Claimed: Owned By The Don

The ache between Raven Knight’s thighs hadn’t faded. It was a brand, the one only Jaxon Morreau could leave. It pulsed through her body all night, a phantom reminder that refused to let her rest. Beneath her ribs, under her skin, low in her belly, it throbbed with the rhythm of something dangerous and unfinished.

She’d barely slept. Every time her eyes closed, his voice found her. "Tell me you’re ready to break."

She could still feel his breath, the taste of control he’d offered her, and the surrender she’d taken without meaning to. Jaxon had kissed her once, and somehow that single moment had torn through her resolve, her boundaries, her carefully constructed armor.

Raven Knight didn’t get flustered. She didn’t get weak over men, but then again, he wasn’t just a man, he was a storm dressed in a tailored suit.

Now, standing in front of the mirror of her hotel suite, Raven could see the aftermath of him. Damp hair clung to her shoulders, a towel wrapped tight around her curves, but her reflection betrayed her. Her skin was flushed, her lips still swollen, and her pulse, traitorous, refused to steady.

She dragged the towel off and pressed a cool hand down her thigh, trying to calm the heat crawling up her body. Her fingertips brushed between her legs. Still wet. Still wanting. Pathetic.

Grinding her teeth, she forced herself to move, black jeans, fitted crop top, boots that clicked like defiance against marble floors. She layered her mask, the one the world knew: the sharp-tongued journalist who played it cool while digging through the filth of men like him.

Her phone buzzed.

Talia: You survived. Meet me before shift. We need to talk.

No emojis. No softness. Just warning.

Raven tossed the phone into her purse and walked out before her brain could talk her heart into staying behind.

Club Eden was alive when she arrived, the kind of alive that vibrated in the bones. The bass was low and seductive, the kind that made the air hum. Lights cut through smoke, painting the crowd in sinful shades of red and gold.

Raven moved through it like she belonged there, even though she didn’t. Past the bar, past the dancers whose movements promised everything for a price, past men who didn’t even glance her way. Everyone here played a role. Hers just hadn’t been written yet.

She found Talia in the dressing room, she looked like a vision of chaos and glitter. The air smelled of perfume, powder, and something bittersweet. Talia leaned into the mirror, brushing shimmer across her chest like armor.

“You’re late,” she said, voice flat, eyes fixed on her reflection.

Raven leaned against the wall, folding her arms. “You’re nosy," she laughed.

Talia’s gaze flicked to her in the mirror. “You’re glowing.”

Raven ignored it. “You said we needed to talk.”

Talia capped her brush and turned, eyes sharp. “He kissed you.”

Raven didn’t flinch. “He’s kissed a lot of girls.”

“Yeah,” Talia said, tone turning dark, “but they don’t usually come back upstairs.”

Something cold slid down Raven’s spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Talia said softly, “you need to stop thinking you’re special and start thinking like someone who wants to survive.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice, “you’re not in control here, Raven. You’re not reporting. You’re not investigating. You’re playing with a man who breaks things, and doesn’t fix them afterward.”

Raven’s jaw clenched. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“He should.”

The room went silent for a heartbeat too long, then the door opened, and there he was, Jaxon Morreau, the man everyone whispered about, but no one really knew. Impeccably dressed, every line of his black suit sculpted to perfection. His shirt was open at the throat, revealing just enough to tempt, just enough to warn. The air changed when he stepped in, charged and dangerous.

He didn’t even look at Talia. He didn’t have to. The room tilted toward him as if gravity itself had shifted.

“Raye,” he said, his voice low, smooth, threaded with command.

Her spine straightened before she realized she’d moved.

“Come.”

No explanation. No touch. Just the order. And like a fool, or maybe a moth, Raven followed.

The corridor was narrow, lit in red and shadow. Every step felt like walking into confession, the air thick with secreta and expectation. He led her through a door she hadn’t seen before, into a small room that felt like another world.

A single leather chair sat under a spotlight.

A glass of red wine glowed on a table beside it.

“Sit,” he said.

She did, her legs crossing instinctively, though her thighs pressed tight together, desperate to hide the pulse she could feel between them.

He circled her slowly, like a predator learning its prey’s scent. Silent. Controlled. Unhurried.

“You’re not a dancer,” he said finally.

She met his gaze. “You’ve known that since the first night.”

“I wanted to see how long you’d lie.”

Her lips curved, though her heart kicked against her ribs. “What gave me away?”

“Your eyes,” he said. “Dancers look to seduce. You look to understand. Like you’re collecting pieces to a puzzle no one asked you to solve.”

Her breath caught. “And what happens when the pieces don’t fit?”

He stopped in front of her, crouched down until they were eye to eye. “Then I make them fit.”

His hand brushed her thigh, barely a touch, but it burned, liquid beginning to pool.

“Why are you here, Raye?”

Her throat tightened. “To write a story.”

He shook his head slowly. “Try again.”

She swallowed. “To find the missing girls.”

Still, nothing.

“To understand you.”

That earned a knowing, dangerous smile. “There it is,” he murmured.

Then he leaned in, lips near her ear, breath hot enough to make her shiver. “You want to know me, Raye?” His tone dropped to a whisper that felt like sin. “Then follow me into the dark.”

The elevator descended in silence. No buttons. No sound. No escape. Only the whisper of machinery and Jaxon's calm, and unreadable reflection in the mirrored wall, lethal in the quiet way only men who owned everything could be.

Raven stood beside him, her pulse too loud in her own ears. His cologne, dark cedar and smoke, seeped into her lungs. When the elevator stopped, her breath did too. The doors slid open to black marble and candlelight.

She stepped into a world she hadn’t imagined.

Velvet and steel. Gold glints on the edges of shadows. Restraints hung on the walls like art pieces. Chains draped from the ceiling, each link gleaming like temptation. It wasn’t a room, it was a secret. A confession dressed as sin.

Jaxon stopped beside a rig of leather cuffs and silk ropes. He turned to her slowly, like he was offering her a choice she didn’t really have.

“Strip.”

The word sliced through the air.

Raven froze. “Are you serious?”

His eyes found hers, dark, dangerous, amused. “Do I look like a man who jokes?”

Her heart hammered. Logic told her to walk away, but curiosity and hunger betrayed her first. She wanted to know what he would do if she stayed.

She wanted to know why she wanted him. So, with trembling fingers, she peeled away her crop top. Then her jeans. Each movement heavier than the last. She dropped her bra to the floor, then her panties. He didn’t move. He just watched. Like an artist studying unfinished work.

“Turn around,” he said softly, “hands behind your back.”

Her breath hitched. She obeyed. The cuffs were cool leather, snug but not cruel. When his fingers brushed her wrists, heat shot straight to her core.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She hesitated. “No.”

“Good.” His tone darkened. “Trust is earned. Obedience is chosen.”

He circled her once more, slow and deliberate. The silence between them vibrated like a taut string, ready to snap. Then came the sound, sharp, startling.

Crack.

The crop didn’t hurt. Not really. But the noise made her jolt.

“Focus,” he murmured.

Another crack. This time the sting followed, blooming across her skin. Her body responded before her mind could stop it, her breath catching, her thighs pressing together.

“You’re wet already,” he said behind her, voice low and knowing, “good girl.”

The words wrecked her composure. She wasn’t his girl, nor was good, but her body disagreed.

When the third strike came, she gasped. It wasn’t pain. It was release, like he’d found the key to a lock she hadn’t known existed.

“Why are you here, Raye?” His voice was closer now, almost against her ear.

She swallowed hard. “To find the missing girls.”

He hummed, unimpressed. “No.”

His hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her soaked. Her breath broke on a whimper.

“You’re here because you want someone to take the control away from you,” he said, his words slow, deliberate, as he traced lazy circles over her slick skin. “You want someone to see the woman hiding behind all that strength.”

Tears burned behind her eyes, not from fear, but from truth.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Say it.”

“I want you to break me.”

Jaxon’s hand tightened briefly on her hip. Then he stepped back, the air shifting with his absence.

“Get on your knees.”

She sank without thinking. The cold floor kissed her bare skin. Her breath came in shallow bursts, a mix of fear and want.

Jaxon’s belt unbuckled with a metallic snap that echoed through the room. Her pulse spiked. He didn’t rush. He never did. He was control in its purest form.

He stood over her, expression unreadable, power thrumming in every breath.

“Open your mouth, baby.”

Raven obeyed.

He slid a hand into her hair, steadying her as he guided her, slow at first, deliberate, watching her reaction like it was data, like he was learning her.

Her eyes lifted, meeting his. The look he gave her could have melted steel. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice low, sinful. “You learn fast.”

He pulled back, letting her breathe, his thumb tracing her wet lips.

“You want to come?” he asked.

She nodded.

He smiled, slow and cruel. “Then beg for it.”

“Please.” Her voice trembled.

“Please what?”

“Please let me come.”

“Not enough,” he said.

Her pride cracked. “Please... Jaxon.”

That earned her a growl. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Say it right.”

“Please, Daddy.”

He froze, then cursed under his breath, rough and low. He hauled her up in one motion, turning her toward the padded bench. Her knees hit the edge. His hand slid down her spine, forcing her to arch, to open.

“This is mine now,” he said, voice dark velvet.

When he entered her, the sound she made didn’t belong to a woman who’d planned this. It was raw, broken, real. Every thrust was a claim, every breath a war between defiance and surrender.

The sound of their bodies echoed off the walls, slick, desperate, sinful.

Raven’s hands clenched, the cuffs biting into her wrists, grounding her in a storm she didn’t want to escape.

“Say it,” he growled against her neck.

“Say what?”

“Who owns this body.”

“You don’t,” she gasped.

He laughed, a dark, dangerous sound, and thrust harder. “We’ll see.”

Her climax built too fast to fight. Her moans turned to sobs, her body trembling as she shattered around him. Jaxon followed, his breath ragged, his release deep, claiming. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their uneven breathing. He leaned close, his mouth brushing her ear. “Now you understand.”

Raven’s eyes fluttered open. Her voice was a whisper. “Understand what?”

“That I don’t take,” he said quietly, “you give, every time.”bHe unfastened her cuffs and helped her stand. Her legs shook beneath her, but his hands steadied her.

When she turned to face him, she expected satisfaction, or maybe smug victory, but his expression had shifted to something that looked like regret.

“You shouldn’t have followed me down here,” he said, voice softer now. “You don’t know what this place costs.”

Before she could answer, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, jaw tightening.

“What is it?” she asked.

He pocketed it without answering. “Get dressed.”

“Jaxon...”

“Now.”

The sudden edge in his voice sliced through her haze. She dressed quickly, pulse still unsteady.

When she turned back, he was gone.

The only thing left behind was the half-finished glass of red wine, and the faint sound of a gunshot echoing somewhere above them.