Chapter 173

Richard

We were on our way to report what we’d heard, David's voice still sharp in my ears, the full scope of sabotage laid bare, every word of it enough to destroy the legitimacy of the vote, but the moment we stepped into the hallway, everything fractured.

The space outside the command room was absolute chaos. Radios screamed updates in overlapping static, people shouted names and numbers, trying to confirm what no one could fully believe, and dozens of footsteps pounded the marble, echoing up the stairwells. It didn’t feel like victory. It felt like containment had failed.

Someone caught my jacket sleeve. "Richard—"

Another voice cut across theirs. "They’re calling it!"

A third voice cut in, louder now, nearly stumbling over itself. "The northern territories just finalized. You're ahead."

"What?" I said, not trusting what I was hearing.

Nathan stepped closer, his voice low and steady. "Richard... you won."

Amelia's hand tightened around mine. We both paused as if the words needed to be translated. The hallway seemed to pulse around us, the lights buzzing louder, the temperature spiking, the sharp scent of printer toner and sweat clogging the air. Then came the noise: a wave of shouting and crying, celebration swelling through every corridor. Doors flew open. Staffers ran past in every direction. I barely registered the flood of movement as we were pulled toward the main conference room.

Screens dominated the far wall, each of them lit up with live data. The vote count blinked red and gold. My name at the top. 50.3%.

It should have felt clean and triumphant. All I felt was the air rushing into my lungs too fast, the disorienting thud of blood behind my eyes. Like surfacing too quickly from deep water.

Nathan appeared through the blur. "It was close. Border packs nearly flipped again, but the tampering flagged in time. Northern tallies came in clean. You held the vote."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Around me, people embraced and wept. Phones were lifted, cameras swung toward the risers, and someone shouted about prepping the stage.

But I wasn’t looking at them. My eyes had already found Amelia.

She stood in the doorway, still. No wide smile, no visible emotion, just an electric steadiness in her posture. The bond between us thrummed. She gave the smallest nod.

I followed her.

We slipped down a side hallway, past boxes of signage and coiled cords. Her grip on my hand never loosened. She moved fast, like she knew time was thinning. When she found a storage room, she pulled me inside and shut the door behind us with a finality that echoed.

She kissed me without hesitation. No tenderness, no sweetness, just friction, purpose, hunger. She shoved me back against a rack of banners, bit my lip hard enough to make me groan, and dropped to her knees.

Her hands were shaking as she undid my belt, her voice low and hoarse with urgency. "I want you with my spit on your cock and my lipstick on your skin before they dress you up like their golden boy."

She took me into her mouth fast, her lips stretching around me with no hesitation, no tease. Her spit was immediate, loud and thick as she worked me deep, her throat flexing when she swallowed me down. She gagged and didn’t pull back. Her eyes watered, mascara streaking. Her hands braced my hips like she was anchoring herself to reality.

I tangled my fingers in her hair, not to guide her but to stay upright. She moaned and worked her tongue with frantic precision. The sloppy sounds echoed in the tiny room. Her mouth was red and swollen already, cheeks flushed, lashes wet.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” I growled. “What a filthy little mouth.”

She pulled off with a gasp and looked up at me, her breath ragged. “Only for you. Please, Daddy, hurt me a little. I need it.”

I felt my cock twitch against her tongue. She saw it happen, watched it like she’d been testing a theory and just confirmed her results. Her eyes lit up, daring and electric.

She said it again. “Please, Daddy. Make it hurt.”

I groaned low and pulled her to her feet by her hair. My whole body responded. She had me unraveling with a single word, a single look, and she fucking knew it.

Where had I found someone this shameless, this wild, this perfect? No one else had ever made me feel like this, like I belonged to her as much as she belonged to me. My cock throbbed, aching for her heat, her squeeze, the way she sucked me in like she was made to hold me.

“Turn around.”

I shoved her against the shelves and yanked her skirt up. Her panties were soaked and halfway down before I slapped her ass hard enough to echo. She gasped and moaned at the same time.

“You want pain?” I hissed. “You’re going to get it.”

I drove into her in one punishing thrust.

She screamed, grabbing at the metal shelf for balance. I wrapped one hand around her throat and yanked her against my chest as I slammed into her again, again, again. The entire shelving unit rattled.

“You want to forget your name? I’ll fuck you until the only word in your mouth is mine.”

She couldn’t even speak. Her mouth fell open, breath shattered, her body jerking with every thrust. I spat on her back and pounded harder. Her thighs shook, her ass bounced against me with each brutal stroke.

“You’re mine,” I growled, pounding into her so deep she choked on her own moan. “You like when Daddy claims this tight little pussy all for himself? You giving me this perfect little hole to fuck like it belongs to me?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yours. Please, Daddy, don’t stop. I never want to stop feeling you inside me.”

I pressed two fingers against her clit while keeping my other hand tight on her throat. Her whole body tensed and then broke, a rush of wet heat gushing around my cock as she came. Her knees buckled. I didn’t let her fall.

Even when she whimpered, I kept going, dragging her back onto me, hips relentless.

When I pulled out, she was a mess of slick thighs and shaking limbs. I flipped her onto the table and climbed between her legs.

“Beg for it.”

“Please, Daddy. Please use me again. I'll do whatever you want. Just don’t stop fucking me.”

I shoved inside her again, slower this time, but no less deep. Her nails clawed at my arms. She arched her back, whimpering and gasping.

“Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours,” she moaned. “All yours. I’m your fucktoy, Daddy. Use me however you want.”

I growled, bit into her collarbone, and pounded into her harder than before. Her cries cracked, shattered under the force of it. When she came again, I didn’t stop. I followed her over the edge, pulling out at the last second to paint her thighs and stomach with my release.

We stayed like that for a moment. Our breathing was harsh, but synced. The room smelled like sex and sweat and ownership.

She sat up slowly, wiped herself with a torn piece of fabric from her skirt, and adjusted her clothes with practiced calm. Then she stepped close and smoothed my collar, retied my tie, and smiled.

“You’re the King again.”

I looked at her, at her bruises, her glow, her proud composure. She had marked me as much as I’d marked her.

I wanted to propose on the spot.

But she wouldn’t want the world to watch. Tomorrow night. At the gala.

She laced our fingers, and we stepped out into the hallway.

The crowd exploded. The crown was placed on my head.

But all I felt was her.