Part I: The Haven Profaned
The library at the university was more than a collection of books to **Alisha**; it was an architectural icon of silent intellectual rebellion. The thick air, full of the musty smell of old paper and oiled wood, was her unseen barrier against the clattering demands of a boisterous world. At eighteen, still making the clumsy transition between girlhood and womanhood, Alisha had a natural shyness, a propensity to fade into the background. But underneath the fragile exterior was a steel-wire ambition, stoked by the complicated stories she read. She did not merely read; she analyzed the art of telling, envisioning the day she could spin her own stories, though the pen seemed too burdensome in her palm for the time being.
It was Sunday, her holy day. The scattered few other customers—a group of graduate students and fatigued professors—were hardly more than blips on the radar of the grand hall. Alisha sat at a table by a tall window, the dying sliver of the afternoon sun lighting the dog-eared pages of a volume of Manto's short stories. She was fond of the stark nakedness of his writing, the manner in which he stripped away the veneer of polite society to the bitter truth that lay beneath. She never thought she was reading an unwitting rehearsal for the brutal reality that was soon to overwhelm her own life.
She took a look at her digital watch. Six-fifteen. A small, familiar knot of tension formed in her belly. Her family kept a disciplined schedule, and her absence, however academic, would soon grow from soft worry to stern admonition. She let out a quiet sigh, her determination momentarily forgotten in favor of responsibility.
*The Shortcut.* The temptation was a flash of quick thinking. It was the whisper of weariness and organization. Campus security was notoriously loose on Sundays. The direct route was long and roundabout, a thirty-five-minute walk along brightly lit, crowded streets. The shortcut—a narrow, curving alleyway which ran behind the old engineering block and the ramshackle science labs—was a direct line, with promises to halve the journey.
For years, she had adhered to the warnings: *Never take the shortcut. It's a blind spot. Where the light fails, the city's true nature thrives.* But tonight, the combined weight of her books, her fatigue, and the fear of being late overruled caution. *Just this once. I'll run.*
She packed up—notebooks full of scrawled shorthand, and the large canvas bag, a reassuring load on her shoulder. Stepping out of the library's huge, oak-paneled door was like passing through a gateway. The night air was immediately chillier, the glow of the reading room giving way to a cold, damp sterility found only in Lahore during the late fall.
She strode quickly, at first staying along the path. The short turn onto the shortcut was a small space between two large, ominous brick walls. She breathed in and stepped into the abrupt, claustrophobic blackness.
The mood shifted at once. The hum of far-off traffic and human existence disappeared, replaced by an oppressive, heavy quiet. The earth was rough, strewn with rotting leaves and the acrid scent of industrial waste runoff. Alisha's heart started to pound out a rapid, agitated tattoo against her ribs. Each shadow seemed to take on a threat.
*This was a mistake.* The idea hit with searing clarity, but turning around seemed to be an acknowledgement of a cowardice she could not indulge. She moved on, her sandaled feet whispering against the rough concrete.
Then came the sound.
It was a low, deep growl—the idling growl of an engine too big and expensive for this neglected alley. The sound did not reverberate; instead, it seemed to *absorb* the silence. Alisha stood transfixed, her back thumping into the chilled brick wall at her back.
A huge, black sport utility vehicle, its windows so darkly tinted they reflected nothing but the last smudge of grey sky, made the turn before her. It slid into place with the deliberate, unhurried pace of a giant predator. It came to a stop directly in front of her, effectively blocking her way. Her route was cut off.
The sound of the rear passenger door unlocking was spuriously soft. Two men stepped out, their bodies crafted for deadly efficiency. They wore impeccable, dark clothes, their faces hidden by the poor light and the caps on their heads. They walked with the quiet, trained economy of professionals.
Before Alisha had a chance to fully register the intent, before her scream could even fully take shape in her throat, one man had her. The arm around her elbow was not hurting or cruel, but it was unbreakable—a wrap of iron that immobilized her arm. The second man quickly removed the tote bag from her shoulder, dropping it to the ground with a soft, terminal *thud*—the thud of her books on the sidewalk was the final noise of her ordinary life.
"Please," she gasped, the sentence breaking into a pitiful whisper. "I don't have anything. I'm just."
The abductors did not speak, their silence more chilling than any threat. She was pushed toward the open door quickly, the pungent aroma of expensive leather and male cologne battering her as she was pushed onto the rear seat. The door slammed shut, a grave being sealed.
## Part II: The Leader
The air inside the SUV was cool and quiet. It wasn't a peaceable silence, but the quiet of utter control. Alisha was wedged against the door, her entire body trembling. Her eyes went automatically to the man sitting in front of her.
**Zarash Ali Sikander.**
He was twenty-nine, and each of those years of his life seemed chiseled into the cold command of his face. He wore a spotless charcoal *shalwar kameez*, tailoring that highlighted a misleading, coiled strength. He was not brutally enormous, but exuded a lean, masterful strength. His aristocratic, hard face was completely lacking in compassion. His eyes, the colour of burnt, dark bronze, passed over her. They did not linger in lust or rage; they merely *assessed*. It was the gaze of a leader assessing a tactical deployment, an asset, or maybe, a fault in the system he was planning to exploit.
He was the *Sarbrah*—the anointed head of a crime organization masquerading as a vast corporate conglomerate. The tales, the whispered cautionary tales regarding the Sikander clan, were part of the very texture of Lahore's elite and underworld. They had corporations, factories, banks—and so it seemed, they owned the darkness. The law, as Alisha's own father would frequently mourn, was indeed blind with respect to men such as this one; they did not violate the codes, they *were* the codes.
"You are making noise," Zarash told her, his voice a low, exactly modulated growl. It was not a question or an appeal; it was a command. His authority reached even to her terror.
Alisha pressed her lips together, feeling the metallic salt of fear. She automatically knew that under this particular presence, hysteria was not a cry for aid, but a defiance.
He leaned inches forward, an infinitesimal motion that loomed in the cramped space. "Alisha. You should not have taken the easy road. Ease is a deception. It always produces the toughest repercussions."
He remembered her name. The affable accuracy with which he said it erased the last shreds of hope that this was a botched random robbery. This was planned. This was for *her*.
She struggled, "What… what do you want? I don't have—"
"Silence," he cut in, the term biting, said with the authority of a judge's gavel. "I desire nothing from you which you can give to me now. But here you are, and where you are… is somewhere I have authority. We are no longer on the university campus. The regulations you are familiar with do not hold here. Your cooperation is required. Your silence will be forthcoming."
He settled back, one hand on his knee, the position one of absolute, unadmitted relaxation. The silence fell again, now heavy with a sickening burden of tension. Alisha understood the horrifying reality: he didn't *need* to intimidate her. His name, his existence, and awareness of the authority he held were intimidation enough.
She gazed at her own face in the shadowy, colored glass of the window—a pale, scared girl caged within a labyrinth of excess. Her brain, forever starved for subtlety of idea and plot progression, was centered now on one, paralyzing question: *Why me? * Her innocence, which she had worked so hard to maintain as her essence, seemed like a weakness that he had targeted. A vulnerability to be leveraged. He was cruel and merciless; she could see that in the cold remoteness of his eyes. But he hadn't murdered her. He didn't release her.
She was a piece of property, a pawn in a game she didn't even realize was being played.
The ride was drawn out, taking them deeper into the exclusive, walled enclave of the city, miles from the crowds, the noise, of her neighborhood. Each quiet turn was a stripping away of her old world.
## Part III: The Sikander Dynasty
The imposing gates that led the SUV into the Sikander compound were a witness to unbridled power—tall, black, and swung open by hidden mechanisms. The building inside, **The Mansion**, was a large, contemporary fortress of pale, intimidating stone and dark glass. Not for comfort, but for defense and proclamation, it was built. Even the air seemed to be in obedience here; it was clean, chilly, and completely still.
The SUV came to a stop beneath a massive, canopy-covered portico. Alisha was frozen as the door swung open and she was led out by one of the unsmiling guards.
She was taken through the front foyer, a huge room dominated by shimmering white marble and a stunning, sweeping double staircase. The size of the house was intimidating, built to make every guest feel small and insignificant.
Zarash Ali Sikander followed her in, and in this great room, his power seemed to double itself ten times. He was the sun under whose light all other aspects of this home were compelled to revolve. He did not glance at her; she was merely a piece of freight brought to the right destination.
"Wait here," he instructed, his voice resonating slightly off the high ceiling. He started his climb up the staircase, his movements deliberate and absolute.
When he arrived on the landing, other members of the dynasty appeared. The atmosphere was immediately charged, thick with stifled tension and a history of unresolved combat.
First, **Saqlain**, the older brother. He was thirty-seven, his face creased with bitter lines and resentful wrinkles. His eyes, when they fell on Alisha, were piercing with suspicion and glaring distaste. He bore the burden of once having been heir, to lose the *Sarbrah* title through a disastrous, unuttered error. His cruelty was not so refined as Zarash's; it was incalculable, based on hurt pride.
"Whatever in God's name is this, Zarash?" Saqlain demanded, his thick, combative voice ringing out at his younger brother's back.
Zarash paused on the landing, his head tipped at a slight angle, but he didn't turn. His voice, when he spoke, was the voice of ultimate authority. "She is a utility. **Saqlain**. A purchase. You will oversee her confinement in the East Wing. This is what I have decided. It is not open to debate."
Saqlain's jaw was clenched, his eyes raging with helpless anger he did not dare release. The deference was forced, agonizing, yet unyielding. He was required to obey the man nine years younger than him. Then there was **Wali**, the younger brother, little more than twenty and still a university student. His presence was wafer-thin, almost submissive. He had the soft countenance of a boy still spared the full harshness of the family enterprise. When his gaze met Alisha's, there was a flash of something she knew—fear, pity, confusion for her destiny.
But he soon dropped his gaze, a definite indication that in this household, pity was a luxury no one could afford and interference was not allowed.
And, lastly, the matriarch: **Amma**—the Grandmother. She was a tiny, ancient woman, shrouded completely in black cloth, but a cold, rock-solid authority radiated from her. Her dark, ancient eyes raked Alisha with a purely analytical glance. There was no warmth of mother, no pity—just judgment. Alisha was an interloper, a new variable that had to be controlled. She was the center of the stone-cold tradition that ruled in this family.
Saqlain turned his venomous frustration onto Alisha. "Take her to the East Wing. The last room. The one with the bolted door. No one is to address her until Zarash permits it. Understood?" he snarled at a passing female servant.
The servant, pale and shaking, quickly ushered Alisha toward a side passage. As they walked, Alisha overheard the low, venomous exchange between Saqlain and his mother.
"She is a complication we don't need," Saqlain muttered. "This reckless acquisition—"
Grandmother's voice was a hard, rasping whisper, but it pierced the huge hall. "Zarash Ali Sikander is never careless, *beta*. He understands the value of every resource. He has brought this girl here for some purpose we are not yet aware of. He is in charge. We do not doubt his parameters. We wait for him to use them."
## Part IV: The Locked Room
The East Wing was far away, secluded, and vastly decadent. The servant, whose name Alisha never heard, glided with a frightened competence, eyes cast downward. The space was huge, decorated with severe, modern beauty. It was a golden cage. The tall window revealed a view of immaculately groomed but unforgiving concrete wall. There was no balcony, no fire escape, and no hope of escape.
The heavy door slammed shut in an instant. The servant's face was a fear mask, and her eyes silently communicated one message: *Don't try anything.*
Next was the sound that sealed Alisha's new fate: the heavy, metallic *thud* and *clank* of a bolt locking home, followed by the clinching *click* of a key turning in a lock, closing her door to forever from the outside.
Alisha stepped to the middle of the room, her knees at last weakening. She fell onto the lush, high-priced Persian rug, the plush fibers providing no solace against the harsh cold of her desolation. She was caught. A captive within a castle belonging to a man whose authority moved beyond the nation's laws. She was a student who adored stories, now caught within the first chapter of a horror. Her innocence, the very aspect that Zarash had appeared to have validated by not taking her life, was now her biggest weakness. He hadn't released her *because* she was innocent.
She was pristine, untainted, a tool kept immaculately intact for his unknown, cruel intent.
The irony of the shortcut, the seeking of "ease," seared in her head. It had been her own hand, her single fatal mistake, that had brought her to the **blind spot** of Zarash Ali Sikander.
She huddled into a small ball, her body shuddering silently. She wept tears down her face, but made no sound. She was already mastering the first, basic rule of this house: silence.
*He will use her. He always does.* The grandmother's harsh words echoed, fastening the horror. Alisha shut her eyes, no longer sensing the room's shadows, but only the cold, calculating eyes of her captor. The world she knew was lost. This was her new life, and it was completely subject to the goodwill of a man who governed with sheer, ruthless self-will. The only way out of this narrative, she knew, was through it.
Part V: The Echoes of a Gilded Prison
The sound of the lock clicked through the rich room like a gunshot, the two syllables sharp and irreversible. It was the sound of a door not merely shut, but **sealed**. Alisha remained motionless on the floor where she had fallen. Her body, drawn up tight with fear, was chilled though the room was air-conditioned. The air, filtered and sterile, did not have the rich, sloppy breath of life. It had a faint smell of new carpet, of polished wood, and the expensive, generic scent applied to cover up the age of large houses. It was the smell of money, and it was choking.
She was eighteen. She was used to the cozy, noisy heat of her family's apartment—the aroma of cardamom tea, the whiff of laundry detergent, the constant drone of the neighbourhood. This room, this mansion, was emptiness. It was the silence of a tomb constructed of imported stone and inaccessible wealth.
Alisha pushed herself up slowly, her muscles rigid with shock. She was in a cage that had been crafted by a master. The walls were a pale, grey cool color, the decor minimalist and prohibitively expensive. She moved, shaking, towards the window. The glass was thick, soundproofing the entire room. She pressed her hands against the cold surface, longing for even a glimpse of the outside world, for a glimmer of freedom, but what she saw was the high, unyielding **concrete wall**, surmounted by razor wire she hadn't seen from the car. It was a fortress, not only from the world outside, but from the inside as well.
*A shortcut,* she thought, the memory seething with bitter self-blame. *I craved simplicity.* The cost of that twenty-minute time-saving was now her whole life. Her dreams, her hopes for mental endeavor, were laughable in the light of this new reality. Her favorite tales, full of heroes and villains, were completely insufficient. In those stories, innocence most often prevailed. Here, innocence was a condition, a transient state before one was shaped or destroyed.
**Zarash Ali Sikander.** The name seemed too strong, too opulent, for the man who had gazed at her with such clinical, cold examination. She replayed the scene in the SUV. His voice, that low, contained baritone. The complete absence of heat, or fury, or even passion. He was commanding, yes, immensely so, but his commanding was a business tactic, not a physical reaction. He was the *Sarbrah*, the leader, the final word in a household that traded in darkness and steel.
*Why not kill me?* The thought pounded in her mind. A victim might be a nuisance. A dead body might be a liability, inviting inquiries, however easily suppressed. But she breathed.
She remembered the Grandmother's cold voice: **"She is a variable."**
He required her alive for a certain, planned reason. She was no arbitrary target; she was a specific instrument. This awareness—that her destiny hung in the balance of his great, cruel plan—was infinitely more frightening than the possibility of a swift, violent death. A tool can be honed, manipulated, and utilized until it shatters.
A wave of nausea washed over her suddenly. She staggered to the bathroom, a luxurious room of gleaming granite and gold fittings. She splashed cold water on her face, gasping heavily, attempting to ground herself in the sensory experience. The water was cold, a brief physical shock that briefly dispelled the mental haze.
She gazed at her reflection. She noticed a girl with wide, scared eyes, her hijab awry, her skin pale. A normal girl. A student at university who adored books. How could she ever be useful to a man who dominated businesses and crime syndicates?
She considered her family. Her mother would have gone frantic by now, phoning the university, phoning her cousins. Her father would be silent, his face creased in concern, already making the switch to contacts he didn't normally call upon. The fact was, however powerful her father's contacts were, they would melt like fog in the face of the Sikander reputation. The law didn't see men like Zarash.
She needed to concentrate. Panic was something she couldn't indulge in. She needed to think. She needed to employ the only tool she had: her mind. She was a reader; she knew about plot, motivation, and character conflict. She now needed to dissect the most lethal plot of her life.
---
## Part VI: The Family Dynamic and the Scar of Authority
Alisha went back to the central room, her fear congealing into a hard, cold ball of determination. She had to know the surroundings. The short, poisonous tableau she had seen in the foyer was important.
**Zarash:** The undisputed *Sarbrah*. His power was not simply inherited; it was *won* through a degree of ruthlessness that intimidated even his older brother. He was the head of the largest corporation, a respectable face above a criminal heart. His control was absolute. What he decreed was final—no exceptions. This degree of control meant he had no flaw, no vulnerability she could use against him. His whole life was a fortress of self-sufficiency.
**Saqlain:** The Older Brother. His anger was tangible, his bitterness an acid that ate away at him. He was cruel, but his cruelty was born of weakness—the shame of losing the top position. His error, whatever it was, had been serious enough to cost him everything. He was a possible, unbalanced factor. If Zarash was the cold steel, Saqlain was the burning fire. He was dangerous because he was *uncontrolled* by the family code of discipline. Could his resentment be used? No. He resented Zarash, but he probably resented the *variable* Zarash brought home even more. He would look at her as another trophy, another affirmation of his own lowered status.
**Wali:** The Younger Brother. The student. He alone had eyes that flickered with humanity. He was on the fringes, still holding on to the world Alisha was familiar with—university, books, normality. He was the easiest target, yet the most helpless. He was a cautionary: even in this household, a young man could be kept in check, subservient to the leader's will.
**The Grandmother:** Amma. The stone heart. The guardian of the legacy. She never saw Alisha as a human, but as a possible interferer in the Sikander regime. She approved Zarash's every action because he maintained the strength of the dynasty. She was the immovable object.
zarash was kind of guy who ahd heart of stone ok and he literlly would just play with minds of people and kind of like manipulate them into questioning their own existense he was tough he was harsh his mind raced faster then one can imagine he had studied from oxford university he had completed his masters in psychology he was a mastermind whatsoever still virgin and hero of the story some where in his heart looking at that girl would make his testerone levels high he somewhere in his heart there was a niche he wanted to fuck her so hard but also he liked the fear in her eyes the helpness in her eyes it was the most weird but he was still obsessed with this point.
Alisha stood by the window, the heavy silence of the house making her thoughts ring louder. The house was gigantic, but she knew that every noise, every step she could take, was probably being watched.
She proceeded to the huge, elaborate wardrobe. She opened it to find a wardrobe of clothes—new, high-priced, modest Pakistani clothing, evidently bought for her. A frightening confirmation: she was not to depart any time soon. She was here for good, or at least until her task was accomplished. Her status had changed from a girl with a life to a ward with a function.
Her throat constricted. She had the intense, desperate need to scream, to break the stifling quiet. But she didn't. She swallowed the scream, savoring the terror. She recalled a quote from one of the great books she'd read, about a protagonist with insurmountable odds against her: *"The only power left to the defeated is the power to refuse despair."*
She pushed herself to take deep breaths, filling her lungs with the sterile, costly air. She had no body strength, no bargaining power, no one to turn to. Her only sanctuary was the icy, logical portion of her brain, the portion she sharpened in the library. She would observe. She would listen. She would discover the weakness in Zarash Ali Sikander's unbreachable armor.
She was a captive, but she would not be passive. She was a reader, and now she would be a silent, frightened **observer** of the deadliest tale she had ever faced. The kidnapping chapter was finished.
Part##VII (the Ruthlessness)
her survival chapter was underway, and its duration would be decided by the master of this golden cage.
Alisha glided through the East Wing room like a ghost, her steps fully swallowed by the rich, cream-colored Persian rug. The quiet was the most intolerable thing. It pushed against her eardrums, making her own thoughts bounce off inside a screaming echo chamber. She checked the wardrobe once more, tracing the silk of the new clothes, a movement that was both intimate and absolutely disgusting. She was already being prepared for her role.
A tool can be worked, honed, and employed until it shatters," she kept repeating to herself, attempting to anchor the abstract fear with the hard reality of the room. She was searching for a flaw, a weak spot in the fortress. The windows were intact. The door was steel veneered with mahogany. No balcony, no fire escape, only the impassive concrete wall beyond. Her brain, the reader's, the analyst's, was betraying her. This was not a book with conveniently misplaced keys and distracted attendants; this was the cold, clean design of total power.
She collapsed onto the edge of the giant bed, the mattress too soft, too indulgent, engulfing her weight. The air conditioner hummed gently, a mechanical sigh in the stillness. It was the only constant sound, a drone reminder that all of this was artificial, air-conditioned, and watched. She pictured small, high-definition eyes tucked into the ventilation grates, the smoke detector, even in the decorative carving on the footboard. The idea sparked another wave of fear, and she huddled her shawl tighter around her, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath an unseen, critical eye.
The internal debate, her icy determination, shattered when the first sound of intrusion came: not a knock, but the clear, loud thunk of heavy bolts pulled back, followed by the screaming whine of the advanced lock mechanism being freed.
She stood still. Everything outside contracted to the door. Her blood went cold, fleeing from her skin and accumulating, thick and constricting, in her chest.
The mahogany door swung open without flourish. Zarash Ali Sikander stood silhouetted against the lighted-up hallway. He was dressed in different clothes now—a classic white shalwar kameez that highlighted his height and authority, perfectly pristine and unwrinkled. Less corporate giant, more king.
He entered, and the temperature in the air seemed to plummet immediately. He did not take the trouble to shut the door. His wet slate eyes raked over her, surveying her rumpled form on the bed. There was no feeling, not even the circumscribed evaluation earlier, but a chilling impatience.
"Rise," he said, the deep voice now devoid of its silky inflection, cutting as shattered marble.
Alisha struggled to comply, her legs hardly holding her up. "Please, Mr. Sikander, I just want to go home. I promise I won't say anything, I don't know anything about you or your family, please, let me—"
She broke off short as he took two measured steps forward. His face was still completely blank, but the air around him grew heavy with threat.
"Silence," he ordered. The command was not harsh, but it was oppressive, wielded with the force of a gavel raised by a judge.
Alisha swallowed, sealing her lips, a muffled cry slipping past her throat. She focused on the rich wood floor, refusing to look at the overwhelming intensity of his eyes.
The blow came swift, immediate, and crushing.
It was not a punch, and it was not a wild, uncontrolled blow. It was a hard, flat-handed slap that caught the side of her face with a sharp impact. The crack CRACKED in the soundproofed room like a whip, its shock so loud that it seemed impossible that the walls had not broken.
Alisha didn't catch the pain at once. Her head jerked sideways, the world flickering for a moment into a whirling haze of white and grey. A strident ringing burst forth in her left ear, silencing everything else. The metallic taste of fear, harsh and sour, filled her mouth, rapidly blending with the warm, salty taste of tears that well up instantly to her eyes.
She staggered, her hand flashing up to the burning spot of contact. The whole left side of her face was already in flames, a searing, throbbing pain that annihilated her capacity for thought, for examination, for staying upright.
Before she could absorb the shock, Zarash moved in, his closeness a physical attack. His voice was no longer baritone under control, but low, thrumming growl of raw, unadulterated contempt. He was yelling, but the raw intensity of his will was more than the volume, shaking through the bones in her chest.
Do you realize the situation you're in, variable?" he sneered, employing the Grandmother's cold word and warping it into a curse. "You were brought here to hear, not talk. You will go when told to, you will breathe when allowed to, and you will NEVER speak to me unless I've stated specifically that you are allowed to! Did you really think this was a deal? Did you believe your wretched little existence is worth so much that it would be a bother to me?
He clamped a bruising grip on her arm above the elbow, jerking upwards with his other hand to bring their eyes together. His rage was not heated; it was icy and deadly, the furious, calculating fury of a man whose elaborate system had been merely inconvenienced by a small malfunction.
The final remnant of Alisha's rational defense fell. The horror became corporeal, fluid, suffocating. She was not a book-worm considering a plot; she was a frightened animal trapped. Sobs coursed down her cheeks, unstemmed, scalding rivers washing away the searing cold of her seared cheek.
Please… please, release me," she gasped, the words breaking down into raw, hoarse sobs. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell, holding onto his pants, begging on hands and knees. "My mother… she needs me. I implore you, I'll forget everything, I'll get out of the city, I swear on my life, I will vanish! Just let me go! I don't belong here! Please!
Her screams were ugly, raw, dignity-less. They were the crunch of broken hope, bouncing off the costly, antiseptic walls.
Zarash gazed down on the hysterical girl who grasped his clothing with the same chilly distaste with which one might hold fast to a streak of mud.
With a hard jerk, he pulled his leg out from under her, dumping her onto the plush rug. He stood back, adjusting the cuff of his pristine sleeve as if her hand had defiled the fabric.
He stopped at the door, his gaze speaking a last, final sentence. "You will know your place, Alisha. And I will not be indulged in more weakness. Do not test my patience again."
Then he was gone. The door slammed shut with a muffled, heavy thud, and the bolts glided into place, closing the tomb again.
Alisha crouched wailing on the carpet, the ringing in her ear fading, replaced by the ragged sound of her own breath. She smelled the sandalwood and upscale perfume—his scent—still in the air, a bitter, stark reminder of his strength. The beautiful, gilded cage had just displayed its teeth she was no longer a student but a survivor.