Chapter 10: Silent Submission
The library’s heavy door clicked shut behind them, sealing away the evidence of her breakdown. The ballroom’s noise swelled, a wave of false gaiety that crashed over them. Luka’s hand remained on the small of her back, a brand through the red silk, steering her not back into the throng, but along the periphery of the room, towards a heavy, floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting some forgotten medieval hunt.
He pushed the fabric aside, revealing a narrow, dark opening. The air that wafted out was cool and smelled of dust and slow decay. “In here,” he murmured, his voice low.
Vanja didn’t hesitate. She ducked into the darkness, and he followed, letting the tapestry fall back into place, muting the party to a distant, muffled hum. The alcove was small, lined with shelves of forgotten ledgers and stacked portraits facing the wall. A single, dim sconce cast long, dancing shadows.
He turned to her, his face all sharp angles in the low light. “Your face is still streaked.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered, the words tasting like truth.
A different kind of tension crackled between them now, thicker than the dust motes swirling in the air. It was the silence after the storm, charged and unpredictable. The memory of his fingers, so gentle on her tear-stained cheeks, warred with the memory of his cock pounding into her on the desk. She saw both men in his eyes now—the destroyer and the comforter—and she wanted to provoke them, to see which one would win.
Her gaze dropped to the front of his trousers, to the distinct bulge that had not subsided. The animalistic hunger he’d awakened in the library was still there, a live wire under her skin. It was her turn to take control of the shame, to twist it into power.
She didn’t speak. She simply sank to her knees on the cold, stone floor. The rough texture bit through the thin silk of her dress. She looked up at him, her golden-green eyes holding his, as she leaned forward and took the zipper of his trousers between her teeth.
His sharp intake of breath was her reward. She tugged down slowly, the metal teeth parting with a soft, rasping sound. She used her nose, her chin, her lips, never breaking eye contact. His cock sprang free, thick and already fully hard, the head dark and ruddy in the dim light.
He fisted a hand in her dark blond hair, not yanking, just claiming. “Show me what that gold medal mouth can do, mala.”
The filthy endearment sent a shock of pure heat straight to her core. She opened her mouth, her tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft, and took him in. She didn’t start slow. She took him deep, until the head hit the back of her throat and her body convulsed with a gag.
“That’s it,” he growled, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust. “Take it all. You can.”
She relaxed her jaw, forcing her throat to open, and swallowed him deeper. Tears sprang to her eyes again, but this time they were from the physical strain, not despair. She could feel every vein, every pulsing inch of him filling her mouth, stretching her lips. The taste of him, clean skin and salt and pure male, was overwhelming.
He began to move, his grip in her hair tightening, guiding her head. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, fucking her face with deep, steady thrusts that made her gag and drool. Spit slicked her chin, dripped onto her chest. The sounds were obscene—wet, choking gulps, his low grunts, the rustle of his clothes.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice strained. “On your knees for me. The world champion, choking on my cock while your father’s friends drink champagne ten feet away.”
His words were a catalyst. A fresh wave of arousal, hot and shameful, soaked her thighs. She reached between her own legs, hiking up the red silk, and shoved her panties aside. She found her clit, swollen and aching, and began to rub frantic, desperate circles as he used her mouth.
He watched her hand move, his eyes black with lust. “You like that, don’t you? You filthy girl. Getting yourself off while you suck my dick.”
She moaned around his length, the vibration earning a guttural curse from him. His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their rhythm. She could feel the tension coiling in his balls, the impending eruption. She worked her own clit faster, her hips bucking against her hand, chasing her own release to the soundtrack of her own gagging.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice a raw scrape. “Swallow it. Every fucking drop.”
He drove deep one last time, hilting himself in her throat, and held her there. A hot, bitter pulse flooded her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, as he emptied himself, her throat working around him. The sensation triggered her own orgasm, a silent, seizing climax that ripped through her, making her thighs tremble and her vision spot.
He stayed buried in her mouth for a long moment, both of them panting, spent. Finally, he softened and slipped out. She knelt there, breathing heavily, spit and his come glistening on her lips.
He tucked himself away, zipped his trousers, his movements precise. Then he looked down at her, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. He reached out, not with the rough hand of before, but with his fingers, and gently wiped the mess from her chin.
“Get up,” he said, his voice quiet.
She rose on unsteady legs, smoothing down her dress. The party hummed on, oblivious.
“I have to go to Belgrade tomorrow. Business,” he said, his eyes scanning her face, memorizing it. “I’ll be gone a week.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A boundary.
Vanja just nodded, her throat too raw to speak. He had remade her tonight, first with violence, then with tenderness, and finally with this degrading, empowering act of submission. He was leaving, but she knew, with a certainty that chilled and excited her, that he was never really letting her go. The game had just changed. And she was no longer just a player; she was the prize.
The taste of him, a bitter, salty film, still coated her tongue as they slipped back into the shimmering chaos of the ballroom. He disappeared into the crowd without another word, leaving her standing alone by the champagne tower, her body humming with the echo of his thrusts and the slick heat between her legs. She felt flayed open, every nerve ending exposed to the clinking glasses and vacant smiles.
An hour later, she found him by the mansion’s grand entrance, shrugging on a long, black coat. Two men with the still posture of stone pillars flanked him. “Luka,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. He turned, his eyes guarded. “Can I come with you?”
He moved closer, his voice a low growl meant only for her. “Vanja, it… I’m not sure if it’s safe.”
She didn’t answer. She simply turned and walked away, her spine rigid, the red silk of her dress whispering against her thighs like a secret. “Fine,” she tossed over her shoulder, not breaking her stride. She moved through the hallways, a ghost in her own home, the opulent gold leaf and marble blurring into a meaningless backdrop.
Her bedroom door was a sanctuary she tried to slam shut. It caught with a jarring thud on his leather shoe. “Fuck,” he cursed, the sound sharp and frustrated. He pushed the door open, his larger body easily overcoming her resistance, and stepped inside, locking the door behind him with a definitive click. “Vanja, please, it’s not like that.”
“I don’t care,” she spat, crossing her arms over her chest, a feeble armor against the intensity in his gaze. “See you in a week.”
He was on her then, his hands gripping her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. The carefully constructed composure she’d carried from the ballroom shattered. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he snarled, his breath hot against her face.
“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” she shot back, her nails digging into his forearms. “You don’t get to fuck me like that and then just vanish.”
A dark, understanding flickered in his eyes. This wasn’t about Belgrade. This was about the library desk, the dusty alcove, the ownership. He backed her towards the bed, his movements predatory and sure. “You want to come? This is what you’d be getting. Nothing more.”
His mouth crashed down on hers, not a kiss but a punishment, his tongue claiming the same territory he’d filled with his come. She bit his lip, drawing a metallic tang of blood, and he grunted, grabbing a fistful of her hair to yank her head back. “You want to play with monsters, little champion?” he rasped against her throat.
He tore the red dress, the expensive fabric ripping with a sound like a scream. The delicate straps gave way, and the bodice slumped to her waist, exposing her breasts to the cool air. He palmed one, his grip rough, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a hard, aching peak. “You’re a fucking addiction,” he muttered, lowering his head to take it in his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.
She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, not to pull him away but to hold him there. Her hips arched off the bed, seeking friction, seeking him. He unzipped his trousers, freeing his hard cock, and pushed her legs apart with his knee. There was no preamble, no gentle preparation. He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from her lungs.
She was still tight, and the stretch was a burning, exquisite pain. “Oh god,” she gasped, her nails scoring down his back. He didn’t pause, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm that shook the bedframe. Each slam of his hips was a punctuation to his words. “This. This is what’s there.”
He hooked his arms under her knees, forcing them wider, bending her almost in half, plunging even deeper. The angle was devastating, hitting a spot inside her that made her vision whiten. She was sobbing, nonsensical pleas and curses tumbling from her lips. “You like that, don’t you?” he grunted, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. “You like being my little fucktoy.”
“Yes,” she screamed, the admission tearing from her, raw and honest. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, milking his cock. He swore, a filthy, guttural string of words, and poured into her, his own release a hot, pulsing flood.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a solid, crushing reality. For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breaths slowly returning to normal. He finally rolled off, staring at the canopy above her bed. She curled onto her side, away from him, the come and sweat cooling on her skin.
“Pack a bag,” he said, his voice flat and final. “We leave at dawn.”
The pre-dawn light was a dirty smear against the private jet’s windows when they landed. Belgrade was a city of brutalist concrete and hazy river light, a world away from the gilded cage of her father’s estate. The car that collected them was armored, the silence inside it heavier than any they’d shared before.
He watched her take in the unfamiliar streets, her profile a sharp, beautiful line against the passing gray. "You are beautiful," he said, the words simple and stark in the quiet car. She turned, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, a vulnerability he’d only ever seen in the aftermath of sex. "Stop staring," she said, her voice soft, but she didn’t look away.
Later, at a restaurant tucked away in a cobblestone alley, she stunned the young waiter by ordering a slice of štrudla in perfect, unaccented Serbian. The boy stammered, his eyes wide as he looked from her famous face to Luka’s imposing presence. Luka smiled, a real, unguarded curl of his lips that transformed the harsh planes of his face. "Come," he said, tossing a stack of bills onto the table without counting. "Let's go to the room."
Back in the hotel suite, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the expensive rug. She was lying naked in his sheets, the scent of their last frantic coupling still hanging in the air. He stood by the bed, already dressed in a dark, tailored suit that screamed of the meeting to come. "I have a meeting tonight," he said, adjusting his cufflinks. "I'm not sure when I'll be back."
"Let me come," she asked, propping herself up on her elbows. The sheet pooled around her waist, exposing the faint bruises his mouth had left on her breasts.
"Vanja," he warned, his voice dropping into that familiar, dangerous register.
"Luka," she said, slipping from the bed. She moved behind him, pressing her naked body against the stiff wool of his suit jacket. She wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling the hard muscle of his abdomen tense under her touch. "Please," she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder blade. He closed his eyes, a long, slow breath leaving his lungs. "Fine."
The meeting was in a private room deep within the hotel, all dark wood and low lighting. Four men sat around a table, their expressions ranging from curiosity to open hostility. The air was thick with cigar smoke and unspoken threats. Luka took his seat at the head of the table, his posture rigid. Vanja stood slightly behind his chair, not sitting, a silent, stunning accessory.
Having her there did something to the room’s chemistry. The men were less focused, their eyes continually flicking toward her. It wasn't just that she was a beautiful girl; she was Vanja Vra Jakobsen, the world champion. Her face was on magazines and billboards, a symbol of pristine, untouchable success. And here she was, in this den of wolves, standing beside Luka.
She was skillful. Growing up in her father’s world had given her that, the smooth, unnerving presence of someone who understood power intuitively. She didn’t speak, but her silence was an instrument. She met each man’s gaze without flinching, a small, polite smile that never reached her golden-green eyes. She represented something they could not have, a legitimacy and beauty that existed far outside their grim transactions, and she was using it for him.
Luka saw the shift. A man named Petrov, who had been pushing back on every point, suddenly seemed distracted, his arguments losing their edge as he stared at the way Vanja’s simple black dress clung to her hips. Another, younger man, kept adjusting his tie, visibly unnerved. She was a disruption, a living, breathing question mark that made them forget the script. She was wielding a power he hadn't known she possessed, and it was breathtaking.
He knew he loved her. He had known for a while now, a cold, hard fact he’d kept buried like a weapon. But this, watching her calmly dismantle a room of dangerous men without uttering a single word, this left him truly breathless. The realization was a physical blow, a crack in the foundation of everything he was.
The meeting concluded with a series of terse nods and handshakes that felt more like threats than agreements. The men filed out, casting final, lingering looks at Vanja, who remained perfectly still by Luka’s chair. The door clicked shut, sealing them in the smoky silence. He didn’t move for a long moment, just stared at the polished wood of the table, seeing the ghost of her reflection there.
Then he stood so suddenly his chair scraped back with a sharp cry. He turned to her, his expression stripped raw, all his usual control incinerated in the furnace of that look. He didn’t speak. He just closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs rough against her cheekbones.
“Marry me,” he said. The words were not a question. They were a statement, low and guttural, ripped from some deep, uncharted place inside him. There was no poetry in it, no grand declaration. It was a demand, a claim, as fundamental and unadorned as the need to breathe.
Vanja’s breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, trapped bird. She searched his eyes, looking for the joke, the manipulation, but found only a terrifying, absolute seriousness. This was the man from the library, the one who had seen her broken and had not looked away. “What?” she whispered, the word barely audible.
“You heard me.” His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. “Be my wife.”
A thousand thoughts collided in her mind. The world champion, the perfect daughter, the girl on the billboards. This man, this life, this dark, consuming thing between them that was part destruction and part salvation. It was insanity. It was the only thing that had ever made real sense. She thought of his cock in her mouth, the taste of him, the way he looked at her when she came apart for him. This was just another version of that same possession.
“Yes,” she said.
The word was a key turning in a lock deep within her. A final surrender that felt, paradoxically, like the first true power she’d ever wielded.
His mouth crashed down on hers, but this kiss was different. It wasn’t about punishment or claiming. It was a seal. It was a vow. He kissed her with a desperate, hungry intensity that stole the air from her lungs and the strength from her knees. When he finally broke away, they were both breathing as if they’d run a race.
“Good,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. His hands slid from her face, down her arms, coming to rest on her hips. “Now I need to fuck my fiancée.”
He turned her around, bending her over the polished conference table where, minutes before, men had discussed fortunes and violence. The cool wood pressed against her cheek. He pushed her black dress up around her waist and tore her panties down her thighs with a single, ruthless pull. “You were so still,” he growled, unzipping his trousers. “So quiet. But I knew what you were. Mine.”
He entered her in one deep, sure thrust. She cried out, her fingers splaying across the wood. He was still half-hard from before, but he filled her completely, stretching her, the residual slickness from their earlier coupling allowing him to slide home with devastating ease. He set a relentless, possessive rhythm, his hips slamming against her ass with each driving push.
“This cunt is mine,” he grunted, one hand tangling in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she gasped, the words muffled against the table. The room spun around her. The scent of cigar smoke and his cologne filled her nostrils. This was her engagement. This was her promise. Raw and filthy and perfect.
“I’m gonna come inside you,” he rasped, his pace becoming frantic, jagged. “Fill my wife up.” The obscenity, coupled with the new title, sent a shockwave of pleasure through her. Her own orgasm coiled tight, triggered by his words as much as his thrusts. “Do it,” she begged, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. “Please, Luka, fill me.”
With a final, deep groan, he shuddered and spilled into her, his release a hot, pulsing flood. She clenched around him, her own climax a sharp, silent scream that left her trembling. He stayed buried inside her for a long moment, his weight heavy on her back, his breath hot on her neck.
He finally pulled out, and she heard the soft, wet sound of his seed dripping from her onto the floor. He turned her around, his eyes dark and unfathomable. He looked at the mess on the table, on her thighs, and a slow, possessive smile touched his lips. He took her left hand, his fingers intertwining with hers.
“I’ll get you a ring,” he said, his voice low. “Something that screams ‘mine’.”