Chapter 16: The Dark Lord's Claim
The fluorescent glare of the office pod seemed like a cruel joke after the velvet shadows. Tom’s presence filled the doorway, a vortex of icy fury that sucked the air from the cramped space. Rabastan’s mocking laughter still echoed, sharp and grating, hanging in the charged silence like broken glass. Cassie’s knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of her desk, the cheap plastic biting into her palms. Her thighs ached, a persistent throb beneath her skirt, a symphony of bruises conducted by Sirius, Lucius, and Rabastan’s relentless hands. The mingled scent – Sirius’s whiskey and cologne, Lucius’s expensive sweat, Rabastan’s raw musk – seemed to bloom in the stagnant air, undeniable.
"You," Tom repeated, the word a shard of ice. His knuckles, pressed white against the doorframe, were the only visible tremor in his otherwise statue-still body. His dark eyes, usually so controlled, dissected her with terrifying precision. They lingered on the faint purple bloom Rabastan’s teeth had left visible above her collar, on the stiffness in her posture that screamed of recent, rough handling, on the pallor beneath her hastily applied foundation. "Look at the state of you." His voice dropped, low and lethal. "Smell it."
Rabastan leaned around Tom, a malevolent grin splitting his face. "Thoroughly used, wouldn’t ya say, boss?" he crowed, eyes raking Cassie’s body with obscene appreciation. "Real thorough. Smells like a party I wasn’t invited to." He winked at Cassie, deliberately provocative. "Garage sale going well, sweetheart? Got yourself a real bargain basement special?"
Tom didn’t even glance at Rabastan. His gaze never left Cassie’s. A flicker of something primal, utterly devoid of his usual calculated coldness, ignited in his eyes. Pure, possessive rage. "Out, LeStrange," he commanded, the words crackling with suppressed energy. "Now."
Rabastan’s grin faltered for a split second, replaced by a flash of wary confusion. He opened his mouth, likely to protest, but one look at Tom’s profile – the rigid jaw, the terrifying stillness – choked the words. He shrugged with forced nonchalance, muttering, "Suit yourself, boss. Just pointing out the obvious." He melted back into the corridor, his chaotic energy dissipating, leaving only Tom’s glacial fury pressing down on Cassie.
Tom stepped fully into the pod. The flimsy partition seemed to shudder. He didn’t speak. He simply moved. One moment he was at the door, the next he was beside her chair. His hand clamped around her upper arm, fingers like steel bands digging into the tender muscle beneath her blouse, right where Sirius’s grip had left its mark. He yanked her upright. Pain lanced through her bruised hip. Her computer mouse clattered to the floor.
"Walk," he ordered, his voice a low snarl inches from her ear. He propelled her forward, not towards the main office floor, but down a hushed, less-traveled corridor lined with imposing oak doors bearing brass plaques. Ministry officials glanced up from memos, their expressions turning swiftly blank at the sight of Tom Riddle marching a pale, clearly unwilling witch down the hall. Cassie kept her head high, refusing to flinch, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The whispers followed them – the scrape of Tom’s expensive shoes on polished stone, the rustle of her skirt, her own ragged breaths.
He stopped before a door marked only with a simple, elegant ‘T.M.R.’ in black. No title. He didn’t knock. A wave of his free hand and the lock clicked open. He shoved her inside, following and slamming the door shut with a soft, final thud. The noise of the Ministry vanished, replaced by a profound, oppressive silence.
Tom Riddle’s office was a pocket of shadowed power. Dark wood paneling drank the light from a single, green-shaded lamp on an obsidian desk. Shelves groaned under the weight of ancient, leather-bound tomes. The air hung thick with the scent of old parchment, polished mahogany, and the unmistakable, faintly metallic tang of ozone that clung to powerful magic. It felt like stepping into the maw of a predator.
He didn’t pause. He propelled her across the Persian rug, the rich wool soft underfoot, towards the massive desk. Its surface was obsidian, reflecting the dim light like still, dark water. He spun her around to face it, his grip shifting, both hands now clamping onto her hips. He lifted her bodily, effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing, and slammed her back down onto the hard, unforgiving edge of the desk. A gasp tore from her lips as the impact jarred her already bruised spine. Files scattered, a brass paperweight clattered, rolling towards the edge.
He stepped between her legs, forcing them wider, pinning her against the desk with the solid weight of his body. His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes boring into her, stripped of any pretense of civility. Up close, she saw the storm beneath the surface – the faint pulse in his temple, the absolute fury tightening the skin around his eyes and mouth. The scent of him – sandalwood, parchment, and that sharp, dangerous ozone – warred with the lingering traces of other men that clung to her skin and hair.
"You reek of them," he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, resonating against her. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, pressing hard over the bruises Lucius's grip had left, making her flinch. "Sirius." His thumb ground down on a particular tender spot, his gaze flickering to the bite mark Rabastan had left visible. "Lucius." His other hand released her hip, snaking up to tangle roughly in the hair at her nape, pulling her head back sharply. "That pathetic display of subservience you wrung from him?" His voice was a venomous whisper now, laced with contempt. He leaned in, his nose grazing the column of her throat. He inhaled deeply, a predator scenting prey. His breath was hot against her skin. "Their sweat. Their desperation. Their fucking seed." The last word was spat out like poison.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto hers again, holding her captive. The fury was still there, white-hot, but beneath it, something else simmered. A terrifying possessiveness, an outrage that burned cold. "Did you think I wouldn't know?" His grip on her hair tightened, pulling painfully. "Did you think I wouldn't smell them all over you? That I wouldn't feel how they’ve… handled… what’s mine?"
Cassie tried to summon defiance, to push back against the fear coiling in her stomach. "I'm not—" she started, her voice trembling.
He cut her off, his free hand slamming down on the desk beside her head, making her jump. "You are." The word was final, absolute. "You crawled to them. Offered yourself. Let them mark you." His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, a dark promise glinting there. "But their pathetic grunting, their clumsy pawing… it’s just noise." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a low, resonant growl that sent shivers cascading down her spine despite the fear. "You’ll forget their names. Forget the taste of them."
His hand in her hair shifted, forcing her head back further, exposing her throat completely to the cool, shadowed air of the office. His other hand slid from her hip, pushing her skirt ruthlessly up her thighs, the fabric bunching around her waist. His fingers, long and cool, traced the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a deliberate, invasive touch that made her breath hitch. There was no gentleness, only assessment and intent.
"They only scratched the surface," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. His fingers found her core, slick and swollen despite herself, a traitorous response to the sheer, terrifying intensity of his presence and the brutal possession in his touch. He didn’t tease. He pushed two fingers inside, deep and demanding. Cassie cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the thick silence of the room. He curled his fingers, finding a spot that made her arch off the desk, a jolt of unwanted, electric pleasure-pain shooting through her.
He watched her reaction, a cruel satisfaction tightening his lips. "See?" he breathed, his fingers moving with ruthless efficiency, stretching her, claiming the space others had occupied. "Their pathetic little spills mean nothing." He leaned in, his lips brushing hers, not quite a kiss, a brand. "This ache?" He pressed deeper, making her gasp. "This wetness?" He withdrew his fingers slightly, then plunged them back in, the obscene sound loud in the stillness. "It’s mine. Always has been."
He pulled his fingers out, glistening. He brought them to his own lips, his dark eyes locked on hers. Slowly, deliberately, he tasted her. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. "Mine," he repeated, the word thick with possession. He wiped his fingers carelessly on the dark wood of his desk.
Then his hands were back on her hips, hauling her forward to the very edge of the desk. He fumbled with his own trousers, the sound of a zipper unnervingly loud. He freed himself, thick and already hard, the tip flushed and demanding. He didn’t ask. He didn’t prepare. He positioned himself and slammed into her in one brutal, unforgiving thrust.
Cassie screamed. The sound ripped from her throat, raw and ragged, echoing off the dark wood panels. It wasn't just pain, though the sudden, stretching fullness was agonizing. It was shock. It was the violation of being taken in this cold, powerful space. It was the terrifying, undeniable force of his claim.
"Louder," Tom snarled, his voice thick with exertion and dark triumph. He withdrew almost completely and then drove into her again, hard and deep, pinning her hips to the desk. "Scream for me." Another punishing thrust. "Only for me." He set a relentless, punishing rhythm, each powerful surge of his hips grinding her against the hard edge of the desk, forcing choked cries and gasps from her with every impact. "Let the whole fucking Ministry hear who you belong to!" He grabbed her wrists, pinning them down on the desk on either side of her head, his body pressing her flat, dominating her completely. "Scream!" he commanded again, his face inches above hers, his breath hot and ragged, eyes blazing with a dark fire. "Beg for it! Beg for your owner!"
The desk edge dug into her back. His weight crushed her. The relentless, deep invasion tore at her sore, overused flesh. Tears stung her eyes, but they were tears of rage, of humiliation, of a terrifying, unwanted sensation building deep within her core – a treacherous spark ignited by the sheer, brutal dominance of him. His scent filled her nostrils, the ozone sharpness cutting through the lingering ghosts of others. His name tore from her lips, not a plea, but a ragged cry of surrender to the storm. "Tom!"
He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure possession. He slammed into her once more, burying himself to the hilt. "That’s it, my Cassiopeia," he breathed against her neck, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Scream."
The scream tore from Cassie’s throat, raw and ragged, swallowed instantly by the thick, silencing enchantment woven into the office walls. Tom’s furious rhythm didn’t falter, each deep, punishing thrust grinding her against the cold obsidian edge of his desk, a counterpoint to the fire igniting low in her belly. It was a traitorous heat, blooming despite the violation, stoked by the sheer, terrifying dominance radiating from him, the scent of ozone and sandalwood overpowering the lingering musk of Sirius and Lucius embedded in her skin. Her body arched, betraying her completely, as a sharp, electric jolt ripped through her core - not just pleasure, but a violent, involuntary surrender.
She came hard. A silent, convulsive wave that locked her muscles, tore a choked gasp from her lips, and sent stars exploding behind her clenched eyelids. It felt like shattering. Tom felt it too, a low, guttural snarl escaping him as her inner walls clamped down, milking him ruthlessly. He slammed into her once more, holding deep, his own release shuddering through him in hot pulses against her cervix. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by their harsh, ragged breaths echoing off the dark wood panels.
His grip on her wrists loosened slightly, though he remained buried within her, pinning her to the desk. His eyes, dark and dangerous, scanned her face, searching. Cassie met his gaze, the haze of unwanted climax clearing, replaced by a cold fury that matched his own. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, the gesture almost tender if not for the possessive intensity burning in his eyes. "Mine," he breathed, the word a dark caress.
Cassie shoved against his chest, a sudden, violent movement that forced him to pull out. The abrupt emptiness was a shock. She scrambled off the desk, her legs trembling, her skirt falling back into place. She ignored the slick mess between her thighs, the ache in her hips. The air still held the heavy scent of sex and power. "Fuck you, Riddle," she spat, her voice hoarse but clear, cutting through the charged silence. She squared her shoulders, meeting his suddenly frozen fury head-on. "That was just biology. A chemical reaction to friction." A brittle, defiant smile touched her lips. "You're not my owner."
Tom went utterly still, the air crackling with renewed danger. His expression hardened into something inhuman. "What did you say?" His voice was lethally quiet.
"I said you don't own me," Cassie repeated, forcing strength into her voice, leaning back against the desk for support, refusing to look weak. "Sirius raised me. Lucius... offered stability. Rabastan provides... distraction." She gestured vaguely towards the door, towards where Rabastan had lingered. "They all have their uses. Their... contributions." She met his stormy gaze, unflinching. "There are other dicks in the world, Tom. Better ones, frankly. Ones that don't come with a complimentary side of megalomania."
A muscle ticked violently in Tom’s jaw. The ozone scent intensified, sharp and acrid, the lamps flickering momentarily. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to grasp her chin, forcing her head up. His touch was ice-cold. "You insolent little—"
The heavy oak door burst open, no knock, no warning. Rabastan LeStrange stood silhouetted against the brighter light of the corridor, a picture of chaotic nonchalance. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his face as his eyes flickered between Tom’s rigid posture and Cassie’s defiant stance. "Hate to interrupt the domestic bliss, boss," he drawled, ignoring the murderous glare Tom leveled at him. "But we've got that thing. Remember? The urgent, confidential... thing?" His gaze slid to Cassie, lingering on her disheveled state, the high colour in her cheeks. "Looks like your meeting ran over. Rough agenda?"
Tom’s grip on Cassie’s chin tightened painfully for a second before he released her abruptly, turning his full, terrifying attention on Rabastan. "Get out."
"Thought you’d never ask," Rabastan chirped, pushing off the doorframe. He stepped fully into the office, his movements deliberately casual as he walked past Tom, ignoring the palpable wave of fury. He stopped beside Cassie. "Come on, sweetheart. Looks like you could use... dinner." He offered her his arm, a mocking parody of gallantry, his eyes daring Tom to intervene. "My place. I make a mean carbonara. Better than whatever cold takeaway this one orders." He nodded dismissively towards Tom.
Cassie didn't hesitate. She took Rabastan’s proffered arm, her fingers digging into the fine wool of his sleeve, anchoring herself. The contrast was jarring – Rabastan’s chaotic warmth versus Tom’s glacial fury. "Carbonara sounds perfect," she said, her voice miraculously steady. She didn't look back at Tom as Rabastan guided her towards the door. The weight of Tom’s silent, seething rage followed them like a physical force pressing against her back.
Rabastan’s Knightsbridge apartment was a revelation after the oppressive grandeur of Grimmauld Place and the cold power of Tom’s office. It was all clean lines, polished chrome, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering London skyline. The lights were low, ambient, bouncing off abstract art and sleek furniture. It smelled of lemon polish, expensive leather, and, faintly, of ozone from the Floo network he clearly favoured.
"Make yourself scarce," Rabastan said, shedding his tailored jacket and tossing it carelessly over a Philippe Starck ghost chair. He rolled up his crisp white sleeves, revealing intricate dark ink snaking up his forearms. "Drinks are in the absurdly overpriced fridge. Wine, champagne, that weird kombucha Bella insists is good for you. Help yourself. Kitchen’s this way." He didn't wait, striding towards a state-of-the-art open kitchen gleaming under recessed lighting.
Cassie followed more slowly, her body still humming with adrenaline and the deep, unpleasant ache Tom had left her with. She felt raw, scraped thin. She bypassed the drinks, leaning against the cool marble counter as Rabastan moved with surprising efficiency – filling a pot with water, grabbing ingredients from a stainless-steel fridge that looked like something from a spaceship. He worked silently for a moment, the rhythmic chop of pancetta on a board the only sound besides the water beginning to bubble.
He glanced up, catching her watching him. That unnerving grin reappeared. "Surprised? Thought I just ordered takeaway and terrorized interns?" He cracked eggs into a bowl with a sharp, practiced motion. "Nonna taught me. Only useful thing that old bat ever did." He started whisking furiously. "Besides, Bella moans I never feed her properly. Claims it’s neglect." He sprinkled in black pepper, the sound like distant rain. "Utter bollocks."
Cassie watched the concentrated frown on his face as he worked, the intense focus so at odds with his usual chaotic persona. The scent of sizzling pancetta and garlic started to fill the air, warm and savoury, a startlingly normal counterpoint to the violence of the past hour. He tossed the spaghetti into the boiling water with a flourish. "Five minutes," he declared, grabbing two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle of expensive-looking red, uncorking it with a smooth twist. He poured without asking, sliding a glass towards her across the marble. "Drink. You look like you need it more than I do, and that’s saying something."
She took the glass, the cool crystal a shock against her palm. The wine was deep, complex, tasting of dark fruit and spice. She took a slow sip, feeling the warmth seep into her. Rabastan leaned against the counter opposite her, swirling his own glass, his dark eyes studying her over the rim. The familiarity of cooking, the casual domesticity, felt more alien and disorienting than any dark ritual or violent encounter. He raised his glass slightly, a silent, sardonic toast to the sheer absurdity of the moment. The pasta water bubbled loudly, a mundane anchor in the surreal silence.