Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen
The laughter in the ballroom softens as the music fades, replaced by the charming, unmistakable voice of the evening’s master of ceremonies. He steps into the golden light of the stage, holding his microphone with theatrical ease, and welcomes the crowd once more with a grin that speaks of champagne, polished charisma, and just the right touch of playful audacity.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls out, drawing everyone’s attention with ease, “this evening is not just about elegance and generosity. It is also about a little fun. And perhaps a bit of healthy competition.”

The crowd stills with interest, eyes focused.

“As many of you know,” he continues, “every year we host a lighthearted charity auction. The cause is close to our hearts. Tonight, every euro raised will go directly to The Solace Foundation, which provides shelter, therapy, and long term support to children displaced by war and violence across Eastern Europe and the Middle East. These children have lost everything. Tonight, we get to give something back.”

Applause ripples through the crowd, soft but heartfelt.

The MC smiles, letting the emotion hang just long enough before brightening his voice again. “This year, we’re doing something a little more exciting. We are calling upon the beautiful wives and partners of Zurich’s most prominent gentlemen to volunteer for our spotlight game. Each woman will be escorted to the stage. Her partner will have a chance to place a playful, one-night bid for a dinner, a dance, and a little moment in the spotlight. All in the name of charity, of course.”

Laughter and applause rise again, louder this time.

I lean slightly toward Niklath, lifting an amused brow. “A little dated, don’t you think?”

His mouth curves with wicked intent. “You are going.”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Miara Moreaux-Varyn,” the MC announces with far too much delight. “You are far too radiant this evening to hide in the shadows. Please join us.”

The spotlight swings, and I feel the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward me. I rise with quiet elegance, accepting the attention like an inherited duty, my smile poised and unwavering. Niklath stands too and leans in, kissing my hand slowly, murmuring something that curls around my spine like silk. Behind me, I hear Marianne’s name called next, and she gives me a dry, suffering look that nearly makes me laugh.

We ascend the stage together, heels tapping across marble, two women used to the rhythm of expectation. Familiar faces surround us, draped in couture and diamonds, each woman playing her part with polished ease. The MC continues, charming and relentless.

The bidding begins.

One by one, the numbers climb, some driven by pride, others by showmanship. The laughter grows louder, the applause warmer. The spotlight moves. Then it lands on me. I step forward, letting the gold silk of my gown catch the light, my shoulders straight and my chin lifted. I hear the pause in the room. The attention is sharp, almost anticipatory.

“Two hundred thousand,” Théo Duchamp says, loud enough to turn every head.

Silence falls like a curtain. I keep my face expressionless, though inside, something cold and familiar coils beneath my ribs. My eyes meet his for the briefest moment, and beside him, Angelica’s smile glows like a woman who believes she has won a prize.

“Ten million euros.” Niklath growls out loud. He is fucking pissed but is trying his best not to give Théo the pleasure of seeing how he is getting to him.

The room holds its breath. He stands without effort, without hesitation. His eyes do not leave mine. The number speaks louder than any explanation. I feel the burn of it deep in my chest, the ache of a love that does not speak its name but declares itself in ways no one else could ever understand. When he takes my hand, the applause begins again, louder now, disbelieving and reverent. I descend the steps toward him, my fingers resting lightly in his, and he guides me from the stage as if nothing else exists.

By the time we reach home, the silence between us carries its own rhythm. No words pass between us. Only heat with a thick pull. The elevator ride is slow, too slow. My pulse beats in my throat. Every inch of me remembers his touch from the gala, the way he watched me across the ballroom like a man hunting.

He unlocks the door. I step inside first. The gown clings to my body, but I feel his eyes move over me before he even closes the door. I walk toward the living area, my heels echoing on the marble until the soft thud of them hitting the floor follows…his, removed with slow, deliberate care.

When I turn, he is already striding toward me. His hand wraps around my waist, and he lifts me as if I weigh nothing. My breath catches. He presses me against the nearest wall, the cool plaster shocking against my back as his mouth finds mine with the force of restraint finally breaking. His kiss is deep, unrelenting and deeply possessive. It doesn’t ask. It takes.

He groans against my lips. The sound is low, gravelly, purely Alpha. His hands slide up the back of my thigh, gathering the gown higher. My legs wrap around his waist, and I press into the thick length beneath his trousers, already hard, already waiting for me.

“You belong to me,” he growls into my neck, his lips dragging along my skin with open-mouthed kisses. “Every inch. Every moan. Every fucking whimper.”

I moan in response, helpless against the way his voice rolls through me. My thighs are already soaked. My body responds to him like it remembers everything.

He lowers me to the floor just long enough to rip the gown down my arms. The fabric pools at my feet. I stand in nothing but lace. His fingers dip between my thighs, brushing through the slick heat there with a noise of dark satisfaction.

“Tell me how long you’ve been aching for it,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles over my clit with the pad of his thumb.

“All night,” I breathe, grinding against his hand. “I’ve been aching for you all night.”

He drops to his knees in front of me and pushes my legs wider.

“You smell like you want to be ruined.”

He buries his mouth between my thighs without warning. His tongue moves in strokes that make my knees buckle. I clutch his hair, gasping as his tongue circles and flicks and sucks. Heat builds fast, spiraling upward.

“More,” I whisper. “Faster, Niklath.”

He pulls back just enough to growl, “Your whimpers make me so fucking hard.”

He stands again, unbuttons his trousers with one hand, and frees himself. His cock is thick, long, flushed dark with arousal. I reach for it without hesitation, curling my fingers around the base and stroking once, then again. He hisses through his teeth, then yanks me forward and spins me around so my palms brace against the cold glass of the window.

“I should make you beg,” he says against my ear, his chest pressed to my back. “But I need to be inside you too badly.”

He lines himself up and thrusts into me in one hard motion. I cry out as he fills me, stretching me, making my walls pulse around him. He fucks me hard, each stroke brutal, perfect, sending lightning through my core. The view of Zurich glows beneath us, but all I can see is his reflection in the glass. The way his eyes never leave mine.

“Say my name,” he demands, his hand wrapping around my throat, pulling me upright.

“Niklath,” I gasp. “Again.”

He thrusts deeper. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Niklath…please…more…don’t stop…”

He wraps my hair around his fist, pulling my head back, his teeth grazing the side of my neck. The growl that rumbles through his chest feels like it’s born from somewhere deep in his wolf. He spins me around again and lifts me effortlessly, slamming me back against the wall as I wrap around him, his cock still buried deep inside. His rhythm never falters. I feel every inch, every thick drag. The stretch is perfect, the pressure unbearable.

“Touch yourself,” he pants. “I want to feel you come around me.”

I do it. My fingers circle my clit, fast and tight. My body starts to shake. The orgasm barrels toward me, sharp and consuming.

“Now,” he growls. “Come for me.”

I fall apart. My head tips back, mouth open in a silent cry as wave after wave crashes through me. He follows, hips slamming up hard, filling me as he groans through his release, voice torn from his throat in a sound that makes my entire body clench again. After, he lowers me gently to the floor. He kisses my shoulder, then my mouth. Slower this time.

“You’re mine,” he says again, pressing his forehead to mine. “In every way.”

And I believe him. Because no matter what war Angelica thinks she can start, no matter what mask Théo wears next, they will never own what he just claimed with his mouth, his body, and his name.