Lost and Claimed

5-Claimed**

The air reeked of her sweet, intoxicating heat. Ivan’s jaw locked tight, every muscle screaming to hold back—don’t, she’s dangerous, walk away—but his blood was already on fire, his pulse hammering wild and unchained. He watched her fingers shake as she fumbled the key into the lock, violet glow bleeding up her wrists, and that last thin thread of restraint snapped.

Before the door clicked open, he lunged.

He grabbed her waist hard, spun her around, and slammed her back against the wood—rough, desperate, no warning. His mouth crashed into hers, devouring the gasp that escaped; one hand clamped firm at the back of her neck to keep her still, the other gripping her hip so tight his fingers dug in. She melted instantly, soft and trembling against him, and that only made it worse—better—he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He shoved the door open behind her with a heavy thud, walked her straight back inside, and kicked it shut with his boot. No space left between them, no air, no hesitation. He pinned her against the wall, his body pressing into hers heavy and unyielding, claiming her mouth again and again like he was starving and she was the only thing that could feed him.

“You’re mine,” he growled low against her lips, rough and burning. “Only mine.”

The air turned thick and heady — her arousal a sweet, violet-scented miasma that wrapped around him like silk smoke, seeping into his lungs, his blood, his bones. It drowned out every thought, every restraint, leaving only one roaring, primal need: take her. mark her. make her yours so deeply no one else could ever fit.

Davina stood before him, chest heaving, skin glowing faintly violet, eyes dark and hungry — predator and innocent all at once. She didn’t run. She didn’t lure. She just burned for him.

His hands came to her waist — rough, gripping, fingers sinking into the softness of her sides like he couldn’t get close enough. The scent of her was driving him mad, his control shredding away like paper.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he groaned — voice guttural, thick with need — and crushed his mouth to hers before she could answer.

It wasn’t soft. It was consuming — his tongue sweeping deep, claiming every part of her, swallowing her gasp. He walked her backward until her back hit the wall, his body pressing hard against hers, every hard line of him branding itself into her softness. She could feel how much he wanted her — His erection heavy and throbbing, straining against his clothes, aching for her.

“Mine,” he muttered against her jaw, then lower, teeth grazing the sensitive curve of her neck — sharp enough to make her shiver, never enough to hurt. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Y-yours,” she breathed — barely a whisper — and that was all it took.

He stripped her bare with frantic, shaking hands — reverent but desperate — and laid her down the tattered mattress. Not exactly a place he wanted their first time to be. His one hand roughly cupped her breast. While his other traced her sensitive parts against her pants. Getting her wet and ready for him.

His eyes devoured every inch of her: pale skin flushed dark, violet veins glowing like living fire beneath her surface, curves made to ruin men. He was half-lost to her spell, drunk on her scent, his own hunger painful and overwhelming — but when he touched her, he still touched her like she was something sacred.

His hands roamed — firm, demanding, learning every dip and swell — cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her peaks until they hardened for him, until she arched and whimpered his name. He knelt between her legs, spreading her wide, and she gasped, trying to close them — instinct, fear — but he caught her knees and held them apart, eyes dark and burning.

“Let me in,” he commanded — low, rough, but his gaze was soft, pleading beneath the hunger. “Let me have you, Davina. Only me. No one else ever gets to feel this. Only me.”

She surrendered — melted into the sheets, open and waiting — and he moved over her. He didn’t tease. He didn’t make it slow. The miasma was too strong, the pull too fierce. He pushed into her in one forceful stroke — deep, filling her completely — and they both cried out, voices tangling in the dark.

It was wild then — raw and unhinged. Driven by the violet haze in his blood, Ivan set a punishing, desperate pace — hard, deep thrusts that shook the bed, that made her gasp and claw at his back, leaving red half-moons in his skin. He didn’t hold back. He couldn’t. Every stroke was a claim, a seal, a declaration that burned hotter than fire — I am the only one who will ever know this. I am the only one who will ever belong here.

But even lost in the fever of it, he never broke her. When she whimpered, he kissed her — deep, soothing — whispered against her lips, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, my love.” When the pleasure peaked sharp and bright, he slowed just enough to keep her with him, to guide her through it, his hands gripping her hips — firm, guiding, claiming — never cruel, never careless.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and she opened her eyes — violet and wide — and saw him, stripped of all calm, his face tight with need, his heart naked in his gaze.

He drove into her one last time — deep, so deep she felt it in her soul — and as he found his release. He came inside her. Davina whimpers and pulls him close. Her legs wrapping around him, burying his shaft deeper inside, he pressed his mouth hard to the hollow of her throat, teeth grazing her skin. Biting her and the mark seared into her — violet and gold, burning from the inside out, binding her body to his, rewriting her very nature so that no other touch would ever feel anything but wrong. She would belong to him before she even understood what she was.

Davina shattered around him — crying out, her body clamping down on his, violet light bursting from her skin and wrapping around them both like chains of starlight — and he held her through it, buried deep inside her, trembling, as the haze finally began to lift.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away. He stayed there — heavy and warm inside her, arms wrapped tight around her, face buried in her neck — breathing her in, grounding himself back to her. His heart hammered against hers — wild, human, alive — and slowly, gently, he kissed the mark he’d made.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. Davina nodded like a little child who finally found her home. A tear of joy escaped her eye.

Davina slept deep, curled safe against his chest—utterly spent, the ritual’s fire finally quieted beneath her skin. Ivan traced the violet bloom spreading soft across her shoulder, then lower—where her skin had turned a pale, luminous lavender, fading in streaks down her arms. He wasn’t shocked. Not even a little. He’d seen this kind of mark before. The room blurred.

~Flashback

The present melted away, and he was twenty again—thinner, sharper, still rebellious against the chains they tried to wrap around his soul. His Family.

“You have no right to disobey your mother. You’re an ungrateful child Ivan!”

Leona’s voice lashed down the hallway like a whip. He kept walking—back straight, fists clenched—but before he reached the door, a glowing golden chain snapped from her mother’s palm and coiled tight around his ankle. Heavy. Cold. He stopped. He wasn’t the man he was now—broad, trained, sure of himself. Back then he was just a boy who refused to be their weapon.

Leona stepped closer, cold and unyielding. “You must train. If your brother wasn’t a useless retard—this would be his burden. But it falls to you. It is your responsibility.”

Slowly, Ivan turned. His eyes darkened—hurt, bitter, finally hardening into something dangerous. “Are your sons merely an investment to you? Do you even see us as human beings?” He held her gaze, unflinching—they’d had this fight a hundred times, and every time it broke him a little more.

“Of course you are my son,” she said, voice smooth as polished coin. “But we have duties. We serve the Lord—we use our gifts for good.”

He let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “Tsk. You’ve lost your way, Mother.” His tone dropped—low, quiet, final. “Release me. Before I use my own ‘gift’ on you.”

His brown eyes ignited—burning bright, molten gold. Liquid gold beaded at his fingertips, dripping slow and heavy to the floor, his power answering his call. She stepped back, startled—fear flickering sharp in her eyes—but her pride wouldn’t let her bend.

“You dare threaten me? Disrespect your own mother?”

“Respect is earned,” Ivan said, cold as the metal between them. “And you’ve lost every last bit of mine.”

He lifted his hand and let a single drop of golden liquid fall onto the chain wrapped around his ankle. It hissed—searing, melting—then dissolved entirely, leaving nothing but faint smoke and cool skin. The gold chain was gone.

He walked out without another word—free of chains, heavy with rage. He made straight for the library: tucked away at the back of the house, dusty, cold, and perfectly quiet. Silence was the only thing that ever truly calmed him. He didn’t care for books, never had. This room was no ordinary library—it was their Demon Traders archive: shelves lined with forbidden knowledge, demon history, species classifications. Some volumes sat neat, others lay scattered across the floor, gathering thick gray dust.

Every book bore a mark in the upper left corner—its rank, its price, its danger. Blue meant weak, cheap, easy prey. Yellow intermediate: worth the hunt, fair gold in trade. Red… Red was rare. Priceless. Worth millions—billions—in pure gold. And the most lethal things alive to hunt.

He paced the narrow aisles, still burning, shoulders tight with unspent power. In his distraction, his arm struck a shelf. A book tipped, tumbled, and hit the floor hard. Dust billowed up.

He knelt to pick it up.

The mark in the corner blazed bright, unmistakeable—deep, blood-red. And etched across the cover, in ink that seemed to darken as he stared:

SUCCUBUS

He turned the book over. Painted across its face were women—stunning, luminous, skin glowing like moonlight. But look closer, and the art faded, bleeding into something else: half their faces soft and human, the other half dissolving into shadow—sharp fangs, eyes burning violet, claws curving like thorns. Beauty and beast, one and the same, blurring at the edges.

It was the only book that had ever caught his eye. He’s not fond of reading either

He flipped it open. Succubus. Rare. Deadly. Priceless. He told himself it was just to ease the tight knot in his chest after Leona’s words—nothing more. Just reading to calm down. Just curiosity.

He scanned the words, his gaze sharpening with every line.

Succubi weave mists and illusions—sweet, intoxicating shadows that bend to their will, crafted to lure and ensnare. Their allure is no trick of light; it is their very essence. Their power rises and falls with their desire—stoked by passion, sustained by intimacy. To live, they take: drawing life from men to restore their youth, to keep the darkness bright within.

Yet beneath the danger lay a paradox he’d never seen written anywhere else.

Fiercely loyal once bonded. Bound for life through the mating ritual—one master, one claim, forever.

Ivan paused, his throat tight. That loyalty, the text warned, came from bitter necessity. To survive and be free, a succubus usually kill the one she is bound to. Because she can never belong to another. But some remain loyal despite being abused

He closed the book slowly, the weight of it settling heavy in his hands. One master. For life. Or death.

He had no way of knowing then that years later, he would kneel to that same ritual. That he would choose to be hers—knowing full well she might one day have to kill him to be free.

The memory snapped back to the present. Ivan blinked, and he was here—back in the quiet dark, Davina breathing soft against his chest, violet marks glowing gentle on her skin. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his thumb grazing her cheek.

Davina slept soundly, unaware of the quiet resolve settling over him. Something deep in Ivan ached to claim her—not out of cruelty, but out of desperate, unyielding need. He had to be certain: neither her nature nor her hunger would ever tear her from his side.

He brushed his palm over the curve of her neck, and molten gold flowed from his skin, coiling warm and heavy around her throat. It fit perfectly, —never burning, never biting, but impossible to slip away.

“My love,” he murmured into the quiet, “this chain will hold you if the day comes when you learn what you are… and try to hurt me to be free.”

Then his hand drifted lower. More golden liquid rose and wrapped around her ankles, hardening into smooth, unbreakable links that bound her to him even in sleep.

“And these,” he whispered, fastening the last link in place, “so no matter how far you run… you will never truly be able to leave me.”