Chapter Five

Lucian

I always get what I want. Always. My father drilled it into me before I could even speak properly. Everything my brothers and I wanted, we took. Everything we desired, we collected. Desire is currency, and I’ve been rich in it since birth.

Aurora sits beside me in the car, hands in her lap, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. Her pulse thrums through the thin fabric. She refuses to look at me.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks finally. My obsession hums louder.

“You’ll see,” I say. Nothing more. Her lips press into a thin line—she hates that I have all the power here.

Her legs are crossed, toes tapping under the seat. Every twitch, every micro-gesture, catalogs itself in my mind. I haven’t wanted anyone like this in such a long time, and I’m relishing feeling desire again.

My villa sits like a fortress in the night. She’ll visit it twice a week, and soon she’ll learn that twice a week is not a suggestion. Twice a week she comes here. Twice a week she exists for me. Dances for me. Lives for me.

She flinches when I open the door for her. There’s no need. I feel a lot of things for her—fascination, obsession, lust—but not a bone in my body wants to physically hurt her.

“Twice a week,” I begin as we walk through the hall. “You come here. No excuses.”

“What if I’m sick? What if I’m on my period?” she rushes to ask, already looking for a way out.

“Even then, you will come. Blood never bothered me anyway.” My tone is flat.

She glares. “And if I refuse?”

We’re just going in circles now, and it’s pissing me off. I turn to her, placing a hand on the small of her back. “Refuse?” I echo, lethal. “We already went over this. Refusing me means losing everything you have now. You know what I do to people who defy me.”

She swallows, not looking at me. That’s fine. Let her stew. Let her taste the corner she’s in.

“And the rules,” she hisses. “What are they exactly?”

“Rules,” I repeat, letting the word roll between us. “No missed rehearsals. You don’t slack off because of our deal. You take birth control. And you don’t so much as look at other men.”

Her chest rises and falls. “And what rules do you follow, Mr. Morelli?”

“None, little muse.” I laugh. “This is one-sided. You belong to me, but I don’t belong to you. That means you have no right to question me.”

“Of course,” she spits, rolling her eyes. Pure menace drips off her.

“Yes,” I say calmly. “That’s how it’s going to be.”

Her eyes blaze. Good. Fire suits her. She’ll need it.

“We’ll see about that,” she mumbles under her breath, and I allow her the tiny act of defiance.

I pull the dining chair for her, and she sits with a huff. The maid enters with dinner. I intercept the tray, lifting it easily.

Some instinctual, primitive part of me wants to feed her—and I never deny myself anything. I cut the steak, offering her a piece, then eat from the same fork, taking note of the tremor in her hands and the flush spreading across her collarbone.

This fascination inside me makes me want to control every aspect of her life. It makes me want to feed her, bathe her, fuck her, then tuck her into bed. I know it’s abnormal, but when did that ever stop me?

“I’m not a child,” she snaps, but like I said before, she’s smart. She doesn’t try to take the fork from me.

“You’re not. But I’m teaching you to let me decide,” I reply.

Her fists clench, knuckles white. I can tell how much restraint it’s taking her to let me do this.

“I hate this,” she mutters.

“Good.” I kiss her temple, my hand brushing her hair. “You should. Because I’m obsessed. And until I control this obsession, you will deal with it. You will sit, you will breathe, and you will exist under it. Every bite, every glance, every moment belongs to me until you can’t remember the difference.”

She swallows, cheeks hot, eyes avoiding mine.

“You’re mine,” I whisper. “And this isn’t a negotiation. You belong to me.”

“For a year,” she shoots back. “Only a year.”

My jaw ticks, but she’s right. Our contract has an expiration date.

“You full?” I ask, and she nods.

I don’t waste any time grabbing her hand and leading her to the studio in my villa.

I want her to dance for me again—but this time, with no music and no clothes.

“Dance,” I order.

With an eye roll, she readies herself to perform, not questioning the lack of music—but my orders aren’t done just yet.

“Take your clothes off,” I growl.

Her shoulders stiffen. “What?”

“You heard me.”

There’s a pause. I watch the war in her eyes—anger, fear, pride—all clawing at each other until only defiance remains. She folds her arms over her chest.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Yes, you are.” My voice doesn’t rise. It never needs to. “You signed. You agreed to follow my direction.”

She laughs bitterly under her breath. “You think humiliating me is art?”

“No. Nothing about what I asked you to do is humiliating. You hide behind layers, behind control. I want to see what’s left when all of that’s gone. When there’s no music or fancy costumes—just you.”

Her pulse is visible at her throat. “You’re out of your mind.”

She backs up until her shoulders hit the mirror. I stop a few feet away, giving her space that doesn’t feel like freedom.

“You want to own everything,” she spits.

“I already do.” I tilt my head. “I just want to see the part of you that you think no one deserves to see.”

Her eyes flicker to the floor. She’s calculating what it costs to refuse. Slowly, she pulls her top over her head. With a curse, her bra follows. Quickly, as if not to lose courage, her shorts and panties go next. Then she stands, not bothering to hide herself—she knows I won’t allow it.

She’s the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. As ballet requires, she’s slender. Her tits are perky little things that make me wonder if I can fit them whole in my mouth. Her thighs are strong, the muscle beneath the skin clear. And her pussy—goddamn, her pussy—it’s small and hairless and perfect. I want to eat this woman alive.

Her body is tense but graceful. The light catches the edge of her skin, and her reflection fills every single mirror in the room.

“Dance,” I order again.

She closes her eyes. Then she moves.

It’s nothing like the precision she shows on stage. This is raw. She keeps her eyes shut, refusing to meet mine.

Every move she performs shows more of her body in a way I know no one before me has seen. The bounce of her tits as she spins. The way her cunt opens as she bends her knees. She’s perfect for me.

I don’t touch her. I just watch. Fixating on the sound of her feet against the floor, and the quiet hitch in her breath.

She stops mid-turn, stripped of everything but pride. Then her knees give out.

I move, catching her before she hits the floor.

“Get off me,” she whispers.

I don’t. I hold her until the tremor fades. And it’s then I realize—

I don’t want her obedience only.

I want her surrender too.

And I fear that I too, want to belong to this woman. To surrender to her.

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