Chapter 18 – Roman
I feel her tremble against me, hear her quiet sobs, and something snaps inside me. My jaw tightens, my fists clench, and all the calm, calculated control I usually maintain slips.
“David Chang will pay,” I growl, voice low and deadly. “He’ll beg for his life, and I’ll make sure he regrets every single thing he ever did to you.”
I tighten my hold, pressing her closer, as if I can shield her from the entire world with my body alone. Every fiber of me screams to protect her, to make the world understand that she belongs only to me—and anyone who dares challenge that will face my wrath.
Her head rests against my chest, and I feel it—her fear, her relief, her trust. And it fuels the fire inside me. David Chang doesn’t just threaten her; he threatens everything I’ve claimed, everything I will claim. And I won’t let anyone take her from me. Not him. Not anyone. Ever.
She’s asleep within minutes, her breathing soft and uneven against my chest. I stay there, holding her until I’m sure she’s gone completely still.
Only then do I ease her down onto the bed and pull the blanket over her.
For a moment, I just stand there watching her—paint still on her fingers, smudged across her cheek.
She looks too delicate for the world she’s been thrown into. Too delicate for a man like me.
I turn away before that thought can take root.
Outside, the smell of gunpowder and smoke still hangs thick in the air. Shattered glass glints on the marble floors. My men are moving through the debris, carrying out bodies. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos—my kind.
I find Luka near the hallway, blood on his sleeve, a harried expression on his face. He falls into step beside me.
“Lev, Kaz, and Dimitri are on their way,” he says.
I nod once. “Good.”
He glances at me. “How’s Elara?”
“Shaken.” My voice comes out rough.
Luka exhales smoke through his nose. “Can’t wait to see David Chang go down for this.”
I stop walking, turning my head slowly toward him. He grins, unfazed.
“What?” he says, smirking. “I like her, Roman. She’s good for you. And I want her to be happy.”
My eyes narrow, dangerous. “Leave before I cut your head off.”
He laughs, unbothered as always. “You’re welcome, Boss.”
I watch him go, jaw tight. Then I turn back toward the chaos of my estate, my mind already shifting from damage control to revenge. David Chang has just signed his death warrant.
I meet my brothers in the office about thirty minutes later, and I’ve never seen them look this pissed. The air feels charged, heavy with fury and strife.
Kaz is pacing near the window, his jaw tight. “How the hell did this happen?” he demands, voice sharp enough to cut through the silence.
Before I can answer, Luka steps forward. “Chang’s men breached the south perimeter,” he explains, his tone clipped. “They came in fast, coordinated. We took most of them out before they made it past the west wing, but it was close.”
Lev’s expression hardens. “Close isn’t good enough.”
He leans against the table, eyes burning with quiet rage. “That bastard dared to bring his war to our doorstep?”
No one says a word.
I fold my arms, my voice steady but ice-cold. “He made it personal. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
Kaz slams his palm against the table. “Then we end it. For good.”
Dimitri’s gaze meets mine—steady, ruthless. “Tell us what you need.”
I sweep my gaze across the faces of my brothers—Kaz, Lev, and Dimitri. They’re all killers, but each brings a different kind of weapon to the table. This isn’t about bloodlust; it’s about absolute strategic paralysis.
“Everything,” I confirm, my voice echoing the ice in the room. “We don’t just kill David Chang. We execute his empire first. The goal is to cripple him financially and logistically, leaving him nothing but the air he breathes before we take that too.”
I walk to the center of the office, pulling up a digital schematic on the wall monitor—a complex web of offshore accounts, shell companies, and shipping lanes that mark Chang’s global network.
“This attack was noise,” I state, tapping the diagram. “A desperate attempt to reclaim his asset and stir the authorities. We respond with calculated devastation. I want counterstrikes against his entire network, starting tonight.”
I point to three distinct areas on the screen.
“I’ve been planning this attack for weeks. I guess it’s time to use it.”
They nod.
“First, the laundering channels. Lev, you’re on point for this. Chang uses museums as cover, but the money moves through four key offshores.” I list them quickly.
“I want every liquid asset frozen, every bank contact exposed, and every account tied to the museum shipping manifests flagged for government inquiry. We use his own weakness—the risk of public scandal—to choke his money flow. He must feel the burn immediately.”
Lev nods, his eyes already calculating the angles.
“Second, the supply chain. Kaz, I need your teams to hit his logistics. Disrupt every warehouse, every private flight, every truck carrying anything associated with his business—legitimate or otherwise. He needs to lose his ability to move product, to move people, and most importantly, to move money.”
My finger drills into a specific shipping port. “This is where his next ‘auction’ shipment was scheduled to move. Make sure that the entire dock is unusable quickly. This will send a clear message to the foreign buyers that the product is officially off-market.”
Kaz’s dangerous grin flashes. “A little constructive demolition. Understood.”
“Public noise. Dimitri, this falls to you.” I turn to him.
“Chang threw a public accusation of kidnapping. We don’t deny it; we twist it.
I want a whisper campaign that he’s panicked, unstable, and destroying his own assets to cover his debts.
Feed the press plausible deniability that he faked the kidnapping for insurance fraud. Turn his outrage into ridicule.”
Dimitri leans forward, a cold light in his icy eyes. “I can make him look like a desperate fool, Roman.”
I lean over the desk, my voice dropping to a final, absolute timbre.
“I will continue to secure the estate, but the counterstrikes are the priority. Every move we make must reinforce the same truth: Elara Chang is mine, she is protected by the Rusnaks, and anyone who comes near her pays with everything they own.”
I look at them, steady and firm. “When the foundation crumbles, he will surface. And that is when I take the final step.”
“Understood,” they say in unison. The air in the room, once charged with panic, is now focused and heavy with murderous intent. Just the way I like it.
The men leave immediately to set things in motion, leaving Luka and me alone in the office. Luka hangs back by the door. I turn to him without leaving the table. “Has a doctor seen my wife?” I ask.
“He checked her,” Luka says. “Minor bruises. Shock mostly. He sedated her to help her sleep. She’s stable.”
The word stable lands, and I let it. I should go to her. I should see her face, hear the tremor in her voice again. Instead, something harder takes hold—a discipline I learned in the field: Feeling is a weakness you can’t afford until the job is done.
Her confession replays behind my eyes, the way she said it like a blade—I feel safer with you than I ever have in my life.
The memory of her small body trembling in my arms, the raw, terrified honesty of it, pulls at me, and then I clamp down on it.
If I go soft now, everything unravels. Men die because someone cracked at the wrong time. That has to be enough to keep me away.
“I don’t want anyone coming in and out of her room unless I say so,” I tell Luka. “Keep the perimeter tight. No visitors. No cameras facing inward.”
He nods, the easy obedience of a soldier. “Understood.”
I grind my glass against the coaster until the ice sings.
Outside, the light fades to the cold blue of approaching night.
I settle back into the chair, elbows on the map, and let the work swallow me.
Plans. Timelines. Men to move, accounts to freeze.
Each task is a tiny, exacting violence I can control—unlike the pulse that hits when I think of her.
Every so often, my thoughts slip—one second a coordinate, the next the feel of her hair under my fingers—and I yank them back like a leash. I will not give her this body of mine until there’s no threat left. I promise myself that in a way that is both protection and ownership.
Hours pass in a measured blur. Luka checks in twice more, and the other men report in. The house settles into the low hum of preparation and clean up. I work until the light in the window is gone and the city outside is a smear of orange.
Only then do I allow myself one moment of weakness.
I look at my reflection in the glass, and for a single ridiculous second, imagine the stupid small things—her laugh with friends, the way she rolls her eyes.
Then I look away and sigh. Duty first. Emotion later.
Tonight I build the cage around her safety; tomorrow I decide what kind of man I will be inside it.
After midnight, I finally let myself move. The house is quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that hums in your ears. I tell myself it’s just to check on her, to make sure she’s sleeping, to make sure she’s still breathing beneath my roof. That’s all. Nothing more.
The walk down the corridor feels longer than it should. My footsteps echo against the marble, and the low golden light paints shadows on the walls. When I reach her door, I pause, hand on the handle. She’ll be asleep, I tell myself. I’ll look in, leave, and no one will know.
But when I push the door open, she’s awake. Sitting up in bed. Waiting.
Her eyes catch mine immediately. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she says. Her voice is soft, but her gaze is sharp. Accusing.
I exhale through my nose, step inside, and close the door behind me. “I’m not,” I say. “You needed rest.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she doesn’t believe a single word. Then she shifts, the sheets rustling as she pats the space beside her. “Sit.”
“Elara—”
“Roman.” She arches a brow, daring me.
I start to shake my head, but she rolls her eyes, slides gracefully out of the bed, and crosses the space between us. She smells faintly of soap and strawberry and peace. Her fingers wrap around my wrist—small, insistent, warm—and before I can stop her, she’s tugging me toward the bed.
“Sit,” she repeats, firmer this time.
I let out a quiet breath, the corner of my mouth twitching, and sink down onto the edge of the mattress. Her hand lingers on my arm for a second longer than necessary before she lets go.
The air between us is thick with something that feels like truce and danger all at once.
With a trembling voice, she whispers, “Thank you…for saving me.”
The words strike something in me I can’t hide. My chest tightens, my hands clench, and for the first time, I let her see it—my own truth, raw and unguarded. I reach up, cupping her face gently in my palms, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine.
“Elara,” I murmur, my voice low, steady, unshakable. “I will always put you first…before anyone, before anything. Even before myself.”
Her eyes widen, glistening with unshed tears, and I see it—the flicker of relief, of trust, maybe even awe. I hold her there, letting the weight of my words sink in, letting her feel that she is safe not just from the world, but from me.
“Can I touch you?” she whispers, sliding closer.
The question confuses me for a moment. She’s already mine. She can do whatever she wants.
Before I can answer, she slides off the bed and onto her knees in front of me, looking up with a mixture of terror and fierce determination.
She reaches for my belt, her small hands fumbling with the leather.
The sight of her, humbled and utterly focused on me, slams a sudden, brutal rush of blood through my veins.
“Elara….” The name is a warning, a question, and a raw admission of my own immediate loss of control. I don’t stop her. Her touch is tentative as she works the buckle, then the zipper. I’m immediately hardened by her sheer proximity and the intense, possessive desire raging inside me.
She pulls my length free. She looks at me once, her eyes wide, before lowering her head.
The contact is warm, wet, and inexperienced. She is clearly inexperienced, hesitant, her mouth clumsy and soft. It doesn’t matter. Her devotion is the greatest turn-on. I hiss, gripping the edge of the mattress, fighting the urge to take over, to rush the moment.
“Fuck, printsessa,” I groan, pulling her hair gently to lift her face. “Just like that. Slow. Use your tongue. Focus on the base.” I guide her hands to where I need her to hold me, and I tell her exactly what to do, instructing her with rough, explicit commands.
She complies immediately, her fear replaced by a desire to please, a willingness to learn the language of my body. Her touch shifts, becoming more confident, more demanding. The pleasure becomes a blinding, consuming edge that threatens to send me over.
I pull her head up by my hair, forcing her wide, glistening eyes to meet mine. “Do you trust me?” I ask, my voice a low, primal rasp.
She nods, the movement barely perceptible.
I release her hair, and she watches in a hypnotic daze as I grab the belt she discarded—the leather one that had just been around my waist. I wind my belt around her neck, securing the leather and tightening my hold on her.
It’s a symbol of the control she just promised me, a thrilling, terrifying sensation of ownership.
She breathes in deeply, the leather pressing into her throat, but she doesn’t stop. She continues sucking, focusing entirely on her task, until I come in her mouth.
It’s hot, thick, and absolute. I watch, breathlessly, as she swallows all of it.
I’m completely taken aback. My mind blanks, every tactical thought dissolving. The depth of her willingness to obey, to devour the evidence of my claim, is a terrifying, total victory. She has given me everything.