Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

Sasha lay in bed, her body tangled in the sheets that clung to her skin like a second, suffocating layer. The scent of Darius lingered in the fabric—warm cedar, faint smoke, and something darkly intoxicating, uniquely his. It was everywhere, sinking into her pores, coiling around her like invisible chains.

Her chest rose unevenly, the memories of last night crashing over her like merciless waves battering a fragile shore, relentless and unforgiving.

She had initiated it.

That truth pressed down on her like a weight she couldn't shake. She had reached for him. Pulled him close. Let herself drown in the fire of his touch, his kiss, his whispered promises spoken against her skin.

Her fingers curled tightly into the sheets, nails biting into the soft fabric as her stomach twisted itself into knots. Fury and confusion warred inside her, a storm without end. She wasn't supposed to feel this way. She wasn't supposed to want him.

He was her enemy.

The man she had vowed to destroy. The man whose blood she had sworn to spill.

And yet, she had given herself to him.

**Willingly.**

**Fool.**

Her throat tightened as she swallowed down the bitter taste of self-loathing. Every moment replayed vividly behind her closed eyes, a relentless reel she couldn't turn off.

Shifting her head slightly, her gaze flickered to the far end of the room—where he sat.

Darius lounged on the couch, one leg lazily crossed over the other, his phone resting casually in his hand. His posture was unbothered, every line of his body carved from composure, his expression carefully blank, as if nothing had shifted between them. As if last night hadn't shattered something inside her.

As if it had meant nothing.

Her jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

She wanted to pin the blame on him, to let her rage fester and curl outward, but the truth gnawed at her relentlessly—**she had let it happen.** She had let down her guard.

And now, she hated herself for it.

Almost as if he could feel the weight of her stare, Darius's gaze lifted. His eyes met hers, calm and unwavering.

"You're awake," he remarked, voice smooth, untouched by the chaos roiling inside her.

The neutrality of it—the steadiness—made her insides twist sharper.

She broke eye contact immediately, fingers fisting the sheets one last time before pushing them aside with more force than necessary. Her movements were precise, mechanical, as she adjusted her clothes, smoothing nonexistent creases. Anything to keep her trembling hands occupied. Anything to avoid looking at him again.

"Yeah," she mumbled, voice flat, stripped of its usual edge.

Darius's gaze lingered, unreadable. He didn't press her, but he watched—like he always did—as if cataloguing every slight shift in her demeanor, every fracture she tried to conceal. She felt it, the way his eyes traced her stiff posture, the way her shoulders tightened, how her hands twitched before she shoved them into fists.

It made her feel naked in a way last night hadn't.

When breakfast arrived, the silence between them felt razor-sharp, stretched taut like a wire threatening to snap. Sasha reached instinctively for her spoon, desperate to focus on anything mundane. But before she could, she caught the subtle movement beside her—Darius reaching for her plate.

He had been feeding her ever since her injury, a quiet routine neither of them spoke about but both silently adhered to. It had become something constant, grounding even, in the midst of everything else.

But not today.

Today, the thought of him caring for her felt suffocating.

Today, she intended to end him.

Her hand shot out faster than she intended. "I can eat on my own," she said quickly, the words sharper than she planned.

For a heartbeat, Darius stilled. Then, without argument, he nodded once and turned his attention back to his own meal, as if her dismissal hadn't registered.

But she felt it—the shift in the air, subtle but undeniable.

Sasha forced herself to eat, each bite mechanical, tasteless. It felt like chewing ash, her throat tight around every swallow. She kept her gaze carefully lowered, refusing to meet his. She couldn't afford to slip. Couldn't let her eyes betray the tangle of emotions beneath her skin.

**She wasn't weak. She couldn't be weak.**

Because today, it all ended.

She barely waited for him to finish before murmuring an excuse and stepping away from the table, her pulse hammering in her ears. The moment she crossed the threshold into the hallway, her hand shot into her pocket, fingers fumbling for the cold, familiar weight of her phone.

The number stared back at her from her recent calls list—a haunting presence she had avoided for weeks.

Her thumb hovered above it, breath shallow, heartbeat drumming like a warning.

But hesitation had no place here. Not after last night. Not after the lines she'd crossed.

With a hard inhale, she pressed the call button.

The line clicked almost immediately.

"You finally called," a deep voice rumbled on the other end, laced with something dangerously close to amusement.

Her fingers tightened around the device, the sound of his voice making her stomach churn.

Her voice was cold steel when she spoke. "Execute the plan today."

There was a pause, brief and heavy.

Then a low chuckle. "Understood."

The call ended, the silence around her deafening in its finality.

Sasha stood motionless, her grip still tight around the phone.

**By tonight, Darius Lemoine would be dead.**

Léa had arranged to meet Sasha at a small café by noon—an innocent invitation on the surface, but Sasha used it as her perfect excuse to pull Darius out into the open. Away from the safety of his guarded empire.

Darius didn't question her sudden insistence. He simply tossed her a cursory glance and agreed without resistance. In fact, his indifference was palpable, as if he didn't care where they went, as long as she was beside him. He let her lead, unaware of the trap she'd set.

The streets of Paris sprawled before them, bathed in soft winter sunlight. To most, they would seem romantic—cobblestone roads, the distant glimmer of the Seine, the subtle hum of life weaving through narrow alleyways.

But to Sasha, they weren't beautiful. They were stained. Every street, every corner carried the weight of something darker. Paris wasn't the city of love—it was the city of vengeance.

She sat quietly in the passenger seat, fingers curled in her lap as she stole glances at Darius from the corner of her eye. He was focused on the road, sharp profile set in concentration, unaware that today, he wouldn't be driving these streets again.

Her chest tightened.

And then—

**BANG!**

The gunshot shattered the fragile calm like glass breaking.

Darius cursed under his breath, his reflexes snapping into place. His grip tightened on the wheel, jerking the car sharply to the side as rubber screeched violently against pavement.

Sasha's heart pounded so hard it echoed in her ears. **It had begun.**

Without hesitation, Darius reached beneath his coat, pulling out the cold steel of his gun. There was no fear on his face, only deadly focus—his instincts, sharpened from years spent clawing his way to the top, now fully engaged.

He flung the door open, sliding out smoothly, gun raised, eyes scanning.

Another burst of gunfire lit up the street.

Darius moved like a predator, efficient, brutal. He ducked behind the car, returned fire, his movements precise and merciless. It was a dance he knew by heart—a rhythm of survival.

But tonight, it wouldn't save him. **Not if she did what she came to do.**

Sasha remained in the car, frozen, fingers gripping the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned white. She forced herself to watch him—watch the man who had haunted her dreams, who had unknowingly walked into her carefully constructed betrayal.

Her men, hidden in alleys and parked cars, opened fire, but Darius was relentless. He fired back without hesitation, each shot calculated. One by one, her men fell, and still, he didn't waver.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh, startling her.

She hesitated, her pulse thudding in her throat, before answering.

"Come here," the voice commanded on the other end. Cold. Impatient. "It's time."

Her throat tightened.

This was it.

She slid the phone back into her coat, her fingers brushing against the gun concealed inside. The metal felt heavy, familiar.

Slowly, she pushed the door open, the noise around her fading to a distant roar as she stepped out onto the street.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Darius sensed her before he saw her. He turned swiftly, gun raised—but then froze.

Their eyes locked.

Recognition flickered first. And then something else.

His arm faltered, just slightly. His grip loosened. **Shock. Betrayal. Something unreadable swam behind his eyes, something sharp enough to cut through the chaos.**

He didn't lower the weapon. But he didn't raise it either.

His chest rose and fell evenly, but there was a tension in his posture, a stillness that spoke of something deeper—like a man waiting for a blow he hadn't seen coming.

"You're part of this." His voice was calm, too calm, but beneath it—something raw simmered.

Sasha swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She forced herself to smile, bitter, mocking. "I always was. From the day you kidnapped me, from the moment you thought you owned me." Her voice sharpened. "You thought you had control, Darius? That I was some obedient pet? No. I played your game, smiled when you wanted me to smile—so I could kill you."

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. But beneath the surface, she saw it. A flicker of something deeper.

**Hurt.**

"Why?" The question escaped him, one word, but laced with something dangerous, something broken.

Her breath hitched. "You killed my parents." She tried to keep her voice cold, but the cracks showed. "Anam and Irfan Abeli. Loyal to you, weren't they? But loyalty doesn't matter to you. You're nothing but a hypocrite."

For the first time, uncertainty shadowed his expression. His brows drew together.

"Your parents' names," he murmured, almost like a question to himself.

She laughed bitterly, her voice slicing through the air. "Don't tell me you've forgotten them already. Just more nameless bodies, right?" She took a step forward, gun still at her side. "Say their names. Anam. Irfan. Or are they buried so deep beneath your sins you can't even remember?"

Darius stood frozen. His mouth opened, but no words came.

There was something unreadable in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or something close. But it didn't matter.

She raised the gun.

Her hands didn't shake. Her resolve was steel.

**This was for her parents.**

Her finger curled on the trigger—

And she fired.

The bullet tore through the air, colliding with him before she could process the sound.

For a heartbeat, everything went still.

Darius staggered, blood blooming bright against his chest like a cruel flower.

His eyes never left hers. Dark, filled with something she couldn't name—pain, rage, betrayal. Something deeper.

Sasha's chest constricted painfully.

**Why doesn't it feel right?**

Her hand trembled slightly, but she forced herself to stand tall, to smother whatever was cracking inside her.

A hand gripped her arm—one of her men. "We need to go. Now."

She blinked, torn out of whatever spellbound moment lingered.

Without another glance, she turned away.

She didn't look back. Couldn't.

Because Darius Lemoine was dead.

And this was the ending she had always wanted.

Wasn't it?

**But he wasn't.**

Leon reached the scene mere moments later, tires shrieking as his car came to an abrupt, violent halt against the pavement. The acrid scent of burning rubber clung to the air as he flung the door open and vaulted out, his pulse pounding fiercely, thundering like a war drum inside his skull.

The sight that met him stole the breath from his lungs.

Blood—too much of it—spilled across the ground in thick, dark pools, glistening under the dim light.

And in the center of it, crumpled and lifeless, lay Darius.

The man who had stood beside him through every battle.

The man who had been his brother, not by blood—but by something fiercer, unbreakable.

Leon's stomach twisted painfully, cold dread curling like a vice around his chest.

**No.**

He dropped to his knees hard, not feeling the bite of gravel cutting into him, his focus solely on Darius. His hands hovered for a fraction of a second—hesitating, betraying the terror gnawing at him—before he forced them steady, pressing two fingers against Darius's neck.

His breath caught.

His hands trembled despite his effort to control them.

Then—there.

A faint, sluggish pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips.

Weak. Fragile.

But still there. Still alive.

Leon's voice cracked as he barked at his men, the sharp edge of panic threading through his usually cold command.

"Get him in the car! Now!"

He didn't wait. Couldn't.

Couldn't risk the seconds it would take for someone else to act.

Leon gathered Darius into his arms without thought to the blood soaking into his own clothes, the wet warmth seeping through the fabric like a stain he couldn't wash away.

Darius felt heavy against him, the weight achingly familiar—heavy with years of scraped-together loyalty, shared violence, and sacrifices neither of them ever voiced aloud.

Heavy with everything they had built.

Everything they had survived.

Leon's jaw locked tight, his teeth grinding painfully as he rose, carrying Darius as if sheer force of will alone could keep him tethered to life.

"You're not dying on me," he muttered, low and hoarse, the words barely more than a vow breathed against Darius's ear. His voice shook, despite how hard he tried to steel it.

He cradled him tighter, possessive, desperate.

Because Leon knew—without Darius, the empire meant nothing.

Without Darius, every brutal victory they had clawed their way toward, every scar, every battle—they would all turn to ash.

And worse—

If Darius died tonight, something in Leon would die too. Something vital, irreplaceable.

He carried him to the car, refusing to let go.

Refusing to let the darkness creeping around the edges swallow either of them whole.