Chapter 19: The Lion’s Throne

The streets of Marseille still smoldered in the wake of blood and fire.

But inside the jet cutting through the dark back to Jaipur, Aaravi and Matteo sat like rulers returning from war — bruised, burned, but unbeaten.

Aaravi’s hand was in his.

Matteo hadn’t let go since the moment she’d pulled him from hell.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

She had become his anchor in a world of betrayal and smoke.

And now, it was time to take back his crown.

---

Back in Jaipur, Leone Manor stood silent.

Aaravi walked through the marble halls, her fingertips brushing the walls as if grounding herself. The scent of Matteo’s cologne still lingered, mixed now with her own perfume. This wasn’t just his home anymore.

It was theirs.

The staff bowed as she passed.

Even Nico offered her a nod of respect, and Helena — cold, ruthless Helena — gave her a look that bordered on something sacred.

“You didn’t just survive Marseille,” Helena murmured. “You conquered it.”

Aaravi looked her in the eye. “No. We did.”

---

That evening, Matteo stood on the steps of Leone Manor.

He wore a black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up, gun holstered, scars visible.

The men of the Indian syndicate gathered before him — the loyal, the fearful, the undecided.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t threaten.

He simply said, “The Russians are finished. The traitors burned. If you still wear my ring, then you wear it with blood. If not—walk now.”

No one moved.

But every man dropped to one knee.

All except Aaravi, who stood behind him like a queen without needing to bow.

Matteo’s voice softened.

“And this,” he said, gesturing to her, “is your lioness. My wife. My war. My peace. Disrespect her, and I end you.”

Aaravi didn’t blink.

Her silence held more power than a thousand bullets.

And from that moment on, the kingdom knew: she wasn’t a shadow behind the throne.

She was the throne.

---

That night, they didn’t sleep.

He carried her up the stairs like a man starved of touch, of time, of the right to feel her skin again.

Clothes dropped like petals.

Her back hit silk sheets.

But it wasn’t gentle.

It was desperation.

He kissed her like she was oxygen and he’d been drowning for days.

And when he thrust into her, she gasped — not from pain, but from the fire of him taking her back.

Not as a broken man.

But as her king.

His name left her lips like prayer and sin combined, as he moved inside her with the rhythm of war drums and worship.

“I thought I lost you,” he rasped.

“You’ll never lose me,” she moaned, fingers digging into his back.

He gripped her thighs, pulled her tighter, harder.

And when he came inside her, it was with a growl against her throat.

As if marking her again.

Claiming her soul.

She kissed him through it.

Held him through the shaking.

And whispered, “You’re mine. All of you. Always.”

---

Later, tangled in sheets and sweat, Aaravi lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“We should burn the list,” she whispered.

“The list?”

“The one with all the people who wanted to hurt us.”

He smirked. “Why burn it?”

She looked up at him, eyes gleaming.

“Let’s cross them off. One by one.”

He laughed then — deep, dark, proud.

And kissed her knuckles, each one still bruised from battle.

“I knew I married a queen.”

“No,” she whispered. “You married death in silk.”

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