Claimed by the Devil in a Suit
He doesn't believe in love.
He believes in ownership.
Lucien Vale built his empire the same way he destroys his enemies-quietly, strategically, without mercy. To the world, he's the youngest billionaire in Europe. To those who cross him, he's something far darker.
They call him The Devil in a Suit.
When struggling art conservator Amara Rossi unknowingly restores a painting tied to one of Lucien's most dangerous secrets, she becomes collateral in a war she never saw coming. To protect her-and control the damage-Lucien does what he does best.
He claims her.
What begins as a contract meant to silence her turns into an obsession neither of them expected. Amara refuses to be owned. Lucien has never been denied.
But behind Lucien's cold precision is a man forged by betrayal, raised in violence, and taught that love is a weakness exploited by enemies. And behind Amara's defiance is a woman who has spent her life surviving powerful men.
Their chemistry is volatile. Their power dynamic intoxicating.
Their connection? Terrifyingly real.
Because the devil doesn't fall in love.
He possesses.
And when Lucien realizes he would burn empires for her, the question isn't whether he can keep Amara-
It's whether she can survive being claimed by him.
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Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The alarm was not loud.
It was worse than loud.
It was controlled-low, pulsing, deliberate. A sound designed not to panic, but to mobilize.
Amara's body reacted before her mind did. Her pulse spiked violently, breath turning shallow, fingers cold.
"They're already here."
Lucien's words did not rise above the alarm.
They cut through it.
Matteo was moving instantly, issuing commands into his comms. "Lockdown protocol. Seal interior access points. West wing breach suspected. All units converge."
The monitors remained black.
No feeds.
No visibility.
That frightened Amara more than the footage had.
Lucien stepped closer to her, his presence suddenly not just powerful-but protective.
"Stay behind me," he said.
The shift in his tone was subtle.
Not a request.
Instinct.
She swallowed. "You said this house was secure."
"It is."
"Then how-"
"They're not inside physically," he interrupted, eyes scanning the room.
The alarms changed pitch briefly, then stabilized.
Matteo glanced up. "Internal systems compromised for twenty seconds. They piggybacked through the news server link."
"Trace," Lucien ordered.
"Already isolating."
Amara's legs felt weak.
"So they weren't-" she started.
Lucien looked at her.
"No one is in your corridor."
The relief hit hard enough to almost make her dizzy.
"But they wanted us to believe they were," he continued.
Her stomach twisted again.
"They're escalating psychologically."
Matteo's jaw tightened. "It's a demonstration."
Lucien nodded once.
"Yes."
Amara pressed a hand to her temple, trying to steady herself.
"They hacked your house."
"They breached a visual layer," Lucien corrected calmly. "Not the structure."
"That's supposed to be reassuring?"
"Yes."
She stared at him.
"How are you this calm?"
He met her gaze.
"Because panic benefits them."
His composure was infuriating.
And grounding.
The alarms ceased completely.
Silence returned-thicker now.
Matteo's tablet pinged again.
"Sir. We've traced the image injection. It originated offshore, but the signal bounce indicates a local relay."
Lucien's eyes hardened.
"Distance?"
"Under three kilometers."
Amara's breath caught.
"They're close."
"Yes," Lucien said quietly.
"Are they watching now?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Matteo did.
"Always assume yes."
A cold wave moved through her.
Lucien turned to Matteo. "Deploy counter-surveillance sweep. Physical perimeter and digital."
Matteo nodded and exited swiftly.
The study door closed.
For the first time since the alarms began-
It was just the two of them.
The quiet felt heavier.
Amara crossed her arms, hugging herself slightly without meaning to.
"I can't do this," she whispered.
Lucien stepped closer.
"You are doing it."
"No," she shook her head. "This isn't my world."
"It wasn't supposed to be."
"That doesn't make it better."
He studied her face carefully.
"You're frightened."
"Yes."
The admission cost her.
He nodded once.
"Good."
Her head snapped up.
"Good?"
"It means you understand the stakes."
She stared at him in disbelief.
"You think fear is useful?"
"I think clarity is."
"That's not clarity. That's terror."
His voice lowered.
"Fear sharpens."
She took a step toward him, anger breaking through.
"I am not a weapon you get to sharpen."
The words hit harder than she intended.
For a fraction of a second-
He flinched.
It was small.
Almost imperceptible.
But she saw it.
"I didn't bring you here to use you," he said quietly.
"Then why am I here?"
Silence stretched between them.
His jaw flexed.
"Because when Kovar calls you," he said, "I need him to believe you matter."
The room seemed to tilt.
"So I am leverage."
"No."
"You just said-"
"I need him to think that."
"And what do you need?" she demanded.
His gaze darkened.
"I need him exposed."
Her pulse thundered.
"So I'm bait."
The word hung between them like an accusation.
His expression hardened.
"You are protected."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agreed quietly.
The honesty hurt more than denial would have.
She turned away from him, pacing once across the study.
"You're willing to let him think I matter to you just to flush him out."
"I am willing," he corrected, "to let him miscalculate."
She laughed bitterly.
"At my expense."
His voice dropped.
"You think I would allow harm to reach you?"
"I think you're used to calculating risk."
"Yes."
"And I'm part of the calculation."
Silence.
That was answer enough.
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I should leave," she whispered.
"You can't."
Her head snapped toward him.
"You said I could."
"I said I wouldn't stop you."
"That's the same thing."
"It isn't."
"Then what is?"
"Strategy."
The word felt cold.
Calculated.
Everything about him was calculated.
She stepped closer, anger burning now.
"I don't belong in your strategy."
His eyes locked onto hers.
"You already do."
The air between them crackled.
She didn't know whether to slap him or step back.
"You don't get to decide that."
"I didn't decide it," he said quietly.
"Kovar did."
That hit harder than anything else.
Her breath faltered.
"So what now?" she demanded. "We sit here and wait for him to call again?"
Lucien's gaze sharpened.
"No."
He stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.
"We accelerate."
Her pulse jumped.
"What does that mean?"
"It means we remove his illusion of control."
"How?"
He studied her face carefully.
"By giving him something real."
Her stomach dropped.
"What are you talking about?"
His hand lifted-slowly-deliberately.
He didn't touch her.
He stopped just short.
"If he believes proximity gives him leverage," Lucien said softly, "then we redefine proximity."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"You want to fake something," she said.
"Yes."
"Publicly."
"Yes."
Her pulse thundered.
"You're insane."
"Possibly."
"You just said fear sharpens. This is reckless."
"It's calculated."
"Everything with you is calculated."
"Yes."
She searched his face.
"Why does this matter so much?" she demanded.
His jaw tightened.
"You don't understand Kovar."
"Then explain."
A long silence passed.
His eyes flickered-something old and dark moving behind them.
"My mother trusted him," he said quietly.
The words were unexpected.
Raw.
"She believed he was an ally," he continued.
"He wasn't."
Her anger softened slightly.
"What happened?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then-
"She disappeared three months after that painting was acquired."
The weight in his voice made her chest ache.
"You think he-"
"I think," Lucien cut in softly, "he destroys what he cannot control."
The room felt smaller.
"And you think by pretending I matter to you, you can draw him out."
"Yes."
Her pulse pounded.
"And what if I actually matter?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The question hung between them.
Charged.
Dangerous.
His gaze locked onto hers.
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
The silence was heavier than the alarms had been.
Then-
"That," he said quietly, "would be a complication."
Her breath caught.
The honesty in his voice unsettled her more than strategy ever could.
"You don't even know me," she whispered.
"I know enough."
"That's not possible."
"It is," he said, stepping closer, "when someone refuses to bow."
The space between them vanished.
She could feel his breath now.
Her heart pounded violently-not from fear.
From something else.
Something reckless.
"You don't intimidate easily," he murmured.
"That's not a compliment."
"It is to me."
Her pulse jumped.
"You don't get to turn this into something else."
"Something else?" he repeated quietly.
She swallowed.
"You're using proximity as a weapon."
His gaze dropped briefly-to her lips-then back to her eyes.
"Am I?" he asked softly.
The air felt charged.
Dangerous.
"I won't be owned," she whispered again.
His voice lowered to something darker.
"You're not."
"Then what is this?"
He held her gaze.
"This," he said, "is a decision."
Her heart pounded so hard she thought he might hear it.
"A decision to what?"
His hand finally moved.
Not to grab.
Not to claim.
To tilt her chin slightly upward.
Deliberate.
Controlled.
"To let Kovar see what he thinks he can exploit."
Her breath trembled.
"And what does that look like?"
His eyes darkened.
"Convincing."
The word lingered.
Heat pooled low in her stomach despite the fear, despite the strategy.
"You're playing with fire," she whispered.
His mouth hovered inches from hers.
"I am the fire."
The statement wasn't arrogance.
It was fact.
Her fingers curled against his chest, meaning to push him away.
Instead, they stayed.
"You said this was strategy," she breathed.
"It is."
"Then keep it strategic."
His thumb brushed lightly against her jaw.
Electric.
Measured.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
"Because this is insane."
"Because you're aware."
The tension snapped.
He kissed her.
Not gentle.
Not cruel.
Controlled intensity.
Calculated heat.
Her breath caught violently as his mouth claimed hers-not demanding, but decisive.
The world narrowed.
Fear and fury and adrenaline twisted together into something dangerous.
She should push him away.
She knew that.
But her body betrayed her.
For a second-
Just one-
She kissed him back.
And in that second, something shifted.
This wasn't just strategy anymore.
It was volatile.
Alive.
He pulled back first.
Not because he had to.
Because he chose to.
His breathing was still steady.
Hers was not.
"Convincing," he said quietly.
Her pulse roared.
"You planned that."
"Yes."
"You're impossible."
"Yes."
Before she could respond-
Matteo burst back into the room.
"Sir."
Lucien didn't step away from her immediately.
"What?"
"We intercepted a transmission."
Lucien's attention snapped fully back to business.
"From?"
"Kovar's network."
Matteo's face was tight.
"It's not a threat."
"What is it?" Lucien demanded.
Matteo swallowed.
"It's a location."
The room went still.
Lucien's jaw hardened.
"Meaning?"
Matteo turned the tablet toward them.
A live video feed loaded.
Amara's blood turned to ice.
It wasn't the house.
It wasn't the café.
It was-
Her atelier.
Inside.
Lights on.
Canvas removed from the easel.
The Renaissance painting.
Slashed.
A single word spray-painted across the exposed wall behind it.
CLAIMED.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Lucien caught her before she fell.
And for the first time since this began-
His control cracked.
Just slightly.
Because this wasn't psychological anymore.
This was personal.
And Kovar had just declared war.
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7.2
Betrayed by her sister. Killed by her husband.
Reborn, Sarah returns with one goal-revenge.
This time, she won't be the fool.
And with the Knox, the most dangerous man by her side...
she'll ruin them all, and take back everything that belongs to her.
Promotional line: They killed me once. This time, I'll destroy them first.
8.4
Palermo does not forgive.
Neither does it forget.
When Guerrero Valenti, the feared leader of the Vikings, vanished, the city exhaled a dangerous calm-but only for a moment. In the shadows, enemies waited. Rivals sharpened their knives. And one woman bore a secret that could ignite every street in the city.
Lucia Romano carried the child of a man who had disappeared into legend and rumor. A son who had not been claimed, not protected, not named.
The city whispered of him with venom: the bastard of the Vikings.
The boy was fragile, but he was a storm waiting to erupt. And every night, Palermo tested him. Masked men tried to snatch him from his crib. Fire, steel, and blood became his lullabies. Yet he survived. Every threat only sharpened his instincts, every scream hardened his mother's resolve.
But whispers spread faster than steel through the night-rumors of a man returning. A shadow that would claim everything, sparking fear in every heart:
Guerrero Valenti.
The father who abandoned him.
The legend whose name alone commands obedience.
The storm that will rise, carrying vengeance, blood, and fire.
And when he comes,
Every man who dared call the bastard his enemy will fall.
Every street, every roof, every whispered corner will bow to the son of Guerrero Valenti or be washed in blood.
This is the story of survival.
Of fire and steel.
Of a mother and her son.
Of a father's return.
Even the earth is getting ready to absorb blood ... the blood of those who call the legitimate son of the Vikings a "BASTARD", and collect necks........the necks of those fallen by the sword of GUERRERO VALANTI.
And upon his return Heads will bow to the one they called a BASTARD .
9.8
After three agonizing months, I finally found my fiancé, Barnett Spencer, at a gala at The Plaza. He had vanished without a trace, and I was on the verge of losing my mind.
But when I saw him on stage, my blood turned to ice. He had a strange woman tucked into his arm, and a lawyer announced that a recent accident had erased the last six years of his memory-our entire relationship.
In front of a sea of reporters, Barnett looked right through me with freezing hostility.
"Miss, you have the wrong person."
He then declared that the woman beside him, Joslyn, was not only the person who saved his life but also his new, legal wife. The news hit me like a physical blow, and the camera flashes swallowed me whole as reporters shoved microphones in my face, asking how it felt to be publicly dumped.
The man I had loved for six years had turned me into a national joke, a delusional stranger trying to cling to his wealth.
That night, as I was drowning my humiliation in a martini, his ruthless younger brother, Dixon, found me. He slid a marriage contract across the bar.
"Marry me," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want his shares. You want his pain. We both get what we want."
Fueled by alcohol and a burning need for revenge, I grabbed his pen and signed my name. I was no longer the abandoned fiancée. I was about to become my ex's worst nightmare: his new sister-in-law.
9.1
The best way to get back at a cheating bastard? Make him sick to his stomach for the rest of his life!
Days before her wedding, Corinne caught her fiancé cheating with his coworker in what she thought was their future home.
Furious, she tore everything apart, ended the engagement, and decided on a bold revenge plan.
To make him regret it for life, she set her sights on marrying his powerful uncle. Confident in her scheme, she tried to win over the cold, untouchable man, only to realize too late that she had mistaken his identity.
The man she married was far more dangerous than she imagined!
Corinne decided to make a quick escape. "Let's get a divorce. We're clearly not right for each other... "
He cornered her with a knowing smile, "Not right for each other? Funny, that's not what you said last night in bed. Want me to remind you how wrong you are?"
8.2
Denice Copeland's son was dying of leukemia, and his only hope for survival was a savior sibling.
But the wealthy Montgomery family offered a cruel ultimatum. To get the experimental treatments her son desperately needed, Denice had to conceive a child naturally with Jasper Montgomery—her dead husband's cold, estranged twin brother.
Jasper treated the arrangement like a clinical transaction, taking her body without a shred of tenderness and threatening to cut her son's medical care if she disobeyed. The ultimate betrayal happened when Denice collapsed from exhaustion at his hospital. Jasper's glamorous partner, Kira, suddenly appeared and took control of Denice's dying son. Kira made the little boy call her "Mommy" and ordered security to throw Denice out.
"I don't know you. I've never seen you before in my life."
Jasper stood between Denice and her own son, coldly defending the woman who had stolen her child.
Denice was completely shattered. She finally understood she had never been anything but a cheap stand-in for Kira, a convenient breeding vessel for the Montgomery bloodline. Stripped of her dignity, her past love, and now her only child, her mind violently fractured in her freezing, mildew-stained apartment.
Abandoning the last shred of her pride, she sent Jasper one final, desperate text.
"Tonight. I'm ovulating. Come."
Then, she stepped fully clothed into a scalding shower to drown herself, forcing the man who destroyed her to finally face the wreckage he had made.
9.4
I was bleeding out on the cold ER table, my body failing, while the hospital’s blood bank sat empty.
My husband, Clayton, stood just outside the glass doors, watching me die with the terrifying indifference of a man deciding on dinner.
When the doctor begged him to sign the transfusion consent form to save my life, he didn't hesitate. He took the pen, slashed his signature across the Refusal of Treatment form, and turned his back on me to answer a call from the woman he truly loved.
As my heart monitor flatlined into a long, piercing scream, I watched him walk away to comfort his mistress over a thunderstorm, leaving his legal wife to rot in a body bag.
I was nothing to him—a vicious, disposable obstacle in his perfect world—and he ensured I left with absolutely nothing, freezing my accounts and cutting off my life.
But he made one fatal mistake: he left me alive.
I survived, and as I lay in the dark, the pathetic flame of my love for him snapped and died, replaced by a cold, broken promise.
If I survived this night, I would make sure he bled for every second of the hell he put me through.
I ripped the IV from my arm, stood up on my prosthetic leg, and walked out to start my war.