CHAPTER 180: THE NIGHT SHE CHOSE HIM

Roman’s eyes trailed down slowly, deliberately, every fraction of a second stretching like eternity as he watched his wife—his Julie—standing before him in nothing but the bra she wore.

The sight alone made his pulse thrum through his veins like the deep rhythm of thunder before a storm.

He couldn’t afford to tear his gaze away, not even for a heartbeat. Her beauty demanded his attention, held it hostage without mercy.

The soft light in the room bathed her skin in a warm glow, revealing its flawless smoothness—scarless, milky, almost translucent in its purity.

It was the kind of skin that would tempt even a saint to sin, the kind that seemed to whisper for a touch, a trace, a claim.

His eyes darkened as they lingered over the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the perfect curve of her shoulders, the quiet strength that lived in her delicate frame.

Her breasts pressed against the lace of her bra, full and inviting, as if sculpted to test his restraint.

He raised his hand slowly—hesitantly at first, though every fiber of his being screamed to close the distance between them.

His fingers brushed the warmth of her shoulder, and he let them wrap gently around it, savoring the silk of her skin beneath his palm.

The contact sent a shockwave through both of them—silent, yet potent enough to burn through the air.

From the other side, Julie’s breath caught sharply at the first brush of his fingers.

A shiver ran down her spine, as light as a whisper yet as deep as a pull she couldn’t escape.

Her lashes fluttered, and her eyes closed instinctively—as though shutting them would calm the racing of her heart, as though darkness might shield her from the heat building between them.

Roman’s voice came low, rich, and steady, carrying that familiar authority that always seemed to wrap around her. "Open your eyes, love. Let me look into them."

The command was soft, yet it reached straight into her chest.

Julie’s heart stumbled, and when she finally obeyed—lifting her lashes—her cheeks were already burning a deep shade of crimson, as red as ripe tomatoes.

Her gaze met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to vanish.

There was nothing else—no sound, no thought, no air—only his eyes, fierce and unwavering, locked onto hers.

Then he moved.

A pull—firm yet gentle—brought her forward, erasing the distance that had separated them.

Her body bumped against his chest with a small gasp, and her breath hitched again at the solid heat that met her.

Roman didn’t waste a second; his hand stayed firm against her back, his other still resting on her shoulder as he looked down at her, close enough to feel the faint tremor of her breath against his skin.

Julie dared not look up again. Her gaze fell, shy and unsure, tracing the fabric of his shirt rather than meeting his eyes.

Her lips parted slightly, though no sound escaped them.

The tension between them was thick, alive—made of unspoken words, burning restraint, and that quiet yearning that lived in every stolen glance.

Roman’s stare softened just slightly, but the hunger in his eyes didn’t fade.

Roman’s hand didn’t stop there.

The warmth of her skin beneath his fingers urged him onward, and his touch—slow, deliberate, trembling with control—trailed upward from her shoulder until it reached the delicate line of her neck.

The faint pulse beating beneath her soft skin met the pads of his fingertips, steady but quick, and the contact made his own heart falter for a moment.

Her neck was warm, fragile, and impossibly inviting.

Each brush of his hand left behind a trail of awareness that made the air thicken between them.

Despite his situation, despite the tension that coiled in his chest like a wild tide ready to break, Roman fought to restrain himself.

His self-control, already fraying at the edges, was the only thing holding him together.

He wanted her—every inch, every breath, every trembling second of her closeness—but he refused to let his hunger consume her.

Julie felt it all. Every movement of his hand sent a chill down her spine, chasing away the air in her lungs and replacing it with a strange kind of heat that seemed to settle deep inside her.

Her breath came faster, softer, each inhale carrying the weight of his nearness.

When his fingertips brushed just below her jaw, she swallowed hard, her lips parting slightly.

"Roman," she whispered, the sound of his name falling from her lips like a plea.

The word was faint, barely carried through the air, yet it trembled with something raw—something between fear and desire.

He heard it. He felt it. But he didn’t answer.

Instead, without a word, Roman leaned forward.

His breath fanned softly against her skin before he dipped his head, closing the distance between them until his face found the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

There, in that intimate hollow, he paused—not to think, but to breathe her in.

The scent of her was faint yet distinct—sweet, warm, and intoxicatingly familiar. It wasn’t perfume; it was her.

The quiet softness of her skin, the faint trace of soap, the living warmth that carried her essence.

He inhaled deeply, as though that single breath could steady the ache he felt inside, but it only made him sink deeper into it.

Julie’s entire body went still. Her hands trembled slightly where they hung by her sides, her heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears.

The closeness of him—his breath brushing her skin, his presence surrounding her—was overwhelming.

She tried to steady herself, to calm the quick rise and fall of her chest, but his touch had already undone her composure.

And yet, for all the intensity between them, there was tenderness in the way he held her—care wrapped in restraint.

Roman’s every motion spoke not of possession, but reverence. He wasn’t taking; he was memorizing.

Across the mansion, a very different kind of silence broke. Relief washed over the others like a cool breeze after a long storm.

Azazel’s call had finally come through, and the moment he informed Denovan and Lisa of what had happened—or, more precisely, what was already happening—they both reacted at once.

"Thank God for that," Lisa breathed out, her voice carrying the weight of deep relief.

The tension that had been coiled in her body for hours melted away as she exhaled.

Her earlier stiffness softened, and her shoulders finally eased against the couch.

For a moment, there was peace again in the mansion—quiet, fragile, but real.

And in the distance, behind closed doors, two hearts were still trying to steady themselves, caught between restraint and the quiet pull of something far stronger.

*****

They were still searching earlier when Azazel’s phone call stopped them.

The ring had come like a sharp crack through the tense silence of the mansion, and both Lisa and Denovan had turned toward him instantly.

His expression shifted from worry to relief as he listened, and before he could even explain, they were already moving—rushing down the corridor toward the room where Roman and Julie were.

When they finally arrived, Azazel ended the call, letting out a deep exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The tension that had wrapped around his shoulders all evening seemed to lift slightly.

Lisa’s body softened visibly; her hands, which had been clenched tightly around her shawl, fell to her sides.

"Thank God for that," she murmured, her voice trembling faintly but filled with relief. The corners of her lips curved into a weak smile as she sat down, feeling her earlier stiffness melt away.

Denovan, who had been pacing near the door, turned sharply toward Azazel.

His brows knitted together with concern and curiosity. "Roman has really gone and gotten himself a wife," he said, half in disbelief, half in quiet admiration.

"Care to tell us exactly what happened?"

Azazel shrugged slightly, crossing his arms. "Well," he began, drawing the word out, "I think you should be asking Ava—the girl you two were praising earlier."

His tone carried a mix of mischief and mild irritation.

Lisa blinked, her relief momentarily replaced with confusion. "Ava?" she repeated.

"Yes, Ava," Azazel said, his lips twitching as he turned his head away, avoiding their gazes.

"She’s the one who knows every detail. I wasn’t there when it all unfolded."

He could still remember the way both his grandparents had showered Ava with attention the moment she walked in earlier—complimenting her manners, her confidence, even her smile.

It had almost been comical, the way they’d forgotten his existence completely, their praise flowing endlessly like proud parents meeting their favorite grandchild.

Denovan chuckled under his breath, already sensing the petty undertone in Azazel’s voice. "So you’re jealous now?"

Azazel’s brows furrowed. "Jealous? Of what?" he said defensively, but the faint shade of color rising on his neck gave him away.

Ava, who had been leaning casually against the doorframe all this time, finally spoke, her lips curling into an amused smirk.

"Lisa, Denovan," she began, her voice playful yet composed, "don’t worry yourselves. You’ll hear everything from the right person soon enough."

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze flickering to Azazel with a teasing glint in her eyes.

Then, right there in front of everyone, she stuck her tongue out at him like a mischievous child.

Azazel blinked, momentarily stunned.

His eyes narrowed as he glared at her, though the corners of his lips twitched in spite of himself.

"You—" he began, but couldn’t even finish before Denovan’s laughter filled the room.

Lisa covered her mouth to hide her own chuckle, shaking her head in fond amusement. "Honestly," she said softly, "you two act like children."

Ava only laughed, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve.

"Maybe," she said, her eyes meeting Azazel’s again, "but at least we get things done."

Azazel huffed quietly, pretending to look away—but deep down, he knew she was right.

The mansion, which had been thick with anxiety just moments ago, now carried a new warmth—an unspoken relief that the storm had passed, even if the night was far from over.