My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 289

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You belong To me

-Julian-

My phone sat on the mahogany surface of my desk like a live grenade.

I stared at the screen, the backlight illuminating the missed call notification for the fifth time in less than twenty minutes. Katia was not answering. She was ignoring me, and the sold, sharp blade of my fury was beginning to carve out the space where my patience usually sat.

I picked the device up, my thumb hovering over the screen, and typed a single question.

Where are you sleeping tonight?

I didn’t have to wait long. The bubble popped up almost instantly, a sterile, digital betrayal that felt colder than ice.

I’m sorry, Julian. I want to give my husband and I a chance.

The room went silent. Not the quiet of a house settling, but the dead, absolute silence of a vacuum. I read the words again, letting them sink into the marrow of my bones. She wanted to give Jude Wolfe a chance. She was sitting in a hotel suite somewhere, playing house with a man who isn’t her husband, while she belonged to me.

She belonged to my house, to my bed, and to the history we had spent years carving into each other.

I didn’t bother calling again. I stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the hardwood, and strode out of my study. I didn’t need to ask my security team where she was. I already knew. The Whitmore Manhattan. Jude Wolfe’s temporary stay. The only place in this city a man like him would think he was safe enough to hide my wife.

The drive to the hotel was a blur of aggressive maneuvering and suppressed violence. I pushed my car through the city streets as if the tarmac were a physical barrier I could simply shatter. I didn’t care about the lights or the other drivers; I cared only about the distance between me and the room where she was pretending to build a life with a man who was nothing more than a scam.

When I reached the Whitmore, I didn’t wait for a concierge or an escort. I moved through the lobby with a single-minded purpose, my stride long and heavy, my face a mask of iron. The staff didn’t stop me. They knew a Windsor when they saw one, and they knew better than to stand in the way of a storm.

I reached the suite and punched the code into the lock-a bypass override.

The suite was dimly lit, the scent of expensive cologne and artificial hotel air clashing in the hallway. I found them in the living area. Jude was there, his expression turning from surprise to defensive rage the moment he saw me. And there was Katia. She was standing by the window, clutching a glass of water, her eyes widening as she locked onto my gaze.

I didn’t look at him. He didn’t matter. He was a footnote, a temporary inconvenience I would erase. Som the narrative entirely 1 looked only at her.

“Julian,” she whispered, the name falling out of her like a prayer.

“We are leaving,” I said. My voice was low, devoid of negotiation, a statement of fact that carried the weight of a death senten

“You can’t just walk in here,” Jude began, taking a step forward

I turned my head, my eyes locking onto his with enough lethal force to make him talter “Sit down, Wolfe. Unless you want to spend the rest of the night explaining to your security team why you’re unconscious on the carpet”

He hesitated, the smart part of his brain warring with his ego I didn’t wait for the resolution I walked to Kalia, teashed out, and gripped her hand. My hold was firm, bordering on bruising, a claim that communicated everything I wasn’t saying out loud

“Come,” I said, pulling her toward the door She didn’t fight me she didn’t pull away she moved with me, her heels choking against the marble, her gaze fixed on the back of my head as I haulest her out of that tomb and into the elevator

The drive back to the estate was silent. She sat in the passenger seat, starting out the window at the blurred lights of the city. her

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chest rising and falling in quick, uneven patterns. I kept my hand on the gear shift, my knuckles white, the anger still vibrating beneath my skin.

When we arrived at the Windsor estate, I didn’t let her speak. I pulled her out of the car, ignored the staff hovering in the foyer, and marched her up the grand staircase. My focus was singular. I needed to reset the world. I needed to remind her exactly whose air she breathed and whose bed she belonged to

I shoved the bedroom door open and kicked it shut behind us with a heavy, final thud.

The room was dark, lit only by the sliver of moonlight cutting through the curtains. I turned on her, pressing her back against the heavy wooden door, my hands slamming against the wood on either side of her head.

“You don’t get to choose,” I growled, my face hovering inches from hers. “You don’t get to decide you’re going to ‘give him a chance’ when you are already mine, do you understand?”

“Julian, stop,” she gasped, her hands coming up to push against my chest, but I caught her wrists, pinning them easily against

the wood.

“I told you,” I hissed, leaning down to trail my lips along the column of her throat, feeling the rapid pulse of her heartbeat against my mouth. “I told you I sleep where you sleep. You are mine, Katia. You were mine before you walked into this house, and you will be mine when you leave it, if that ever happens.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I didn’t want one. I wanted to feel her, to mark her, to overwrite the memory of his touch with the reality of mine. I ripped the silk of her blouse, the buttons scattering across the floor like teeth. Her skin was cool and trembling, and the scent of her-the scent of home, of danger, of everything I lived for-flooded my senses.

I stripped her; I wasn’t soft. I needed her bare. I needed nothing between us. I pressed my body against hers, my weight pinning her to the door, my hands roaming over her hips and her thighs, mapping the curves I knew by heart. She let out a sharp, ragged sound, her head dropping back against the wood, her eyes fluttering/shut.

“Look at me,” I commanded.

She opened her eyes, dark and dilated, reflecting the hunger that mirrored my own.

I didn’t bother with preparation. I wanted the raw reality of the act. I aligned myself with her, my hand guiding my length, and drove into her in one, singular, brutal motion. She gasped, her body surging against mine, her nails digging into my shoulders as she took the full measure of me.

It was intense. It was violent. It was the only way to remind her who she belonged to.

I held her hips, my fingers digging into her soft, yielding flesh, and I set the pace. It wasn’t the slow, lingering exploration we had shared before; this was reclamation. Every thrust was a demand for acknowledgement. Every mover, at was a

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