Page 97 of Desperate People

I can barely breathe.

“Tell me what you want, Angel,” I manage, voice thick with reverence. “I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.”

She takes one step forward, eyes shimmering with something too big to name.

“I just want you, Balor.”

And I swear—everything inside me shatters.

Because she could’ve asked for the world.

Instead, she asked for me.

Chapter Twenty-Two-Lucy

I am so turned on right now, I’m sure he can see it—feel it—dripping down my thighs.

And somehow, I don’t feel embarrassed.

Not with him.

Not when Balor’s gaze tracks every inch of my body like I’m something sacred, not something to judge or conquer.

His eyes don’t just look—they see.

And in them, I’m not just Marat Volkov’s daughter. I’m not the curvy heiress in magazine spreads, the object in some songwriter’s hook, or the fantasy pinned to a thousand digital dream boards.

I’m Lucy.

Just me.

And right now, in his arms, with his dark, hungry eyes drinking me in like he’s been starved for years, I’ve never felt more beautiful. More powerful. More me.

I’d be lying if I said men haven’t wanted me before.

That they haven’t whispered pretty words and clung to some fantasy version of who they thought I was.

They loved the idea of Lucy Volkov.

They wanted the package, the image, the myth.

But none of them ever asked what I wanted.

None of them ever waited long enough to see me.

Balor doesn’t even flinch.

He waits—steady, silent, devastating. Like he already knows the truth and just needs me to say it.

And I do.

Because I’m tired of pretending. Tired of hiding behind poise and pedigree and perfect lashes.

I go for broke. I own it. Because yeah—Lucy Volkov is human.

Messy. Wanting. Desperate to belong to someone who can handle her realness and won’t be afraid of it.

“I just want you, Balor,” I say again, softer this time.

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