The powder room door had barely clicked shut behind her when it opened again.
Lucien filled the doorway, tall and imposing in his black tuxedo. His gray eyes locked onto hers with a fire that contradicted the calm, almost bored expression on his face. He stepped inside without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click that sounded far too loud in the small marble space.
Elara backed up until the edge of the counter pressed against her hips. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"If you forgot what you are," he said, voice perfectly even and low, "let me remind you." He took one slow step closer. "Did you really like the attention that bad? Some pathetic little investor whispering sweet nothings in your ear while your cunt is still dripping from the last time I made you finger yourself for me?"
The words were crude, vulgar, delivered in that same calm, controlled tone that made them hit harder. His eyes burned — dark, possessive, furious — while the rest of his face stayed perfectly composed.
Elara's breath hitched. Heat flooded between her legs instantly.
He reached out, fingers closing around her wrist, and turned her around to face the large gilded mirror. He stepped behind her, his body pressing against her back — hard chest to her spine, the unmistakable bulge of his cock against the curve of her ass through the thin fabric of her dress. His breath was hot and steady on the side of her neck, brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear.
"Look at yourself," he murmured, voice still calm, almost conversational. "Look how flushed you are. How hard your nipples are poking through this dress. All because another man smiled at you."
One of his hands slid down her front, slipping under the hem of her dress without hesitation. His fingers found her panties already soaked. He pushed the lace aside and dragged two thick fingers through her slick folds, parting her slowly.
Elara gasped, eyes widening in the mirror. Her own reflection stared back at her — pupils blown wide, lips parted, cheeks burning red.
Lucien's fingers circled her clit once, twice, then pressed inside her without warning — deep, deliberate, stretching her. She moaned, the sound low and helpless, her hips jerking against his hand.
"See?" he continued, voice never rising, never losing that terrifying calm. "This tight little cunt is dripping for me. Only me. No one else gets to make you this wet, this desperate. Not some weak little boy who thinks he can flirt with what's mine."
His fingers pumped slowly, curling inside her with expert precision, hitting that spot that made her knees buckle. His other hand gripped her hip, holding her steady against him. His breath ghosted over her ear again, hot and controlled.
"You belong to me, Elara. This pussy belongs to me. I decide when it gets touched. I decide when it comes. And if you ever forget that again, I'll bend you over right here and fuck you raw until you remember who owns every fucking inch of you."
Her eyes fluttered in the mirror, hazy with unwanted pleasure. A broken moan slipped from her lips as his fingers sped up just enough to tease, never quite enough to push her over the edge. She was soaked — the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside her obscene in the quiet room.
Lucien's eyes in the mirror were pure fire, but his face remained perfectly calm, almost detached. Only that burning gaze gave him away.
He pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving her aching and empty. He brought them to her lips, forcing her to taste herself.
"Lick," he ordered softly.
She did, tongue swirling around his fingers, eyes locked on his in the mirror. Shame and arousal twisted together so tightly she could barely breathe.
He stepped back, adjusting his cuff with that same unruffled composure.
"Fix your face," he said, voice back to its usual cool command. "We're returning to the table. And remember — you're mine."
He opened the door and left her standing there, legs trembling, core throbbing, panties ruined.
Lucien walked back toward the dining room with measured steps, adjusting his jacket. His cock was hard as steel, straining against his trousers, but his expression gave nothing away.
He had almost lost control in there. Almost.
The sight of her in the mirror — flushed, moaning, dripping around his fingers — had done something dangerous to him. That fire in his chest again. The same one he had felt when he carried her to bed the other night.
She's just a tool, he reminded himself coldly. A wife for show. A cunt for an heir.
But the way she had moaned for him… the way her eyes had looked at him in the mirror…
He shoved the thought down.
When he rejoined the table, Viktor was already watching them both with sharp interest. The family dinner was about to begin.
Lucien sat down, placed a possessive hand on Elara's thigh under the table, and smiled that faint, cold smile.
The stakes had just gotten higher.
______
The private dining room at La Belle Époque had emptied of the investors and outsiders. The staff quietly rearranged the space, moving to the more secluded VIP section at the back — a dimly lit room with heavy velvet drapes, a long obsidian table, and walls that swallowed sound. This was where the real night began.
The Volkov family dinner.
Lucien sat at the head of the table, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Elara was beside him, still flushed from the powder room. He could smell her on his fingers — sweet, musky, unmistakable. Every time she shifted in her seat, he remembered how her tight cunt had clenched around his fingers, how she had moaned so prettily while trying to stay quiet.
His cock was still half-hard under the table.
Viktor lounged across from them, a glass of whiskey in hand, his smile sharp as a blade. Roman and Elias sat further down, watching silently. The youngest, Kai, hadn't arrived yet.
Elara tried to give a normal face but she felt like her brain stopped functioning for a second because of what happened in the powder room but the tension at the table was enough to snap her back to the present if only for a while.
Lucian had informed her earlier that there was goinging to be a private family dinner later that night in the Vip section after the party investors and close family friends.
This was her first meeting with almost all his family.
The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.
"So," Viktor drawled, swirling his drink, eyes flicking between Lucien and Elara. "A sudden marriage. No engagement party. No announcement. Just… poof. The great Lucien Volkov suddenly has a wife." He leaned forward, gaze lingering on Elara's cleavage a second too long. "Tell me, brother — is she really that good in bed, or did you just need a warm body fast to satisfy Father's will?"
Lucien's expression didn't change. Calm. Controlled. Only the fire in his gray eyes betrayed him.
Elara sat very still beside him, hands folded in her lap. She was observing everything — the way the brothers circled each other like wolves, the undercurrents of power. She could feel Lucien's possessiveness radiating off him in waves, especially after what had just happened in the powder room. Her pussy still throbbed from his fingers, slick and aching, her panties ruined.
She kept her face neutral, but her body remembered every second. Lucien's calm voice whispering those filthy words while he fingered her in front of the mirror. The way he had called her cunt "mine." The way her own eyes had looked back at her — hazy, desperate, lost. She hated how wet she still was. Hated how her nipples stayed tight against the dress. Hated that even now, sitting among his dangerous brothers, part of her was aware of Lucien's thigh pressed against hers under the table.
Viktor's eyes on her made her skin crawl, but Lucien's quiet dominance made her thighs clench.
Lucien took a slow sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch.
"She's my wife," he said finally, voice low and even. "That's all you need to know."
Viktor laughed softly. "Come on. We all know the will requires a convincing marriage. Stability. An heir on the way. Is she pregnant yet? Or are you still breaking her in?" His gaze slid to Elara again. "She looks like she could handle all of us if you ever get tired of her."
The table went deathly quiet.
Lucien's hand moved under the table. His fingers found Elara's thigh and squeezed — not gently. A clear warning and claim at the same time. He felt her tense, then the subtle way she pressed her legs together. Good. She was still wet for him.
"Touch her, look at her, or speak to her like that again," Lucien said calmly, "and I will remove your tongue. Slowly."
Viktor raised his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes gleamed with challenge. "Protective. Interesting. I wonder how long that will last."
The conversation shifted to business — shipments, territories, upcoming votes — but the undercurrent never eased. Elara sat quietly, listening, absorbing every word like the clever little spy she thought she was. Lucien could feel her watching the dynamics, cataloging weaknesses.
Later, as dessert was served, Viktor stood and gestured toward Elara. "A word, sister-in-law? In private. Family matters."
Lucien's hand shot out, wrapping around Elara's wrist before she could even respond. He pulled her chair closer to his with deliberate force.
"She stays with me," he said, voice ice-cold and flat. "There is nothing you need to say to my wife that can't be said in front of me."
Viktor's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Possessive tonight, aren't we?"
The rest of the dinner passed in a haze of veiled threats and careful words. When it finally ended, they rose to leave.
In the car on the way back to the mansion, Elara was silent beside him. Lucien could still smell her arousal. Could still feel the way her cunt had fluttered around his fingers earlier.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He glanced at it.
A message from Viktor, sent directly to Elara's number (how he got it didn't matter):
"Be careful of who you're married to. Some cages look beautiful from the inside."
Lucien deleted it from her notifications before she could see it, then slid her phone away.
The brothers were circling.
And his wife was becoming far more dangerous — and far more tempting — than he had planned.