but confused by my words. “What?”
“I don’t want to be used as a pawn between you and my father. I refuse to let you turn my life into another one of your wars, Roman.”
He stills. For a moment, he doesn’t even breathe. Then he shakes his head at me, eyes burning like slow fire.
“You already are,” he says quietly. “But you’re also my wife now. And that makes you untouchable to everyone but me.”
My heart lurches. “But you?”
“Yes.” His gaze hardens. “Only I reserve the right to touch you.”
He starts to walk away, his tone turning brisk, detached. “We’re going somewhere later. Be ready by four.”
Then he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him—leaving me alone with his words echoing in the air like a warning I can’t unhear.
By four on the dot, he comes for me. He’s dressed in black, of course. It’s his uniform. Always tailored, severe, commanding. The same color as the dress he sent up this morning. I’d cursed under my breath when I saw it lying on the bed, a note pinned to the fabric in his slanted handwriting:
Wear this by four.
And I did. God help me, I did. Not like I had a choice.
The dress clings to my body like it was made for me, a silky black sheath that skims my thighs and bares my shoulders. It feels like submission—soft, dangerous, deliberate submission.
Roman studies me silently as I approach, his gaze heavy enough to make my skin prickle. Then he gestures toward the car waiting outside. “Let’s go.”
He holds the car door open for me, one hand on the frame, his expression smooth but sharp-edged. I slide into the backseat, clutching my small purse. Roman follows, and suddenly the interior feels smaller, tighter, like the air’s been pulled out of it.
For a while, there’s nothing but the hum of the engine and the faint scent of his cologne—spice, smoke, something darker beneath. I can feel his attention even when he’s looking out the window. He’s too still. That kind of stillness only comes from something boiling just beneath the surface.
I break first. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t worry about it.”
My eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he says, voice low, almost bored—but I can tell it’s deliberate. He’s shutting me out.
The city slides by in streaks of gold and shadow, the noise outside fading into a soft hum. I watch him instead—the faint pulse in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against his thigh as if holding back the urge to act.
“Why do you always have to keep secrets?” I ask quietly.
“Because,” he finally turns to me, eyes glinting under the dim light, “you wouldn’t sleep very well if I told you everything I know.”
A chill races through me. He says it so casually, like he’s talking about the weather. But I see it, the warning underneath. The reminder that the world he lives in is sharp and merciless, and that I’m now part of it, whether I like it or not.
I turn back to the window, watching the blur of the city rush by. My reflection looks like someone else’s, someone who doesn’t know if she’s walking beside a savior or a monster.
Roman leans back, eyes still on me. “You look beautiful,” he says after a long moment.
I don’t reply. Because somehow, that sounds more like a threat than a compliment.
The car stops in front of a glass tower that pierces the evening sky.
Roman steps out first, straightening his jacket, then turns to me, his hand extended like a command more than an offer.
I take it, my pulse thudding as his fingers close around mine—firm, possessive, grounding and suffocating all at once.