Chapter 19 – Elara #2
By the time we’re done, each of us has three dresses packed neatly into glossy boutique bags. The attendants thank us with practiced smiles, and Sasha insists on taking a selfie by the window display before we leave.
Outside, the afternoon has melted into a golden haze.
We stop for a late lunch at a quiet café with ivy climbing the walls and sunlight spilling across the tables.
We order way too much—pasta, cocktails, dessert—and for a few hours, everything feels easy.
We talk about work, men, New York, and the random chaos of our lives.
I catch myself laughing so hard I almost choke on my drink.
When the check comes, Vivian stretches back in her chair with a groan. “Best day I’ve had in ages.”
Sasha raises her glass. “To girls’ days that end with us broke but happy.”
We clink glasses, still laughing, and it feels good. Simple.
Eventually, we head out, the sky deepening into violet and gold. The driver drops Vivian off first at her hotel—she blows us both kisses as she disappears through the revolving door. Sasha’s next; she’s meeting Lev at an art exhibition, so we drop her off at the event.
She grins as she hops out, adjusting her hair in the mirror. “See you later.” She waves.
Then it’s just me.
The car feels quieter without their voices, but I don’t mind. I rest my head against the window, watching the blur of city lights as we drive. My shopping bags sit neatly beside me, filled with silk and color and the faint scent of perfume.
For the first time in a long time, I feel…happy. Not the kind of happy that bursts or burns, but the soft kind—the kind that hums quietly in my chest.
When we pull up to the house, the guards move automatically: one opens my door, and another takes the bags. I thank them, step inside, and exhale.
Home.
And for once, it feels like something I’m allowed to return to.
An hour later, I hang the last of my new dresses on the rack, smoothing the fabric between my fingers before stepping back to admire the row.
It looks like a splash of color in a life that’s been mostly gray lately.
I smile to myself, then kick off my shoes and collapse onto the bed, the softness wrapping around me like a sigh.
Where’s Roman?
The house is quiet—too quiet. I glance at the clock and wonder if he’s still buried in work, or if he’s simply giving me space after today. I tell myself not to overthink it, but the thought of him lingers anyway, heavy and warm.
My eyes are already beginning to flutter shut when a knock at the door jolts me upright.
“Come in,” I call softly.
One of the maids steps in, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “Mr. Rusnak asked me to tell you he’s waiting for you on the rooftop terrace.”
I blink, frowning a little. “The rooftop?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Alright. Thank you.”
As soon as she leaves, curiosity tugs at me. I slip off the bed, running a quick hand through my hair, straightening my dress. There’s a soft buzz under my skin—part confusion, part anticipation. Roman isn’t exactly the type for casual chats.
Still, I find myself heading for the stairs, the cool evening air brushing against me the higher I climb. The faint hum of the house filters through the walls. My heart picks up a steady rhythm.
When I reach the rooftop terrace, I spot him instantly.
Roman stands near the edge, the city stretching out beneath him in a sprawl of gold and white lights.
He’s in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
The fabric clings to the breadth of his shoulders, the faint night breeze ruffling his dark hair.
But it’s not his stance that stops me—it’s the look on his face.
Tired. Worn. Like he’s been fighting invisible wars all day.
My heart twists.
He turns at the sound of my footsteps, his gaze sweeping over me once before settling. “How was your day with the girls?” he asks, voice low, roughened by exhaustion.
I move closer, stopping just a few feet from him. “It went well,” I say softly. “We had fun.”
He nods, but there’s no ease in his shoulders. The silence between us hums, full and uneasy. I tilt my head, studying him. “Roman,” I whisper, “what’s wrong?”
He exhales, long and slow, his jaw tightening. “David will never stop,” he says, eyes fixed on the skyline. “Not until I make him. I need you to trust me—to let me handle this, no matter how bad it gets. To trust that I’ll end it once and for all.”
The words settle like smoke between us.
My throat tightens, and I step closer, my voice trembling. “I do trust you,” I admit, hating the way it shakes. “Even though I wish I didn’t.”
His eyes flick to mine then, dark and full of something that feels like a storm about to break.
“What do you mean?” Roman asks, his voice rough, heavy with the weight of his vow. “Haven’t I given you reasons to trust me?”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I fire back.
He narrows his eyes. Before I can brace myself, he grabs my arm and flips me, pressing my front to the cold parapet wall. I don't struggle. This is exactly where I want to be—trapped, controlled, unable to run from this terrifying man who promises security through violence.
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a feral growl. “Your attitude makes me want to fuck the shit out of you.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” I challenge, the words trembling but sharp.
He sucks in a sharp breath, freezing for a single, agonizing second. Then he uses his knee to push my dress up to my legs, bunching the silk roughly. The fabric is rough against my thighs. He yanks down my pants, and the cold air hits my exposed skin.
He slides a hand between our bodies, his fingers finding my clit. He strokes and presses, immediately pulling the sensation deep into my core. I gasp, the sudden, overwhelming pleasure making me writhe and buck against the cold stone of the wall.
“Beg,” he growls, his voice a thick, harsh command.
I whimper, my head thrown back. “Please...Roman.”
He pulls back just enough to confirm the desperation in my eyes. Then he unbuckles his belt, the sound of the leather and metal snapping open loud in the quiet night. He takes out his dick—hard, heavy, and already slick with need.
He lifts me, aligning his rigid length to my core, and then he enters me. He plunges inside, pushing deep, hard, and fast. He fucks me against the wall, his body driving into mine with a primal, desperate rhythm. The stone is cold against my back, but the heat between us is a consuming fire.
I cling to his shoulders, every thrust a vow, every gasp a prayer. I’m utterly and shamelessly his. The entire city is spread out beneath us, but all I see is the savage focus in his dark eyes. The world dissolves into a searing, beautiful chaos.
He pulls me close, wrapping an arm around my waist, tightening his grip as he spears deep into me. “Fuck, Elara,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw.
I curl into him, my cheek pressing against his damp shoulder, and whisper the final, terrifying truth, “Roman, I don’t care about the rules of the Bratva world anymore. I only care that you keep me safe.”
“Fuck.”
We climax together, a brutal, synchronized crash against the cold stone, sealing a physical and emotional contract high above the city.