Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

As he halted mere inches from her lips, his breath mingling with hers, his voice dropped to a velvety whisper, dark and deliberate.

*"Now this counts as one-on-one. Take your revenge."*

The words coiled around her like a noose, tightening the air between them. Sasha's entire body locked in place, paralyzed. Her wide eyes, bright with something between defiance and uncertainty, stayed rooted to his. She couldn't speak, couldn't move—trapped in the magnetic pull he commanded so effortlessly. The pounding in her ears drowned out every rational thought, leaving only the electric thrum of proximity and the dangerous invitation lingering in his voice.

The silence between them stretched taut, heavy with unsaid words and hidden intentions. It was a tension neither dared to name, but both felt simmering beneath the surface like a lit fuse.

And then, without warning, he pulled back.

The loss of his nearness felt like a sudden gust of cold wind. Sasha inhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling as though she'd been holding her breath. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, tracing the tingling skin that still burned from the intensity of his kiss—soft yet searing, calculated yet chaotic. His taste lingered stubbornly on her tongue, and she swallowed hard, trying in vain to quell the shiver cascading down her spine.

Her heart thudded painfully, confused by the collision of fury and something far more dangerous that coiled low in her stomach.

For the rest of the day, she kept her distance, refusing to acknowledge him. Or at least, she tried to.

Every time she caught herself glancing in his direction, she snapped her gaze away, tightening her jaw. She moved like a ghost through the house—silent, purposeful, avoiding every possible interaction. But no matter how much space she tried to create, she could feel his gaze on her. Like he was always watching, reading her, knowing exactly how close she was to unraveling.

And him? He remained infuriatingly unaffected, moving through the day as though her silence were meaningless. Unbothered. Untouchable.

But Sasha wasn't fooled.

He was always calculating, always a step ahead, pulling invisible strings she couldn't cut no matter how hard she fought.

Frustration built like wildfire in her chest, tightening until she found herself skipping meals, using the gnawing emptiness as a shield. If she could control nothing else, she could at least deny herself that.

By the time night fell, the weight of the day pressed heavily on her shoulders.

They lay on opposite sides of the bed, the distance between them feeling like an ocean. His back faced her, his breathing slow and steady. Asleep—or pretending.

Sasha stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, her body stiff, her mind restless. Finally, she turned her head, unable to resist stealing a glance at his face, partially illuminated by the faint glow slipping through the curtains.

Her breath caught.

Her gaze slipped to his lips, and something traitorous fluttered in her chest.

Would it feel different if she kissed him first?

If she crossed the line herself—on her own terms, without his permission, without his taunting games?

The thought unsettled her, igniting a heat beneath her skin that made her shift uncomfortably. Her pulse thrummed louder, her palms clammy.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to turn away. But the image lingered, stubborn as ever.

Needing space, needing air, she slipped silently from the bed, her feet making no sound against the cool floor as she padded toward the window.

The night outside was still, wrapped in velvet darkness. A soft breeze drifted through the slightly cracked glass, kissing her skin, but it did little to soothe the chaos swirling inside her.

Her stomach gave an audible twist, hunger clawing at her now that the adrenaline had faded.

As she turned, her eyes caught on the small table by the wall. A plate sat there, untouched. Her portion.

Her brows furrowed.

He left it. For her.

A strange heaviness settled in her chest.

How did he always know? Always walking that razor-sharp line between cruelty and unexpected tenderness, twisting her thoughts until she couldn't distinguish between manipulation and something deeper.

She shook her head as if to physically rid herself of the ache curling behind her ribs. Maybe she was overthinking, reading into things that weren't there. Maybe it was just her survival instincts blurring the lines, confusing her exhaustion with longing, her resentment with desire.

Still, her body betrayed her. She sat down at the table, awkwardly maneuvering the fork with her left hand, her right arm still weak and stiff from injury. The pasta had gone cold, but it filled the hollow ache in her stomach nonetheless.

She drank a glass of water, letting the cool liquid wash away some of the tightness in her throat.

Then she returned to the window, leaning her forehead against the glass, staring into the shadows as if they might offer clarity.

The minutes bled together, the quiet night stretching long and lonely. Only when exhaustion finally dragged at her limbs did she slip back beneath the covers.

Her eyes closed, but her thoughts remained tangled.

The heat of his lips, the unspoken question hanging between them.

And the quiet act of leaving her meal, unnoticed but deliberate.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was simple, troubling, and impossible to shake:

Why does he always know exactly what I need—before I do?

The warm water cascaded over Sasha's skin in smooth rivulets, the steam curling around her in soft, almost ghostly tendrils. It wrapped around her body like a shroud, the heat loosening the knots in her muscles but doing little to untangle the tension coiled tight beneath her ribcage. Each drop pattered rhythmically against the tiles, a quiet, steady sound punctuated only by her slow, measured breaths.

The bathroom felt like a cocoon—silent, still. A fragile sanctuary, if only for a moment.

Outside, she knew Darius was somewhere. Probably in the pool, the way he always seemed to find solace in water, as though the calm surface could mirror the control he wielded so effortlessly over everything else.

She tried not to think about him.

Her right hand throbbed with dull, persistent pain, still sore from her earlier outburst. She shifted slightly, adjusting her grip as she fumbled with the shampoo bottle, trying to unscrew the cap using only her left hand. The task, simple on any other day, felt irritatingly difficult now.

Her injured hand refused to cooperate, a constant reminder of her own recklessness.

After a few strained attempts, she finally managed to twist the cap open, tilting the bottle to pour some shampoo into her palm. But the slick plastic slipped between her damp fingers before she could react.

It fell.

The sound wasn't loud, just a muted thud as it struck the floor, spilling its contents in a silvery mess across the tiles.

Sasha cursed under her breath, frustration bubbling beneath her calm facade. She leaned forward, stretching to retrieve it—but the slickness of the tiles betrayed her. Her foot slid out from under her, her balance tilting sharply backward before she could catch herself.

The fall came fast.

Her back collided hard against the cold floor, a sharp cry tearing involuntarily from her lips as pain splintered up her spine, radiating through her limbs. The air rushed out of her lungs, leaving her breathless, disoriented.

The next sound was the door crashing open.

Her heart lurched as Darius's tall, imposing figure filled the doorway. His eyes scanned the scene in a heartbeat, zeroing in on her sprawled form, tangled and vulnerable against the slick white tiles.

"Don't come near me! Just go away!" she shrieked, her voice raw, sharp with panic. Her arms shot up instinctively, crossing over her chest in a frantic, futile attempt to shield herself.

His face darkened, the shadows sharpening the hard lines of his jaw. He didn't flinch at her words. "Are you serious?" His voice was low, cutting, threaded with irritation and something darker. "Can you even stand on your own right now?"

Her lips parted, but no argument came. She clenched her jaw, the sting of humiliation prickling at her skin. She hated that he was right.

Without waiting for permission, he strode toward her, the spray of the shower soaking his clothes as he stepped inside without hesitation. Water streamed over his face, catching on his dark lashes, his gaze never leaving hers.

He crouched beside her, movements fluid and controlled. His hands—broad, steady—slid around her waist, the contact making her breath hitch sharply. His touch was warm, grounding, but carried with it an undeniable possessiveness.

Sasha's skin burned hotter than the water cascading around them.

She kept her gaze fixed downward, refusing to look into his eyes, knowing exactly what she'd find there—an unreadable mix of concern, irritation, and something deeper she couldn't name.

He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, effortlessly settling her inside the tub. She felt his fingers adjust the handheld showerhead, the water shifting temperature as he guided the spray over her arms, down her back, across her front.

Each touch was precise, efficient. Careful.

He wasn't ogling her. He wasn't interested in her bare skin. He was focused solely on cleaning away the remnants of soap and spilled shampoo, as if nothing about this situation fazed him. As if she wasn't unraveling inside.

Her throat felt tight.

"Shampoo is left," she murmured finally, her voice barely audible over the rush of water.

His eyes flicked toward the cabinet, locating another bottle quickly. Wordless, he poured some into his palm and reached for her again. His fingers threaded through her hair, slow and deliberate, massaging her scalp in firm, rhythmic motions.

She shivered under his touch—not from cold, but from something far more unsettling.

Every careful stroke seemed to peel away a layer of the defenses she'd spent years constructing.

Her shoulders sagged before she could stop herself, her eyes slipping shut as she exhaled softly. She hated how easily he could do this—strip her bare without even meaning to.

By the time he finished rinsing the suds from her hair, her body felt limp, pliant with exhaustion and something dangerously close to surrender.

Without a word, he turned off the water and reached for the towel. Moving efficiently, he wrapped it around her head, twisting it gently before grabbing a robe from the counter. He slipped it over her shoulders, tugging it closed with a practiced ease, his fingers brushing briefly against her collarbone.

And then—before she could protest—his arms were around her again.

He carried her as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Sasha's hands instinctively clutched his shoulders, fingers curling into the damp fabric of his shirt.

He didn't speak as he set her down in a chair by the vanity, his movements purposeful. She watched him silently, her heart pounding an erratic rhythm against her ribs.

When he returned with a change of clothes, she caught the flicker in his gaze.

His eyes had narrowed, fixed on the faint, reddened scratches running along her arms.

"Just do it. It's nothing," she muttered, her tone defensive, brittle.

His jaw worked, tightening. "I will. But these are deep." His voice was low, rough. Then, quieter, dark eyes meeting hers, he added, "When will you stop getting hurt like this?"

Her lips twisted bitterly. "What about you?" she shot back. "Who threw me onto the floor last night?"

Something unreadable flickered across his face. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't regret. It was something far more dangerous—something she couldn't name.

He didn't answer. Instead, he crouched beside her once more, reaching for the antiseptic. His hands were steady, methodical as he treated every scratch with practiced care. She flinched when the sting hit, but his grip was firm, grounding her.

"Just wait," he murmured quietly. "It'll pass."

For once, she didn't argue. She simply watched him work, oddly calm.

What surprised her more was that she didn't feel the need to cover herself anymore. His focus never wavered. He wasn't taking advantage. He wasn't demanding anything. His attention remained fixed solely on her wounds, each touch careful yet undeniably possessive—like she was something breakable, something his alone to handle.

When he finished, he helped her into her dress, his hands lingering only long enough to ensure she didn't strain her injured hand.

Without another word, he scooped her up again, carrying her effortlessly back to the bed.

And this time, she didn't resist.

The moment her back collided with the mattress, a sharp jolt of pain shot through her spine, making her suck in a breath. She winced, instinctively tensing as if bracing for more. Every muscle in her body seemed to protest the movement, throbbing in dull, stubborn pulses.

Darius's gaze sharpened immediately, the subtle shift in her expression not lost on him. His eyes darkened, jaw ticking ever so slightly.

"Is it that bad?" His voice was low, controlled, but there was something clipped beneath it—something dangerous.

Sasha refused to let herself soften under his concern. She met his stare with a hard glare, forcing herself to swallow down the wince still lingering at the corners of her mouth.

"I'm fine," she bit out, though her body betrayed her, stiff and defensive.

Without another word, Darius pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers moved swiftly, dialing a number without hesitation. She watched as he spoke in quick, efficient tones, his voice dropping into something almost commanding, yet impersonal. The conversation was brief, precise—a few words exchanged, a request issued.

He ended the call, sliding the device back into his pocket with practiced ease, then turned back to her.

"Rest," he instructed quietly, but there was no mistaking the steel threaded through the word. His gaze lingered over her face, reading everything she refused to voice. "I'll have someone bring oil for a massage. It'll help."

Sasha stared at him, swallowing hard as her heart twisted painfully in her chest.

Why?

Why did he care so much?

It wasn't the first time he'd stepped in like this—taking control of a situation, smoothing over her pain without giving her space to protest—but each time, it left her more unsteady than before.

Her body ached, not just from the injury but from the constant battle raging inside her. Her mind swirled with thoughts she couldn't catch, emotions she couldn't untangle. Every careful gesture of his chipped away at her resolve, leaving her raw and exposed.

Darius didn't move far. Instead, he settled beside her on the edge of the bed, one arm draped casually over his knee. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes—those sharp, unreadable eyes—never left hers. There was something in them, something she couldn't name. It wasn't tenderness, not quite. It was fiercer, heavier.

And it made her want to scream.

Because in that moment, lying there with the echo of pain still lingering and his presence pressing in on her from every angle, one thing became painfully, terrifyingly clear:

She wasn't just fighting him anymore.

She was fighting herself.

The part of her that wanted to trust him.

The part of her that wondered what it would feel like to let go, to let him in.

And it scared her more than anything.