The phone call came at 7:12 a.m., slicing through the quiet of Lucien's study like a blade.
Lucien stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the sleek black device. His mother's voice crackled through the speaker, brisk and impatient.
"Your Grandfather demands to see her. He made it very clear this morning—he's not buying the sudden marriage. Says a Volkov doesn't wed in secret unless he's hiding something. Or unless the girl is nothing more than a warm hole bought for the will. He wants proof, Lucien. Real proof. The kind that looks like love, not convenience."
Lucien's jaw tightened. Love. The word tasted like ash. He wanted nothing to do with the old bastard in the Carpathians—the sharp-eyed fossil who still clung to power like a dying spider to its web. Grandfather Volkov had never approved of anything Lucien did unless it came with blood on the ledger and iron in the spine. Now the ancient prick wanted a show.
"Fine," Lucien said, voice flat and bored. "Tell the old man we'll be there. I'll drag her along and play whatever game he needs to see."
His mother started to reply, something about expectations and family legacy, but Lucien cut him off. "I said fine. Don't waste my time with the lecture. We'll leave tomorrow."
He ended the call without waiting for a reply and tossed the phone onto his desk. The thought of performing affection for that withered relic made his skin crawl. But refusing would hand Viktor another knife to twist. Lucien exhaled once, slow and controlled, then straightened his cuff and went to find his wife.
He found her a minute later in the formal dining room, where staff had laid out an array of new garments across the long mahogany table. Silk dresses in deep emerald and midnight blue, tailored blouses that whispered luxury, heels that would make her legs look endless. A stylist hovered nearby with a tablet full of Volkov family history notes.
"You're to memorize the major alliances," Lucien said without preamble, gesturing to the open binder. "Names, faces, scandals we bury. Grandfather will test you. And you will act besotted. Touch me. Lean into me. Laugh at my jokes even when they aren't funny. Make it convincing."
Elara's cheeks warmed, but she lifted her chin. "And if I slip?"
His gray eyes locked on hers, calm as ever, but that fire simmered underneath. "Then this marriage becomes very inconvenient for you. Act like you can't keep your hands off me, Elara. Or this ends badly for both of us."
The warning hung between them, heavy with the memory of the powder room—his fingers inside her, his voice so cruelly composed while she fell apart in the mirror.
The rehearsal dinner that evening was meant to be practice. Just the two of them at the smaller table in the east wing, candlelight flickering over crystal and porcelain. Lucien had ordered the staff to serve a full multi-course meal so they could run through every gesture.
It started awkwardly.
Elara reached for her wine at the same moment Lucien leaned in to "whisper something affectionate" in her ear. Their arms brushed. She nearly knocked over the glass.
"Careful," he murmured, catching it smoothly. His fingers lingered on hers a second too long. "Lovers don't fumble like nervous virgins."
She shot him a glare, but played along, placing her hand on his thigh under the table as instructed. "Better?" Her voice came out breathier than intended.
His thigh muscle tensed beneath her palm—hard, warm, powerful. He covered her hand with his own, pressing it higher, closer to the growing bulge in his trousers. "Closer. Like you mean it."
The main course arrived. Lucien cut a piece of steak and held the fork to her lips, eyes never leaving hers. "Open."
She did, cheeks flushing as she took the bite. The act felt ridiculous—staged, almost comical in its over-the-top romance. Yet when a drop of sauce clung to her lower lip, he wiped it away with his thumb, then brought that same thumb to his own mouth and sucked it clean.
Elara's breath hitched. The simple motion sent heat straight between her legs. She remembered those fingers buried inside her, curling just right while he told her exactly who owned her cunt.
To cover the flush creeping up her neck, she laughed—a light, forced sound she hoped sounded adoring. "You're impossible when you're trying to be sweet."
Lucien's lips curved in that faint, cold smile, but his eyes darkened. "And you're a terrible actress when you're wet."
She squeezed his thigh in retaliation, fingers digging in. He didn't flinch. Instead, he slid his chair closer, draping an arm around her shoulders. The move pulled her against his side, her breast brushing his chest through the thin fabric of her rehearsal dress.
"Lean in more," he ordered softly, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Like you want me to fuck you right here on the table."
The crude words, delivered in that perfectly even tone, made her thighs press together. She turned her face into his neck, pretending to nuzzle, but her lips grazed his skin accidentally. He smelled like cedar and something darker—danger and restrained hunger.
Lucien's free hand dropped beneath the table again, sliding up her inner thigh with deliberate slowness. The rehearsal was spiraling. His fingers brushed the edge of her panties, already damp.
"See?" he murmured against her hair, calm as ever. "This is what besotted looks like." I watched her now heated face" My wife dripping just from pretending to love me."
Elara's hand trembled as she reached up to cup his jaw, turning his face toward hers as if for a kiss. Their lips hovered inches apart. She could feel his breath—steady, controlled—while her own came in shallow bursts.
The tension snapped.
Lucien stood in one fluid motion, pulling her up with him. The chair scraped back. In two steps he had her backed against the nearest wall, her spine meeting cool plaster as his body crowded hers, one knee pressing between her thighs. His hand never left her dress; it simply continued its torment, two fingers sliding under the lace and pushing inside her without warning, stretching her just enough to make her gasp.
"You're mine to display," he whispered, voice perfectly even while his fingers pumped slowly, curling against that devastating spot. "Mine to touch. Mine to ruin in front of my grandfather if you forget your role Elara."
A moan escaped her lips . Her fingers clutched his shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric. She hated how easily he unraveled her. Hated that the possessiveness now carried an edge of something almost protective—like he was staking his claim not just for show, but because the thought of anyone else seeing her like this made his calm crack.
But he pulled back before she could tip over the edge. Fingers withdrawn, glistening. He brought them to his own lips this time, tasting her with deliberate slowness while holding her gaze.
"Fix your face," he said, stepping away and adjusting his cuff as if nothing had happened. His cock strained visibly against his trousers, but his expression remained composed. "We fly out at dawn. And..." He held her gaze in a smirk." Elara… try not to look so desperate for my cock when we're pretending to be in love."
She stood there, legs shaky, core aching, watching him walk out of the room with that measured stride.
Embarasment washed over her but for some reason she felt his smirk looked a little less different than usual, almost a smile she thought.
Then her mind registered what he had just said. She couldn't help but clentch her first in anger and embarrassment.
He must be crazy to think that she wants him.
Hate that was all she felt for him, she convinced herself.
But somehow at the back of her mind she hated herself more for the sudden emotions she couldn't explain.
Later that night, alone in her bed, Elara stared at the ceiling. Her body still hummed from his touch. But it wasn't just the crude dominance that kept her awake. It was the way his hand had steadied her when she nearly stumbled earlier. The way his arm had felt around her shoulders—not just claiming, but anchoring.
Why did his possessiveness suddenly feel less like a cage and more like armor?
She rolled over, pressing her thighs together against the lingering throb, and tried to convince herself it was only the rehearsal. Only the act.
Tomorrow they would fly to meet his grandfather.
And they would have to sell a love story neither of them believed in.
________
The Volkov estate clung to the jagged spine of the Carpathian Mountains like a fortress carved from the rock itself. Iron gates fifteen feet high sealed the perimeter, guarded by men with rifles and eyes that had seen worse than war. Snow dusted the pines even in late spring, and the air smelled of pine resin and old blood. Lucien had always hated this place. It reeked of legacy—the kind that demanded performance and punished anything softer than steel.
Their helicopter touched down on the private pad at dusk. Elara's hand tightened on his arm as they stepped out, the wind whipping her new emerald silk dress against her legs. Lucien kept his expression blank, guiding her inside with a palm at the small of her back. The contact was supposed to be for show. It felt too steady. Too real.
Grandfather Volkov waited in the great hall, seated at the head of a long table lit by a single iron chandelier. He was eighty-three, thin as a blade, with white hair cropped close and eyes the same cold gray as Lucien's. Age had stooped his shoulders but not dulled the predator in him. He did not rise for them. He never did.
"Lucien," he said, voice like gravel under boots. A faint nod—respect for the only grandson who had never disappointed him in the field. No smile. No warmth.
Then his gaze slid to Elara. "So. This is the one."
He wasted no time. Servants brought vodka and plates of black bread and caviar, but the old man ignored them. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and fixed Elara with a stare that pinned her in place.
"Tell me, girl. How exactly did you tame my grandson? Lucien has never kept a woman longer than it took to get her on her back. Yet here you are—married in secret, no ring on social media, no announcement. Did you spread your legs so well he forgot how to think? Or did you simply catch him with his guard down?"
Elara's pulse hammered.This man was way too blunt and straight forward.
She felt Lucien's fingers flex against her back, a silent warning and anchor at once. She lifted her chin the way they had rehearsed. "I didn't tame him, sir. I chose him. And he chose me back."
Grandfather barked a laugh that sounded like cracking ice. "Chose. Cute. Love stories are for civilians. In this family we choose heirs, alliances, and sometimes warm bodies to keep the bloodline from rotting. Which are you?"
Lucien's voice cut in, calm and low. "She's my wife."
The old man's eyes flicked between them, hawk-sharp, missing nothing. The way Elara's breath caught. The way Lucien's hand stayed on her like he owned the air she breathed. The old man leaned back, swirling his vodka.
"Prove it."
The silence stretched. Lucien's jaw ticked once—the only crack in his composure. Then he moved.
He pulled out his own chair, sat, and in one smooth motion drew Elara onto his lap. She landed with a soft gasp, her thighs straddling his, the silk of her dress riding high. His arm locked around her waist, anchoring her against the hard line of his chest. His other hand settled high on her thigh, fingers splayed possessively under the hem, thumb brushing the edge of her lace panties where no one else could see.
He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. The gesture looked tender. Devoted. To anyone watching, it was a man lost in his new bride. To Elara, it was fire. His breath was hot, steady, controlled—the same control that had ruined her in the powder room and against the dining-room wall. She felt him harden beneath her, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against her ass through his trousers.
Her pulse raced so hard she was sure Grandfather could hear it. A shiver rolled through her body. Lucien felt it. His fingers tightened on her thigh, a silent behave and mine all at once.
"See?" Lucien murmured against her skin, voice pitched low enough for only the three of them. "She trembles when I touch her. Every time."
Elara's hand came up instinctively, fingers threading into his dark hair as if she couldn't help herself. The move was half-rehearsed, half-desperate. She turned her face into his neck, inhaling cedar and restrained hunger, and whispered against his collar, loud enough for Grandfather to catch, "I always do."
Grandfather watched them the way a butcher watches meat. His expression didn't soften.
"Love isn't in our bloodline, boy," he said flatly. "Passion, yes. Possession, yes. But love? That weakness that can get you killed, It's quite rare, And yet you want me to believe that you are Inlove with this woman...Make me believe it, or find another way to satisfy that damned will. I won't sign off on a sham that leaves the empire vulnerable to your brothers."
Lucien's hand slid higher under Elara's dress, thumb stroking the damp fabric between her legs in a slow, hidden circle. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. The old man kept talking.
"There's a Volkov tradition coming up. An elite couples' retreat in the Black Forest reserve. Three days of games—navigation, endurance, paired challenges. Friendly competition on paper. Cutthroat in practice. Allies and rivals all sending their best pairs to prove alliances and strength. You two will attend. Together. No substitutes. Your elder brother will be there as well.Win, or at least survive it looking like you'd die for each other, and I might start believing this marriage isn't just a warm cunt for an heir."
Lucien's fingers stilled. His voice stayed even, cold. "We'll be there."
Grandfather nodded once, satisfied enough for tonight. "Good. Now get out of my hall. I have no patience for performances that still smell like lies."
They left at first light the next morning.
The private jet back to the city was silent except for the low hum of engines. Elara sat across from Lucien in the cream leather seats, legs crossed tightly, the memory of his hand between her thighs still burning. She had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she felt his breath on her neck, his cock hard beneath her, the way his body had felt like armor and cage at the same time.
She knew there was something growing inside her that makes her yearn for him but she was'nt quite sure if he felt the same way or if it was just all and act for him.
Either way her mind was still made up, she can't fall for this man.
The silence grew heavier with every mile.
Finally she spoke, voice quiet. "Why me? Specifically. Out of every woman you could have picked to fake this with… why did you choose me?"
Lucien's gray eyes lifted from the tablet in his lap. For a long second he said nothing. Then his control slipped—just enough for the snap.
"Because you were convenient and Don't read more into it."He didn't bother you meet her gaze.
The words landed like a slap.
Neither of them believed the lie anymore.
But admitting it would be far more dangerous than any game waiting for them in the forest.