Chapter 9 "Claimed Throne"
Next morning – the master bathroom, 7:12 a.m.
Sunlight poured through the arched skylight, turning the steam into liquid gold. The claw-foot tub was a small ocean of rose-scented water, Elena half floating, half-sinking, her body a map of last night’s war: faint purple crescents on her hips, a bite-shaped bruise blooming on her collarbone, the soft ache between her thighs that made her hiss when the water lapped too high.
Lucas knelt behind her, thighs framing hers, chest to her back, every inch of him warm and solid. He poured warm almond oil over her shoulders in a slow ribbon, watching it glide down the slope of her spine like liquid silk. His thumbs pressed into the knots at the base of her neck, gentle, worshipful, coaxing a broken little moan from her throat.
“Malyshka,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “let me take care of you.”
\[Little one\]
She melted back against him, eyes fluttering shut, but when his hands drifted lower fingertips skating over the swell of her breast she caught his wrist with a shaky laugh.
“Nyet. I’m sore, Lucas. Everywhere. You broke me.”
\[No\]
His chuckle was dark velvet. “I noticed.” He nipped her earlobe, then soothed it with a kiss. “I’ll be good.”
He was. Fingers working shampoo into her hair with the same precision he used to clean a gun, thumbs circling her scalp until her head lolled against his shoulder. He rinsed her with the handheld sprayer, water cascading over her like warm rain, then wrapped her in a towel the size of a blanket and carried her to the bedroom like she was spun from glass.
Breakfast the sun-drenched dining room, 8:05 a.m.
The table was a still-life of indulgence warm croissants flaky enough to shatter, strawberries so red they looked painted, a silver pot of coffee breathing steam into the air. Elena sat cross-legged on the velvet bench, Lucas’s black silk robe slipping off one shoulder, nose buried in Wuthering Heights. Her highlighter was clenched between her teeth like a cigarette.
Lucas, shirtless, hair still damp and curling at the ends, speared a strawberry and held it to her lips.
“Baby. Eat first. Then read.”
She didn’t even glance up. “You eat. I’m busy. You’re not hungry you devoured me all night.”
The maids two steps from the doorway, trays balanced froze. One actually gasped. Lucas’s lips twitched into a slow, dangerous smile.
“You asked for it, butterfly.”
“Yeah,” she muttered, turning a page with her pinky. “And now I’m paying for it in installments.”
He slid onto the bench beside her, one arm looping around her waist, the other guiding the berry between her teeth. She bit down juice bursting, a drop sliding down her chin. He caught it with his thumb, sucked it clean, eyes locked on hers.
Bite by bite croissant torn into buttery flakes, strawberry, a sip of orange juice chased with his tongue when she missed her mouth he fed her while she read, her free hand absently tracing the scar on his ribs under the table.
The maids exchanged wide-eyed glances: their soft boss, the one who’d once made a man cry with a look, now coaxing his wife like she was the only religion he’d ever kneel for.
One week later the library, golden hour
Elena sprawled on the Persian rug like a cat in sunlight, textbooks fanned around her like petals, highlighter cap between her teeth.
Sriya her new best friend, all sharp wit and cardamom perfume sat cross-legged opposite, quizzing her on Brontë symbolism with flash cards.
Lucas leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching the way Elena’s eyes lit up when she argued about Heathcliff’s redemption. She’d stopped flinching when he entered a room. Now she demanded.l tugging his sleeve for a kiss mid-sentence, stealing his hoodies, leaving sticky notes on his laptop
“Tell your empire to wait. I need cuddles. —E”
He fucking adored it.
That evening, curled on his lap in the study, fire crackling low, she told him about the boy in lit class.
“Third row, left side. Keeps staring. Sriya noticed first. It’s… creepy.”
Lucas’s hand stilled on her thigh, thumb pressing into the soft skin just above her knee. “Name?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, tracing the scar on his jaw with her fingertip. “Just don’t do anything insane.”
He kissed her knuckles, slow and deliberate. “Define insane.”
Two nights later
The boy vanished. Campus rumor, transferred to Oxford, urgent family matter.
Elena never asked. She just kissed Lucas harder that night, riding him slow and filthy on the library rug, whispering “mine” against his lips like a vow.
They fucked like wars never gentle.
On the kitchen island at 3 a.m., her nails drawing blood down his back, his hand over her mouth to muffle screams.
In the shower, water scalding, his teeth on her shoulder as he took her from behind.
Against the floor-to-ceiling window, city lights glittering below, her palms fogging glass as he fucked her so hard her toes curled.
But after
He carried her to bed like a bride, ran baths scented with lavender, rubbed arnica into every bruise with the devotion of a priest. Fed her strawberries from his fingers, whispered “ya tebya lyublyu” until she fell asleep wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat her lullaby.
\[I love you\]
Present – Lucas’s office, 11:47 a.m.
The air was thick with cigar smoke and the metallic tang of power. Maps of ports and borders lay strewn like a battlefield; red circles bled over cities. Lucas’s voice was a winter storm.
“Delay the shipment again and I’ll burn the dock myself. With everyone on it.”
Viktor cracked the door.
“Sir. Madam is here. From class.”
Lucas didn’t look up just lifted two fingers, the gesture lazy but absolute.
“Let my butterfly in.”
The double doors swung wide.
Every man rose. Bows. Murmurs of “Madam” like a prayer in a cathedral of wolves.
Elena stepped inside fresh from campus, cheeks still flushed from the autumn wind. Her canvas tote stuffed with Wuthering Heights, a half-eaten apple, and Sriya’s annotated flashcards hung heavy on one shoulder. Lucas’s black hoodie swallowed her frame, hem brushing mid-thigh, collar slipping to reveal the faint constellation of last night’s bruises.
Her messy bun was held by a chewed pencil. She looked wrecked, regal, and untouchable.
Lucas’s gaze snapped to her. The room temperature dropped ten degrees then flared.
“Baby,” he said, voice softer than silk, “come here.”
She crossed the marble, hips swaying, tote bumping her hip. He met her halfway, cupped her face, and kissed her slow, filthy, claiming right in front of his empire.
“Sit,” he murmured against her lips. “We’re wrapping up.”
She turned to leave.
He caught her wrist, tugged her back, and sat her in his chair the throne at the head of the table. His hand stayed on her shoulder, thumb stroking the hollow of her collarbone.
Elena curled into the leather like a cat, knees to chest, hoodie pooling. She felt every stare worship, fear, envy. Her fingers traced the carved wolf on the armrest. His.
Lucas resumed, standing, voice lethal.
“ and if anyone looks at my wife again, I’ll carve their eyes out and mail them to their mothers.”
Across the table, Lara twenty-five, ice-blonde, Managing Director dug crescents into her palm.
She was young, brilliant, lethal in her own right. Had graduated top of her class at twenty-one, clawed her way into Lucas’s inner circle by twenty-three, and now ran half his empire with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. She’d worn pencil skirts and red lipstick like armor, leaned over his desk at 2 a.m. “reviewing numbers,” let her fingers brush his when passing files.
He’d never looked twice.
Now this girl barely older than Lara had been when she started sat in his chair, barefoot in his hoodie, lips swollen from his kisses, tote spilling Brontë and apple cores like she belonged there.
Butterfly. Baby. His.
The words looped in Lara’s skull like poison.
If I have to gut this little girl to take her place, I will.
Elena tilted her head back, met Lucas’s eyes, and smiled slow, sweet, lethal.
Lara’s smile was a blade.
Game on.
The last man vanished like smoke. Lara lingered, tablet clutched to her chest like armor, red lips parted to speak.
“Sir, the quarterly ”
“Later.”
Lucas’s voice cracked like a whip. He didn’t look up. Didn’t need to. The dismissal was absolute.
Lara’s smile froze, brittle. She nodded once sharp, mechanical and her heels stabbed the marble as she left, the door shutting with a soft, final click.
Lucas flipped the lock.
“Lock the door, butterfly.”
Elena’s tote hit the floor with a muffled thud books, apple core, Sriya’s neon flashcards spilling like confetti. She was already rising when Lucas Romeo rounded the table in three predatory strides and dropped into the chair opposite her, elbows on the mahogany, eyes storm-dark.
He was a storm in human form: six-foot-four of coiled muscle and lethal grace, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the light. His black hair still damp from the morning’s shower curled at the ends, brushing the collar of a charcoal shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with ink and scars.
A single silver ring glinted on his right hand the other bore the faint white line of a blade that had once tried and failed to end him. His jaw was carved granite, shadowed with stubble, the scar slicing through his left eyebrow like a lightning bolt. When he spoke, his voice was smoke and thunder, Russian vowels curling around every word like a threat and a promise.
“What happened to my baby?”
The words were velvet over steel, laced with murder.
Elena bit her lip, cheeks flushing. “My professor scolded me.”
Lucas was up chair scraping, knuckles white, death already carved into his jaw.
“How dare he. I’ll rip his tongue out and ”
“MR. HYPER!”
She laughed, bright and breathless, grabbing his wrist before he could vault the table.
“I forgot your signature on the thesis form! I submitted it blank. My fault. He just said bring it by noon.”
Lucas froze mid-rage, then exhaled through his nose like a dragon banking fire.
“You could’ve called. I’d have kicked down the lecture hall doors in a three-piece suit and signed it in blood.”
She rolled her eyes, sliding the crumpled form across the table like contraband.
“Sign here, drama king.”
He snatched the pen, scrawled Lucas Romeo in bold, slashing strokes without reading then flicked it aside like a spent bullet.
“Did he scold my baby badly?”
“No,” she whispered, shy now, “he was calm. Sent me here with Viktor. Respectfully.”
“That’s good for him,” Lucas growled, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. “One raised voice and I’d have burned the department to ash.”
Elena stood, slinging her tote. “I need to ”
“No.”
He caught her wrist, tugged her into his lap with effortless strength. She landed with a soft oof, knees bracketing his hips, hoodie riding up to reveal the faint constellation of last night’s bruises.
His hands calloused, inked, lethal slid under the fabric, palms warm on her bare back.
“You look tired, baby. Viktor will deliver it. You stay.”
She melted against his chest, cheek to the steady thunder of his heart. “Okay.”
His fingers traced the curve of her spine, reverent.
“You’re hot in my hoodie, butterfly.”
“I know,” she whispered, cheeks pink, shy and radiant.
He kissed her slow, filthy, devoted until the only sound was her breath hitching and the soft rustle of papers sliding off the table.
The thesis could wait.
Lucas shifted her in one fluid motion, lifting Elena like she weighed nothing and setting her on the edge of the mahogany table. Papers scattered like startled birds. He stepped between her thighs, spreading them wide, the hoodie riding up to pool around her waist.
His hands rough, inked, devoted slid under the fabric, palms cupping her clothed breasts, thumbs circling her nipples through the lace until they peaked hard and aching.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice shredded, “you’re perfect.”
He leaned in, mouth hovering over hers, ready to devour
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound cracked like a gunshot.
“WHAT?” Lucas roared, head snapping toward the door, eyes black with fury.
Lara’s voice, cool and clipped
“Sir, we have a meeting in fifteen minutes. It’s important.”
Lucas’s jaw flexed. He exhaled through his nose, then called back, voice lethal calm
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
The door didn’t dare creak again.
He turned back to Elena, eyes blazing.
“So we have fifteen minutes for us, baby.”
She laughed, breathless, pushing at his chest. “Go prepare. I’ll wander your office. Not leaving the building.”
Lucas’s grin was slow, feral. “I’m hungry. Let me eat my dessert.”
She bit her lip, shy and wicked. “Then you’ll let me roam?”
“Deal.”
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her leggings and yanked. The fabric slid down her thighs, pooling at her ankles. Her lacy panties black, delicate, already soaked followed. He lifted her effortlessly, laying her back on the table, the cool wood kissing her spine. Papers crinkled beneath her.
Lucas dropped into his chair, rolling it forward until her thighs framed his face. He draped her legs over his shoulders, hands gripping her hips, pulling her to the edge.
First, he kissed her through the lace, a slow, reverent press of lips against her clothed pussy. The heat of his breath made her whimper.
“Lucas ”
He peeled the lace aside with his teeth, exposing her glistening, swollen, his.
Then he feasted.
His tongue traced her slit in one long, languid lick, savoring her like wine. Elena’s back arched, a broken moan tearing from her throat. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue
slow, teasing then flattened it, lapping at her like she was the only meal he’d ever need.
His hands slid under her ass, lifting her higher, devouring her. Tongue thrusting inside her, curling, fucking her with wet, filthy strokes. He sucked her clit into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make her sob, then soothed it with slow, swirling licks.
“So sweet,” he growled against her, voice muffled, vibrations sending sparks up her spine.
“My butterfly’s pussy tastes like heaven.”
Elena’s fingers fisted in his hair, hips rocking against his face, chasing the edge. He didn’t let her fall not yet. He slowed, torturing her with feather-light flicks, then plunged two fingers inside her, curling them just right.
“Come for me,” he commanded, mouth closing over her clit again, sucking hard.
She shattered hard a scream muffled by her own hand as her pussy clenched around his fingers, thighs trembling over his shoulders. Lucas didn’t stop. He licked her through it, gentle now, drawing out every aftershock until she was limp, gasping, wrecked.
He pressed one last kiss to her inner thigh, then stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes starving.
“Fifteen minutes well spent.”
Elena laughed, breathless, pulling him down for a kiss tasting herself on his tongue.
“Go to your meeting, Mr. Romeo. I’ll be exploring.”
He tucked her panties into his pocket with a grin.
“Keep the hoodie. I like you bare underneath.”
She slid off the table, legs shaky, and watched him stride out king of the world, hers.
The boardroom smelled like sex and power.
And Elena smiled, knowing she’d just claimed the throne.
To be continued...