Chapter 15 – Elara #2
Inside, the building hums with quiet authority, polished marble, mirrored walls, men in suits who glance up just long enough to recognize him. I feel like an accessory, the weapon he wears on his arm tonight.
“Keep your mouth shut and your chin high,” he murmurs as the elevator doors slide closed. His breath brushes my ear. “You’re not here to speak. You’re here to look pretty on my arm.”
“I’m not your prop, Roman,” I whisper back, my voice tight.
He turns to me then, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No, Elara. You’re my wife. That’s louder than any threat I could make.”
The elevator dings, and we step into a suite drenched in gold and glass. Men are already seated around a long table, their accents thick, their gazes sharp and assessing. The scent of cigars and whiskey hangs in the air, heavy as tension.
Roman’s grip on my waist tightens just enough to hurt as he leads me forward. Every head turns. I feel the weight of their stares—some curious, some appraising, some just waiting to see what he’ll do next.
He pulls out a chair for me beside him. “Gentlemen,” he says smoothly, “this is my wife.”
The words land like a thunderclap. My wife. I can almost hear the calculations shifting in the room—their power equations rewriting themselves in real time. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I smile, because that’s what’s expected. A controlled, elegant smile that hides the storm inside.
As the meeting begins, Roman speaks the language of power. Money, weapons, trade routes, alliances. Every word is sharp, deliberate. I sit perfectly still beside him, my posture immaculate, my eyes soft and unreadable.
When one of the men—tall, silver-haired, too bold for his own good—lets his gaze linger on me for a second too long, Roman stops mid-sentence. His brows dip, while his arm curls around my shoulder in silent warning.
The room goes still.
He smiles slow and lethal. “You were saying?”
The man clears his throat and looks away. The tension breaks, the conversation resumes, but Roman doesn’t move his hand. He keeps it there, heavy, claiming.
By the time the meeting ends, my body is a wire of restrained fury. He stands, shakes hands, exchanges final words. I follow, smiling like the perfect ornament, like I didn’t just watch him turn me into a declaration of dominance.
Throughout the ride home, I don’t speak to him.
The silence in the car is heavy, suffocating, stretched tight between us like glass that could shatter at the smallest sound.
Roman stares out the window, unreadable, one hand resting lazily on his knee.
The city lights slide across his face, carving shadows into the sharp lines of his jaw.
When we arrive at the manor, I don’t wait for him. I push the door open and step out, my heels clicking furiously against the pavement. The chill in the air doesn’t touch me; I’m burning inside. I hurry up the marble steps, my pulse hammering in my ears, fury clawing its way up my throat.
I don’t go to the suite we share. I march past it, up the next flight of stairs, straight to the room I’d claimed as my private space. I just need the door closed. Need distance. Need to breathe.
I’m about to slam the door shut when a strong hand catches it, and a foot wedges the gap before it closes.
Roman steps in without waiting for permission. His presence fills the room instantly, tall, broad, commanding, as if the air itself shifts to make space for him.
“Elara,” he says calmly, voice low and dangerous. “I don’t need an attitude tonight.”
I stare at him, my whole body shaking with the effort not to scream. “An attitude?” My voice cracks, sharp and disbelieving. “You paraded me in front of those men like a prize horse. You made me sit there while you used me to prove a point!”
He doesn’t flinch. “You’re overreacting.”
Something in me snaps. Before I can stop myself, my hand flies up and strikes him across the face. The sound echoes through the room like a gunshot.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Roman’s head turns slowly back toward me, his jaw clenched, a red mark blooming across his cheek. His eyes are a storm—dark, burning, unfathomable.
“Don’t,” he warns quietly, “do that again.”
But I can’t stop now. My voice rises, raw and shaking. “You think you can control everything! Even me! I’m not one of your men, Roman. I’m not some bargaining chip you can use to intimidate your enemies. I’m a person!”
He steps closer, every movement deliberate, predatory. “You’re my wife,” he growls, his voice trembling with restraint. “And when someone looks at you like that, when they think they can touch what’s mine—yes, I’ll make sure they understand exactly who you belong to.”
“I don’t belong to anyone!” I shout, tears burning my eyes.
Before I can take another breath, Roman moves. His hand finds my neck, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to steal the air from my lungs. His eyes blaze down into mine, dark with fury and something far more dangerous—want.
“Roman—”
He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth crashes into mine, rough and consuming.
The kiss is a war—anger and hunger tangled together, tongues clashing, breaths stolen.
I push at his chest, but my body betrays me, melting against him even as my mind screams no.
His grip tightens for a moment, forcing me to feel every ounce of his claim, every ounce of his need.
By the time he pulls away, I’m gasping, my lips swollen, my pulse wild. His breath fans hot against my face.
“You belong to me, Elara. Whether you like it or not.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is thick, electric. His hand falls away, and he takes a step back, eyes still burning into mine as if daring me to deny it.
When he finally turns and leaves the room, I’m left standing there, trembling, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I press a hand to my throat, feeling the ghost of his touch, the heat of his kiss still lingering on my lips.
And in the darkness, I admit to myself. I’m not afraid of hating him…. I’m terrified of wanting him this much.