Vows of vengance

Chapter. 8

He didn’t speak to me after the ring.

Not with words.

But the way he watched me from across the penthouse—silent, tense, jaw tight—said enough. Something had cracked between us, but neither of us knew what side we stood on.

By midnight, I still couldn’t sleep.

So I poured wine and walked to the balcony in my robe, knowing he’d hear the door slide open.

I didn’t have to look back to know he followed.

---

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, without turning.

“What question?”

“Why you kept the ring.”

His silence stretched.

Then: “I keep every scar. Even the ones that glitter.”

I turned, slowly.

Lucien was closer than I expected.

He looked at me like I was the only real thing left in his world. Like touching me would be dangerous.

And I wanted him to.

God, I needed him to.

---

“Do you want to be with her?” I whispered.

“No.”

“Do you want to be with me?”

His breath caught.

Then he stepped forward and grabbed my face with both hands, dragging my mouth to his like it was the last line of defense—and I was the enemy he needed to devour.

His kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was punishment.

And confession.

---

We didn’t make it to the bed.

He lifted me onto the nearest surface—his office desk—and swept his arm across it, scattering glass, pens, paper. I gasped as he tore the silk robe from my shoulders, letting it fall open.

“You drive me insane,” he growled against my neck. “Every word. Every step. You want control so badly—”

“Take it,” I hissed.

“Careful what you offer, Aria.”

But he took it anyway.

His fingers hooked beneath my panties and ripped them down. I was already soaked. He groaned when he felt it.

“God, you’re wet for me,” he rasped, biting down on my shoulder as he sank two fingers inside me, rough, unrelenting.

I cried out.

He covered my mouth with his.

And kissed me like I belonged to no one but him.

---

When he slid into me—no warning, no apology—I arched off the desk with a gasp.

He filled me too perfectly. Like he’d been built for this, for me.

His thrusts were deep. Brutal. Rhythmic.

One hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back. The other gripped my thigh, holding me wide open.

Every slap of skin echoed between us.

“I hate you,” I moaned.

He snarled into my ear, “Then hate me harder.”

And he pounded into me like he wanted to break the part of me that pretended I didn’t want this.

That I didn’t want him.

---

But then—

He slowed.

Held himself inside me. Deep. Still. Eyes locked on mine.

“You feel too good to hate,” he murmured, brushing his lips across my jaw. “Too tight. Too warm. You take me like you were made for it.”

I shivered.

His thrusts turned lazy. Deep. Rolling.

Dragging pleasure out like silk through clenched fingers.

Every movement now was about claiming.

Branding.

Belonging.

---

My body broke first.

I came around him with a cry I couldn’t swallow, legs shaking, voice cracking as I clung to his shirt like it was the only thing tethering me to earth.

Lucien didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I did.

And he shattered inside me.

His name tore from my throat. Mine spilled from his lips.

And when it was over, he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

Just held me there, still joined, forehead against mine.

Breathing hard.

Like we’d survived a war neither of us meant to win.