Author's POV.
The basement reeked of blood, sweat, and death. The kind of place where light itself was afraid to step in, where screams bounced off the damp concrete walls like a symphony of agony. A dozen men were sprawled across the floor, groaning, whimpering, and crying while Zorain's men continued beating them without pause—steel rods, leather belts, boots crushing ribs. The sound was grotesque, bone against metal, flesh tearing open.
And there he was.
Zorain Raza.
Sitting on a broad wooden chair at the far end, legs crossed like a king surveying his court. His face betrayed nothing—no sympathy, no excitement, not even boredom. Just a chilling emptiness, as though what unfolded before him was nothing more than a rerun of a cartoon episode he'd already watched a thousand times. Violence was routine. Blood was normal. Death? Just another statistic.
The metallic creak of a door broke the rhythm of screams. Three of his men entered, dragging another half-conscious figure between them. The man was limp, his head dangling like a broken doll, face swollen beyond recognition. His breaths came out in wet, ragged gasps.
"Boss," one of Zorain's men announced, shoving the broken man forward, "yeh raha. Zack ko trace nahi kar paaye… but we caught his right-hand dog."
Zorain's dark eyes lifted, cold and razor sharp, scanning the man who could barely stand. Silence draped the room, thicker than the blood pooling on the floor. Not a word slipped from Zorain's lips, not a twitch disturbed his calm face. He simply looked. And then, without warning, he stood.
In two strides he was in front of the man. With terrifying swiftness, Zorain grabbed the prisoner's head, pried open his swollen eye, and drove two fingers into the socket. The man's scream ripped through the basement—animalistic, raw, begging for death already. Zorain pressed harder, mercilessly grinding his fingers until warm blood gushed out, spilling down the man's ruined face. The pop of his vision snapping into darkness echoed in the room.
Now he was blind.
Zorain withdrew his hand, calm as ever, wiping his blood-slicked fingers with a pristine white tissue. Behind him, his men tossed the broken body onto the floor and rained down merciless blows, bones crunching under steel-toed boots, his cries dissolving into gargles.
"Boss, he's not telling us anything," one of his men finally spoke, panting, his knuckles bruised from the relentless assault. "What should we do?"
Zorain didn't hesitate. His voice was steady, almost casual, carrying the weight of a man who had killed too many times to count.
"Jab iska koi kaam hi nahi hai," he said coldly, "toh zinda reh kar kya karega? Maar do isse… aur iski laash gali ke kutto ko khila dena."
The order was as casual as asking for a glass of water. A statement, not a command.
His men obeyed instantly, dragging the man by his broken legs while others moved to finish him off. The gurgling screams filled the basement once more, until silence reclaimed the space like a patient predator.
Zorain simply sat back down, crossing his legs again. His crisp white shirt, now splattered with crimson stains, clung to his chest. Not that it mattered. Blood had long ago become a part of his wardrobe—an accessory to his empire.
For him, this wasn't cruelty. This was routine. This was business. This was Zorain Raza.
Isra's POV.
Sleep was clinging to me when thirst ripped me out of it. My throat felt like sandpaper and when I grabbed my bottle, it was empty. Great. Just fucking great. Which meant I had to drag myself downstairs at goddamn midnight for water.
The mansion was too silent, the kind of silence that makes every creak in the floorboards sound like a gunshot. I padded into the kitchen, expecting the place to be dark, but the lights were already on. For a second, I froze.
And then I saw him.
Zorain.
That bastard. That arrogant, cold, sinful, dangerously magnetic bastard. His broad back was to me, shoulders sharp under the fabric of his shirt as he rummaged through the fridge like he owned every goddamn corner of this house. He turned when he heard the faint sound of my foot hitting the tile. And my eyes went straight to his shirt.
Bloody. Not just a few stains—soaked. Crimson splattered across the crisp white like some fucked-up piece of abstract art. I had heard rumors, whispers, seen the fear in people's eyes when they said his name. Zorain Raza, the man who killed, the man who ruled shadows. But this—this was the first time I saw it with my own eyes. Saw him drenched in it.
And God help me, instead of only being scared, a part of me wanted him. The sight of him like that—bloodied, dangerous, untouchable—set fire to something deep inside me. He looked like sin. Like the kind of man you should run away from but instead wanted to spread your legs for. Fucking hormones. Fuck me.
His voice cut through my wild thoughts.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, still standing in front of the fridge, voice steady, dark, careless.
I rolled my eyes, clutching my bottle like a weapon. "Can't you see? I'm refilling my water. Not breaking into your damn fridge."
He only hummed. "Hmm."
Arrogant. Cocky. Infuriating piece of shit.
But the curious bitch inside me wasn't shutting up. I tilted my head, eyes fixed on him. "Where were you all this time?"
"I had some work," he answered in that fucking ice-cold tone of his.
"Oh right," I sneered, "killing people is work, huh?" My sarcasm dripped off every word.
His eyes didn't even flicker. "Hmm. It is."
God. What the actual fuck? This man. When he mocks me, I want to strangle him. When he answers me straight, I still want to strangle him. Either way, my temper never wins.
"You don't like when he teases you. And you don't like when he's blunt. Basically, you don't like him—period." My subconscious whispered smugly.
"Shut the fuck up." I snapped back internally.
"Well," I spat out, lips curling in a bitter smirk, "this red looks good on you. Blood suits you, since you love ripping people's lives away."
That did something. His eyes locked on mine, sharp as blades, and then he started walking towards me. Slow. Measured. Predatory. And I, Isra Alvi—the girl who promised herself she'd never bow—found myself moving backward. Each step I took, he erased with his own.
Until my back hit the kitchen counter. No more space to retreat. My chest heaved. He was too close. Too hot. Too lethal.
"Stop right there, Zorain," I hissed, glaring but my voice cracked around the edges. "Don't you dare touch me. That blood is filth. I don't want it anywhere near my skin."
For a second, silence. Then his lips curved into something dark, sinful. His voice was low, deep, vibrating through me.
"Yeah. That's exactly why I'm not touching you. Because this blood doesn't deserve you. It doesn't deserve to touch a single fucking inch of you."
Fuck. Fuck him.
His words were a whip on my skin, a burn on my veins. My body betrayed me, slick heat pooling between my thighs as his gaze devoured me. My breath hitched, my pulse thrashed like it wanted to leap out of my throat. He wasn't even touching me, yet he had me unraveling.
I clenched my bottle tighter like it would shield me from him. "I'm g… going," I muttered, shoving him aside with all the fake strength I could muster before I bolted out of the kitchen like a coward.
But even as I left, my body trembled. Not in fear. No. In want.
And that scared me more than his bloodstained shirt ever could.
Zorain's POV.
I came back to the mansion long past midnight, shoulders heavy, body drained but my mind still running like a loaded gun. Instead of heading straight to bed, I walked into the kitchen. Hunger was gnawing at me, sharp and restless, so I opened the fridge to find something edible.
That's when I heard it. Footsteps. Light, but not careful enough. And then she appeared.
Isra.
The devil wrapped in silk and venom. Standing there like she owned the place, like I hadn't just walked in drenched in the sins of the night.
She refilled her bottle but her eyes—those sharp, furious, taunting eyes—refused to stay quiet. Tonight, she wanted answers. She asked me where I'd been, and for once, I didn't feel like playing games. No smirks. No riddles. Just the plain truth. But Isra? That girl couldn't stomach simplicity. If I teased her, she bit back. If I gave her honesty, she mocked me for it. Always. That was her weapon—words dipped in poison.
I stood close to her. So close I could smell her skin, sweet like sin. My blood-soaked shirt was brushing danger, but I didn't touch her. Not this time. Because that filth on me—those men's blood—it didn't deserve her skin. Didn't deserve to stain her.
And then, she pushed past me. Walked away like the queen she thought she was.
Sweetness wrapped in bitterness. Poison wrapped in honey. That's what she was.
---
Next morning.
9:45 am.
I dressed sharp, a tailored black office suit hugging me like armor. Today was important. There was a meeting—a deal I needed to seal at any cost. Business Zorain had no room for Mafia Zorain today.
I sat at the dining table, newspaper folded neatly beside my plate. But the moment I saw her, irritation pricked me.
Isra.
Goddamn Isra.
She descended like it was a goddamn runway, bare legs on display, short dress clinging to her like temptation itself. Every step of hers screamed entitlement. That little spoiled brat—her parents had already molded her into a princess before dying, and her grandfather only poured gasoline over that fire. No discipline. No control. Just chaos in heels.
She sat down across from me, spine straight, chin high, eyes daring me to breathe wrong. And then—without a greeting, without a shred of courtesy—she opened her mouth.
"I need money."
That was it. No good morning. No polite request. Straight to the demand, like I was some ATM machine kept alive to fund her whims.
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. "No good morning? No greetings? Bad manners, Isra." My tone was light, teasing even. For some godforsaken reason, I was in a good mood. Maybe I wanted to provoke her, maybe I just wanted to hear her sharp tongue. Maybe I missed the banter, the way we used to spit fire at each other.
Her eyes narrowed. "Zorain, I'm not in the mood to fight with you. So as you're my guardian, you have to give me money."
Guardian. Fuck, I hated that word when it rolled off her lips. It didn't fit me. I wasn't her babysitter. I wasn't her protector. I wasn't her goddamn family.
Still, I smirked, taking a sip of my black coffee. "Hmm. So as per being your guardian, Sweetness, I wanna know what exactly you need it for."
She crossed her arms. "Because I have some needs."
I chuckled darkly. "Like buying drugs again?" My voice was mockery, sharp enough to cut.
Her jaw tightened, lips twitching into a fake smile. Oh, she hated when I reminded her of her past sins.
"No," she said slowly, trying to sound calm but her eyes flashing. "I want to buy some clothes for myself. And also, the Annual Day is coming up. I need a dress for that."
Of course. Shopping. That was her obsession. Her addiction. If she wasn't throwing tantrums, she was spending money like it grew on trees.
I exhaled, eyes scanning her up and down, lingering too long where I shouldn't. She was too young. Too spoiled. Too provocative without even realizing how fucking dangerous she looked.
"Hm," I muttered, tapping my fingers on the table. "Fine. But only on one condition."
Her brows shot up. "What?"
"You'll buy appropriate clothes. Not these…" I gestured at her short dress with a flick of my wrist, "pieces of fabric you dare call clothes."
It wasn't that I gave a shit about what she wore. No. The problem was how it made me feel. The shorter the dress, the more my control snapped, the more I wanted to remind her she wasn't untouchable.
She smirked, leaning back in her chair like she'd just won something. "We'll see."
And fuck me—she knew exactly how to drive me insane.
Author's POV.
Isra's lips had only just curled around those careless words, but Zorain's response sliced through her temper like a hot blade to raw skin. Rage flooded her veins in an instant.
"I'm coming with you then," Zorain declared, his tone maddeningly calm, provoking her deliberately.
Isra's eyes narrowed, venom dripping from her glare as though she were stabbing his chest over and over again with invisible knives. "No."
"Then forget about shopping. And the money." His voice carried that stubborn finality she despised most. He knew damn well he had a meeting this morning—an important one, something about a billion-dollar deal that could shift empires—yet here he was, declaring her ridiculous little shopping spree more important than all the wealth of the world. That was Zorain. Her destroyer. Her curse.
"ZORAIN!" she shouted, frustration cracking in her voice.
"What, sweetness?" he mocked, playful, his lips curving in that infuriatingly casual smirk. No one else in the world ever saw this side of him. The Zorain who laughed, who teased, who taunted. The only person who dragged it out of him was her. Isra. The spoiled little devil he couldn't quit.
"Stop acting like a fucking child and give me the money!" Isra's teeth ground together, her voice venomous, her composure trembling like glass ready to shatter.
"I'm not acting like a child." He leaned back, dark eyes gleaming with memories he knew she hated. "Weren't you the one who used to drag me everywhere for shopping when you were younger?"
Isra froze for a split second, her chest tightening, because she remembered. Every damn memory of him walking beside her, holding her bags, telling her which color suited her best—it clawed back to her unwillingly. She shoved it away, her pride catching fire.
"I was a fool back then," she hissed, her jaw taut, eyes burning into him with fury. "I was so in love with you. But now—I'm a mature twenty-one-year-old woman." Her words carried weight, like broken glass pressed against skin, refusing to bleed out her vulnerability.
Zorain's lips curled into a dangerous smirk. "Yeah, I can see that." His eyes traveled shamelessly from the crown of her head, lingering on the curve of her lips, the delicate lines of her neck, down to her bare legs under that indecent excuse for a dress. His gaze was slow, deliberate, like fire licking at paper.
"Stop. Checking. Me. Out," Isra spat, her tone sharp as a dagger.
His eyes snapped back to hers, and this time, his voice was no longer playful. It was deep, grave, carrying the weight of thunder before the storm.
"Then. STOP. Wearing. These. Fucking. Pieces. Of. Shit. And calling them clothes."
The words hit her like a slap, his tone cold, unyielding. The playful Zorain vanished in that moment, replaced by the man the world feared.
Isra's anger boiled hot, but under it—buried too deep to admit—was the raw shiver of awareness.
Isra's POV.
I swear to God, I'll kill him one day. Tear him apart with my own two hands and bury his smug face six feet under. But for now—fuck. For now, I had no choice. He was my so-called guardian, and thanks to his manipulative little stunt with Nanu—telling him not to give me money without his permission—I was trapped. Nanu, of course, never gave a damn about Zorain's orders. He adored me far too much to ever refuse. But the problem wasn't Nanu—it was his snake of a wife. Mrs. Raza. A curse straight from hell. That woman made sure I couldn't breathe without Zorain's shadow looming over me.
So here I was. Cornered. Stuck with one option and one option only. Zorain. Fucking. Raza.
I plastered on the fakest smile I could summon, my lips twitching from the effort, every muscle in my face screaming in protest. "Mr. Zorain. Shall we go? Because, unlike you, I'm not free all day. I'm getting late."
He looked at me with that maddening calm, the kind that made me want to claw at his face. "Not before you eat your breakfast," he said, his tone dripping with that sickly-sweet imitation of care. Fake. Pathetic.
I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt. "I'm not in a mood." My words came out flat, dismissive, meant to shut him down.
"So, we are not heading then," he replied, calm as the fucking ocean, sipping on his coffee like he hadn't just slammed a brick wall in front of me.
Fuck him. The audacity. That easy, casual cruelty. My blood boiled, and before I knew it, the words snapped out of me like venom. "STOP BLACKMAILING ME, ZORAIN FUCKING RAZA!"
His eyes darkened instantly, his jaw clenching, but his voice matched mine in volume and venom, a roaring storm crashing against my fury. "THEN EAT YOUR BREAKFAST, ISRA ALVI!"
The sound of him shouting my name, my surname, like a whip cracking, should've made me flinch. Should've reminded me of my place under his control. But fuck that. I wasn't the type to bow down. Not to him. Not to anyone.
I didn't bother replying. Instead, I grabbed a piece of bread from the tray like I was preparing for battle, slammed the jar of strawberry jam open, and smeared it across the bread so aggressively it bled over the edges. Then I took a deliberate bite, chewing like the bread itself had offended me, all the while burning holes into his skull with my stare. My silence was louder than any insult. My glare screamed louder than my shout.
And the bastard just sat there, watching me, as though my fury was his breakfast, as though every curse I spat and every glare I threw only fed him more.
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Words: 3060.