Chapter 10 Claimed in Full
The tower’s private wing was hushed at dawn, the city far below still wrapped in gray mist. Elias had been settled in the children’s suite for hours—sound asleep after a quiet story from Lucien about ancient stars that watched over lost children. The boy had fallen asleep holding his father’s finger, small hand curled tight around the much larger one, and neither parent had wanted to break the connection until the last possible second.
Now the door between the suites was closed.
Isabella stood in the center of the master bedroom, barefoot on cool marble, wearing only the oversized black silk shirt Lucien had handed her earlier. The hem brushed mid-thigh; the sleeves swallowed her hands. It smelled of him—dark spice and smoke—and the fabric clung to her skin where she was already damp between her legs.
Lucien leaned against the closed door, shirt unbuttoned to the waist, trousers still on but belt gone. His chest rose and fell in measured rhythm, but his eyes were molten silver, pupils blown wide, fangs barely visible behind parted lips.
They had agreed: no more waiting.
No more half-claims.
Tonight he would finish what he started six years ago.
Isabella lifted her chin. “You promised you’d wait until I asked.”
His voice came out rough. “And you’re asking now.”
She took one step forward.
Then another.
When she reached him she placed both palms flat on his bare chest—feeling the slow, powerful thud of his immortal heart.
“I want you inside me,” she said clearly. “All of you. No holding back.”
A low growl vibrated in his throat.
He caught her wrists, lifted them above her head, and pinned them to the door with one hand. The other slid down her body—slow, deliberate—until it cupped her mound through the silk.
“You’re already soaked,” he murmured against her ear. His middle finger pressed between her folds, gliding easily through the slickness that had gathered there. “This little pussy has been dripping for me since the hotel.”
She gasped when he circled her clit once—lazy, teasing—then pushed two fingers inside her without warning.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her weight with his thigh between her legs, holding her up while his fingers curled, stroking that spot deep inside that made her vision white out.
“Listen to how wet you are,” he rasped, pumping slowly, deliberately, letting her hear the obscene slick sounds every time he withdrew and plunged back in. “This cunt remembers me. Remembers exactly how I stretch it. How I fill it.”
Isabella’s head fell back against the door. “Lucien—”
“Say it,” he demanded, thumb pressing hard on her clit while his fingers kept that relentless rhythm. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” she moaned. “It’s yours—always was.”
He rewarded her with a third finger—stretching her wider, scissoring gently until she was trembling, thighs shaking, slick running down his wrist.
“Good girl,” he whispered, then pulled his fingers free.
She whimpered at the emptiness.
He brought his soaked hand to his mouth and licked every drop off—eyes never leaving hers.
Then he dropped to his knees.
The silk shirt was shoved up to her waist in one motion. His shoulders forced her thighs apart. His mouth sealed over her clit—sucking hard, tongue flicking fast—and she screamed.
He ate her like a man starved.
Long, slow licks from entrance to clit, then tight circles, then sucking again—relentless. Two fingers plunged back inside, curling, pumping, while his tongue worked her swollen bud without mercy.
Isabella’s hands fisted in his hair, hips grinding against his face.
She came fast—shattering, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry tearing from her throat as her pussy fluttered and gushed around his fingers.
He drank every drop—lapping slowly, savoring—until she was shaking, oversensitive, begging him to stop and keep going at the same time.
When he finally rose, his chin glistened with her release.
He kissed her—deep, filthy—letting her taste herself on his tongue.
Then he spun her around, pressing her front to the door.
“Hands flat,” he ordered.
She obeyed.
He kicked her feet wider.
The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.
She felt the blunt, thick head of his cock notch at her entrance—hot, leaking, sliding through her dripping folds once, twice, coating himself in her slick.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled against her ear.
“I want your cock inside me,” she said, voice wrecked. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk. Until I forget every day I spent without you.”
He thrust in—hard, deep, all at once.
Isabella cried out, palms slapping the door as her body stretched around his thick length. He was big—bigger than memory—and the stretch burned so good she saw stars.
He didn’t give her time to adjust.
He pulled back almost to the tip—letting her feel every ridge dragging along her walls—then slammed back in.
Again.
And again.
The rhythm turned brutal—deep, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, wet and loud. Each thrust pushed her higher on her toes; each withdrawal made her clench desperately around him, trying to keep him inside.
Lucien’s hand slid around to her front—two fingers finding her clit again, rubbing fast circles while he fucked her from behind.
“You feel that?” he rasped, hips snapping. “This tight little pussy gripping my dick like it never wants to let go. Like it’s been starving for six fucking years.”
“Yes—God, yes—” She pushed back to meet every thrust, ass slapping against his hips. “Harder—please—”
He obliged.
One arm banded around her waist, holding her in place while he pounded into her—deep, relentless, the head of his cock kissing her cervix with every stroke.
She felt the coil tightening again—fast, too fast.
“Lucien—I’m gonna—”
“Come on my cock,” he growled. “Let me feel this cunt milk me. Let me fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”
His fingers pinched her clit.
She shattered.
Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave—pussy clamping down hard, fluttering wildly around his thickness, slick gushing down her thighs as she screamed his name.
Lucien groaned—low, feral—thrusts turning erratic.
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural sound, hot pulses flooding her, so much it leaked out around his cock and ran down her legs.
He held her there—still deep inside—while they both trembled through the aftershocks.
Slowly, he pulled out—careful now—watching his release drip from her swollen pussy with dark satisfaction.
He turned her in his arms, lifting her easily.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, boneless, head on his shoulder.
He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently, then slid in beside her, pulling her against his chest.
His hand splayed over her stomach—possessive, reverent.
“No more running,” he whispered into her hair.
She pressed a kiss to the scar on his chest.
“No more running.”
But even as sleep tugged at her, the bond hummed—a quiet, warning pulse.
The council waited.
And tomorrow, the real battle would begin.