The Snare — Blood in the Ballroom
Lucerne — Two Nights Later
The second celebration was smaller.
More private.
But just as dangerous.
A toast to finalized deals, old alliances reborn. Zayyan was occupied—entrenched in conversation with two finance ministers and a royal cousin from Riyadh.
Emaan moved through the crowd with practiced poise, her hand resting on the gentle curve of her belly.
She caught the eyes of diplomats, wives, men whose gazes lingered a beat too long.
And then—Tariq.
He appeared beside her like smoke. Dressed in midnight. Smiling like a man who didn't believe in consequences.
"You look radiant," he said, handing her a glass of sparkling water.
She took it. Let her fingers brush his.
"You flatter me, Mr. Dar."
"I intend to do far more than flatter."
She smiled.
Tariq leaned in. "You don't have to be his. You can be powerful."
"Am I not already?" she replied.
His hand touched her waist.
Across the room, Zayyan watched.
His blood boiled. The way her fingers lingered, the way she smiled—he saw it all.
Their eyes met.
And she felt it.
That gaze. Lethal. Possessive. Threatening.
A shiver moved down her spine.
She took a step away from Tariq.
His hand dropped.
Zayyan's jaw unclenched. His muscles relaxed.
And he turned back to his guests.
Emaan exhaled.
Then made her way to the restroom, pulse still racing.
Zayyan's POV — A Silence That Screamed
She was gone.
Five minutes. Then ten.
Zayyan's mind didn't wander. It hunted.
The ballroom still buzzed with laughter, deals, clinking glasses. But something in his chest twisted—tight, sharp, wrong.
She wouldn't stay away this long. Not without letting him see her one more time. Not without one last glance.
He rose from the table mid-sentence.
Someone called his name.
He didn't answer.
He stormed past the bar, past the staff hallway, down to the restrooms.
Empty.
His breath turned feral.
"Where is she," he growled under his breath. "Where—"
A flicker of intuition dragged his eyes toward the eastern corridor—sealed for years, but not forgotten.
He ran.
Not walked.
Not marched.
Ran like the walls would collapse if he didn't get there in time.
If anything had happened to her—if any man had touched her—
He would not stop at blood.
He would raze the entire world.
The Capture
A door behind the ballroom. A hall beyond the wine cellar.
Tariq moved quickly. A gloved hand over her mouth. A knife at her side.
She fought. Screamed against his palm.
He dragged her into the old servants' corridor beneath the estate—long sealed off.
Candles flickered in the passage. There were no guards. Only silence.
He shoved her against the wall.
His gun pressed to her stomach.
"You're going to watch him fall," Tariq said. "He'll die knowing he couldn't keep you."
She shook her head, sobbing. "He'll come for me. He always does."
Tariq smirked. "Let's see how much he bleeds for his obsession."
Minutes passed.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy. Unrushed. Certain.
Zayyan.
He'd noticed her absence. Had scanned every hallway, every locked door.
Now he stood in the archway like judgment made flesh.
His voice—low. Unshaking.
"Let her go."
Tariq turned, gun now pointed at Emaan's head.
"I told you I'd take something from you one day."
"She is not yours to take."
"No. But she will be. Unless you want a hole in her spine."
Emaan's sobs turned frantic.
"Please—Zayyan—don't."
Zayyan's eyes didn't leave hers.
He lifted his own gun.
"No one threatens what's mine."
And pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through just above his waist—blood blooming instantly.
He staggered.
Tariq gasped. His grip loosened.
He didn't see Zayyan's eyes flicker.
But Emaan did.
And when Zayyan nodded—barely perceptible—she dropped.
Fell hard to her knees.
Tariq flinched, distracted—
Zayyan fired.
One clean shot.
Straight between the eyes.
Tariq collapsed. Blood spread across the stone like ink.
Emaan crawled to Zayyan as he dropped to his knees.
"You madman—"
His voice was hoarse. "I told you. I'd kill for you."
She pressed her hand to his bleeding stomach.
"And die for me?"
"I already have."
She wept, hands shaking.
"You were supposed to live… for us. For the child."
"I would die for both of you."
"Why would you do this?" she whispered. "Why would you hurt yourself for me?"
"Because I'd rather bleed than watch you be taken from me."
"You shouldn't love me like this," she cried. "Not after everything."
"You're the only thing that makes sense in a world I already broke."
She leaned closer.
"I hate you," she whispered, breaking. "But I… I can't live without you."
Zayyan blinked slowly, blood on his lips.
"I'll crawl out of this grave just to touch you again."
She kissed his forehead.
And for the first time in weeks, her heart didn't know whether to break further or begin to heal.
The Recovery — Bleeding in Her Hands
Lucerne — The Estate, One Hour Later
The estate physician arrived within minutes. But the wound had already soaked Zayyan's sherwani and Emaan's gown with thick, hot blood.
He slipped in and out of consciousness as they carried him up the stairs. Emaan never let go of his hand.
She didn't cry.
Not then.
She gave orders. Threatened the doctor. Sat beside the bed while they stitched flesh back together and pumped him full of sedatives.
And when the room cleared — when the last assistant left and the door clicked shut — she finally collapsed onto his chest.
Still breathing.
Still warm.
Still hers.
Hours Later — Dusk Bleeding to Night
He woke to the sound of her voice.
Soft. Fractured. Praying in a whisper.
She sat at his side, one hand on his stomach, the other clenched around the pendant he gave her.
When his eyes opened, she froze.
"Zayyan?"
His voice was gravel. "Still here."
Her tears fell freely now.
"I thought I lost you."
"You almost did."
She leaned forward, resting her head carefully beside his ribs.
"I didn't know it would hurt this much."
"To lose me?"
"To almost lose you."
He stroked her hair. Weak. Gentle.
"You stayed."
"You bled for me."
"I always would."
She sat up, her voice trembling. "Zayyan… I hated you. I swore I did. But watching you fall like that—watching your blood on my hands—I realized…"
She touched her chest. "My heart never stopped choosing you. Even when my mind tried to run."
He studied her.
"And now?"
She nodded, barely.
"I don't want to run anymore."
He reached for her hand.
Placed it over his wound.
"Then stay with me. Through the healing. Through the darkness. Through all of it."
"I'm already here."
She leaned down.
Kissed him. Slow. Tender. Like he might break beneath her lips.
But Zayyan didn't break.
He opened.
And this time, when he kissed her back, it wasn't possession.
It was surrender.
The Healing — Week of Silence and Touch
Lucerne — Seven Days of Stillness
Zayyan couldn't move much.
Not yet.
The wound would heal — but slowly. Every breath was fire. Every movement, stitched pain.
Emaan bathed him.
Changed his dressings. Sat beside him every hour, reading aloud from books neither of them finished. Whispering things she couldn't say with her eyes.
Sometimes, he would wake up to find her asleep beside him, curled like a prayer with her head on his chest.
Sometimes, she'd hold his hand and just... breathe.
They didn't speak of what had happened. Not yet.
But their silence was different now.
Not hollow.
Full.
She no longer flinched when he touched her. He no longer reached for her with heat first. Only reverence.
They learned each other again — like a song once feared but never forgotten.
She trimmed his beard when he couldn't. Fed him with her hands. Helped him stand.
He kissed her wrist each time.
And when the snow fell again, she opened the window beside his bed.
Let the cold in.
And whispered, "You stayed for me."
"I always will."
She climbed into the bed beside him.
Wrapped herself around his side — gently — like he might split again.
He pulled her close.
And for the first time in years, they fell asleep without fear.
Together.
Whole.
Healing.
The Final Truth — What Remains
Lucerne — The First Night After Standing
Zayyan sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, his torso still wrapped in gauze. Emaan stood behind him, brushing his hair back slowly, carefully — her touch reverent.
She looked at him in the reflection of the mirror.
"I need to tell you something."
He met her gaze.
"I'll hear all of it."
She moved to face him, eyes wet but steady.
"I can't forget what you did to my father. I never will."
"I know."
"But I also know this…" She touched her chest. "I've loved you since I was a girl feeding koi fish in a stranger's garden. And I've tried so hard to kill that love."
She stepped closer, standing between his knees.
"But it's still here." Her voice broke. "I love you, Zayyan. I hate what you've done. But I love you more than I can explain."
He reached up, held her waist.
"And I've only ever loved one thing in this world."
She nodded, eyes shining. "Me."
"You."
She knelt in front of him.
And his breath caught.
"I belong to you," she whispered.
His grip tightened on her hips.
"And you're mine."
He pulled her into his lap — slowly at first. Then rougher, needier.
She climbed into him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Their mouths collided — not tender now. Desperate.
He kissed her like hunger, like redemption, like all the wars he'd waged led to this moment.
She moaned into his mouth.
His hands slid beneath her robe. Pushed it down her arms, baring her skin inch by inch.
He didn't rush.
He worshipped.
"You're still healing," she whispered.
"So are you," he murmured. "Let's finish together."
He laid her back on the bed.
Climbed over her.
Entered her slowly, groaning into her neck.
She gasped, clung to him.
He moved deep, steady, claiming her with every thrust.
Their hands locked. Their breaths tangled.
She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper.
He whispered her name like a vow.
She sobbed his into his shoulder.
And when she came, it wasn't in silence. It was a cry — of release, of grief, of forgiveness.
He followed, shaking, pressing his forehead to hers.
"I love you," he breathed.
She smiled through her tears.
"I already knew."
Later — The Fire Rekindled
They didn't sleep right away.
Not when the fire was still burning.
Zayyan sat up, pulled her into his lap again — this time facing him, knees bracketing his waist.
He kissed her collarbone, then lower, tracing every scar, every breath, every place she'd once hidden from him.
"I want to feel you again," he growled softly, hands slipping between her thighs.
"You already do," she gasped, rocking into his touch.
He pushed inside her again, deeper this time, the slow drag of skin and breath making her arch.
She rode him, hands braced on his shoulders, mouth parted in pleasure.
Each thrust brought her closer.
He gripped her hips tight, guiding her rhythm, his eyes locked on hers.
"Mine," he said.
"Yours," she panted.
They finished together — trembling, locked, complete.
Final Hours — One Last Claim
Before dawn, he took her again.
Face down. Hands pinned. His weight pressing into her back, his mouth at her neck.
No words now.
Only sound. Flesh. Heat.
She surrendered completely — not out of defeat, but devotion.
And he moved inside her like prayer.
When they collapsed, tangled and slick and silent, she whispered against his arm:
"This is our real beginning."
He pulled her close.
"And our only ending."
Lucerne — Dawn
They lay tangled in the sheets, the fire in the hearth burning low.
The snow outside didn't touch them.
She traced his scar with her fingertip.
"You would've died for me."
"I still would."
"I'd rather you live for me."
He kissed her wrist.
"Then I will."
She rested her head on his chest.
And for the first time, the silence between them held no ache.
Only peace.
THE END