Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

Sasha sat up, stretching her sore muscles as she finished tying the last knot around Darius's wound. The fabric was stark white against his tanned skin, though the dark stain of drying blood had already begun to seep through. Her fingers, now trembling slightly, lingered over the makeshift bandage before she quickly withdrew them, as if touching him too long might set fire to her resolve.

She exhaled quietly and swept the bloodied scraps of the torn T-shirt into her hands, tossing them into the waste bin. The weight of what had just happened pressed heavily against her chest, but she forced herself to shake it off. There was no point in dwelling on it. No point in caring beyond what was necessary.

Without a word, she turned on the tap and began scrubbing her hands, the water swirling crimson before fading to clear. She scrubbed harder, as if she could wash away the entire night, as if she could erase the feel of his skin, the heat of his blood against her palms.

When she was done, she walked straight to the bed, her mind already set—she had done her part. He was still alive. That was enough. There was no reason for her to linger.

Darius had been watching her in silence, his gaze steady, almost studying her. Then, a slow smirk curled his lips. "No lecture about manners this time?"

His voice carried an edge of amusement, but there was something else beneath it, something quieter.

Sasha didn't even spare him a glance. "That's fine. I don't expect a thank-you. Help comes from the heart," she muttered flatly, lying down and shutting her eyes.

Darius let out a small chuckle. "Strange." He paused, as if considering something, then added, "Isn't it?"

She groaned, pressing her palm to her forehead. "What is it with you and your questions? Do you think you're my schoolteacher?"

He leaned back against the headboard, his smirk deepening. "Definitely not." His voice was smooth, teasing. Then, with deliberate slowness, he continued, "But as your husband? Then, definitely."

Sasha's eyes snapped open. She shot up, turning to him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "You—"

But before she could unleash her fury, he had already slipped into the washroom, the sound of running water filling the room. She let out a sharp breath, frustration curling in her chest like a storm.

Throwing herself back against the pillows, she clenched her fists. *That insufferable man.*

Minutes later, Darius returned, his hands damp as he wiped them lazily with a towel. He moved with that same unshaken confidence, his presence filling the room even when he said nothing. With a flick of his wrist, he switched off the lights and settled into bed.

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy. Somewhere in that silence lay the weight of their impending wedding—a future neither of them had agreed to, yet one neither could escape.

Then, his voice cut through the darkness.

"What did you mean by 'with a gun'? Why was that strange to you?"

Sasha turned onto her side, her expression unreadable. "A person has to be smart to get close to you. If he tried to outsmart you with just a gun, then he was a fool. He should have considered your men—who'd kill him before he even pulled the trigger. If I were him, I'd have made a proper plan and taken precautions."

Darius chuckled, but his amusement carried a darker undercurrent. "Was that a compliment?"

She scoffed. "And this proves that all men are equally dumb."

His smirk faded instantly. He scoffed, shaking his head. "You! I am not 'all men.' I am the Pakhan. Do you think this position was handed to me? I built my empire from nothing—something you'll never understand."

Sasha turned fully toward him, her gaze sharp and unyielding. "Oh? And why's that?"

His lips curled again, but this time, his smirk carried something colder. "Because girls are not meant for weapons. They're only good for one thing—bearing children."

A fire ignited in her chest. The words slammed into her like a slap, but instead of retreating, she met his gaze with something fiercer.

"Then where did all the 'men with weapons' come from?"

For the first time, he faltered. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly. But no response came.

Sasha smirked, victorious. "Exactly."

But Darius was quick to recover. His expression shifted, and the corners of his lips twitched. "Even if women birth men, they still need protection until their last breath."

Her smirk faded. "Really? I didn't know you still lived in the 1920s."

His voice was calmer now, more calculated. "Even if you refuse to accept reality, it remains true. In your so-called modern times, what's the crime rate in your country? Why can't independent, strong women protect themselves?"

She held his gaze. "From who?"

His lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.

They stared at each other for a long moment before both turned away, neither willing to let the other win.

Lying in bed, Darius exhaled sharply, frustration simmering beneath his skin. *What does she think of herself? So much attitude.*

His thoughts darkened. *It was me who fought for her in Mumbai when that bastard touched her, not her. Yet, she stands there talking about strength.*

He clenched his jaw. *Women. They always twist words to win an argument. No one can ever win against them because they always believe they're right.*

But even as he tried to convince himself, his gaze drifted toward her sleeping form. The fire in her eyes, the sharpness of her mind—she was unlike anyone he had ever met.

And that, perhaps, was what unsettled him the most.

The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the dimly lit room. The soft rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds stirred the air, weaving nature's lullaby around her. Sasha shifted beneath the silk sheets, the warmth of sleep still lingering on her skin. She stretched lazily, her body arching with a contented sigh, before blinking away the remnants of her dreams.

As awareness settled in, a subtle emptiness pressed against her senses. The bed beside her was cold.

Frowning, she pushed herself up, her hands smoothing over the space where he had been. The faint scent of him—dark spice and musk—clung to the pillows, a lingering presence despite his absence.

Sasha swung her legs over the edge, a sharp shiver traveling up her spine as her bare feet met the cool wooden floor. She reached for her slippers, slipping them on with a sigh, then padded across the room. The sheer curtains billowed slightly from the morning breeze as she approached the window, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest.

The view before her stretched wide—the vast garden, dewdrops still clinging to the leaves, and the golden glow of the early sun casting long shadows across the manicured grass. And then she saw him.

Darius was outside, his body caught in the warm embrace of sunlight, each movement precise and controlled. His muscles flexed with effortless strength as he lowered himself into another push-up, the slow rise and fall of his body almost hypnotic. The bandage she had tied around his wound shifted slightly with each movement, a stark reminder of the injury he was supposed to be resting.

Sasha exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "That won't help your wound," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper.

As if sensing her gaze, Darius turned his head, sharp eyes locking onto hers with the ease of a man who was always aware of his surroundings. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Thanks for your concern, but it'll heal."

"Stubborn and egoistic," she muttered under her breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of the curtain.

Darius arched a brow. "Did you say something?"

She smirked, tilting her head slightly. "Why would I?"

His gaze narrowed in playful suspicion. "I saw your lips move."

Sasha shrugged, feigning innocence. "Well, I'm capable of moving many things."

His smirk deepened, turning almost wicked. "Oh? I didn't know you had *that* skill too. I'd love to see it on our first night."

Heat rushed to her face. "Shut up, you pervert! I meant my hands!"

Darius chuckled, his voice a low, rich sound that sent an uninvited warmth crawling up her spine. "So shameless," he teased. "That was unexpected."

"What?" she snapped, folding her arms tighter.

"Didn't you mean moving your hands *on* my body?" His voice dropped slightly, amusement laced in every syllable.

Sasha felt her breath hitch before she scowled. "I meant hitting you, idiot!"

His laughter was full and unrestrained, his shoulders shaking slightly as he pushed himself up into a standing position. His toned chest gleamed under the sun, the sweat from his workout only making him look more frustratingly smug. "Oh? Then speak clearly next time."

She clenched her fists. "I did."

"I could see that you *tried*," he said smoothly, tilting his head in mock sympathy.

"You know what?" Sasha huffed. "Talking to you is like banging my head against a wall."

Darius shrugged, completely unfazed. "Then who told you to talk to me? I don't remember asking."

A frustrated growl tore from her throat as she yanked the curtain shut with unnecessary force, blocking out the sight of him and the infuriating amusement in his eyes.

From outside, she heard his deep chuckle, the sound lingering in the air like a promise.

Later that day, Sasha lounged on the massive bed, scrolling aimlessly through her phone. The silk sheets beneath her were soft, almost too luxurious, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her. Every now and then, she stole a glance at Darius, who stood by the window, speaking into his phone in fluid, commanding French. The language rolled off his tongue effortlessly, each word sharp yet elegant, as if he were negotiating something far greater than whatever this call was about.

She forced herself to focus on the screen, but the tension in her shoulders refused to ease. Darius always had this effect on her—his presence too potent, too demanding.

Then he ended the call. The silence that followed was thick, charged.

"The wedding is tomorrow," he stated, his voice calm yet absolute.

Her fingers froze over the screen. A slow, cold wave crawled up her spine as she lifted her gaze to meet his.

Tomorrow.

The word echoed in her mind like a warning bell.

Her grip on the phone tightened. "What if I say no in front of the priest?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral. But beneath her defiance, there was an edge of uncertainty.

Darius didn't hesitate. He smirked.

"Go ahead," he said smoothly. "Best of luck."

The way he emphasized 'luck' sent an involuntary shiver through her. There was something lethal in his amusement, something that made her pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons. He wasn't bluffing. If she tried to defy him at the altar, there would be consequences—ones she couldn't afford to test.

His smirk faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by something colder. His next words came with a warning laced beneath them.

"When my guests arrive, your job is to greet them politely if they approach you or if I introduce you." His tone darkened, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "Other than that, you will remain silent."

Her jaw clenched. *Like a damn trophy wife,* she thought bitterly.

But she knew better than to argue. Not now.

As if to drive his point further, his eyes darkened, a quiet, dangerous storm gathering within them. "Don't forget my rules," he murmured, his voice a deadly promise. "You know what happens if you do."

Sasha swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. *Damn him.*

She gave a slow nod, unwilling to break eye contact first. She wouldn't cower, but she wouldn't push him right now, either.

A beat passed. Then, as if the conversation had never happened, Darius turned slightly. "The designer will be here in an hour," he informed her, his voice reverting to its usual controlled calm.

Sasha exhaled sharply, muttering a half-hearted, "Okay," before sinking back into the bed, her phone forgotten.

She wasn't sure if she was more furious at him or at herself for the way her heart still pounded.

Tomorrow.

She had until tomorrow to figure out what the hell she was going to do.

The day passed in a blur of wedding preparations. The grand estate bustled with movement—designers flitting in and out with fabric samples, florists debating over centerpieces, and Sasha enduring the suffocating hands of stylists who fussed over every strand of her hair.

By the time the final fitting was over, her muscles ached from standing too long, her skin prickled from endless skincare treatments, and her patience was stretched thin. When she finally stumbled into her bedroom, she barely had the strength to kick off her shoes before collapsing onto the mattress.

A weary sigh left her lips as she buried her face into the pillow.

"Why do mafia men even bother with weddings?" she muttered, her voice muffled.

Her arms sprawled out, fingers curling into the sheets. *They treat their words like law. They could just say they're married, and no one would question them.*

A yawn interrupted her thoughts, exhaustion pressing her further into the mattress. Her lids grew heavier as she continued to grumble.

"I wish they'd just continue their relationships without all this ceremony… Weddings are supposed to be sacred."

But her voice was already fading. Within moments, sleep pulled her under, her body succumbing to the long, draining day.

Much later, the door creaked open. Darius stepped inside, his presence dark and commanding even in the dim lighting. He had spent most of the evening handling last-minute security arrangements, ensuring there would be no interruptions during the ceremony. Yet, despite the exhaustion weighing on him, his gaze sharpened the moment it landed on the woman lying across the bed.

Sasha was sprawled halfway off the mattress, one arm dangling over the edge, her dress slightly twisted from tossing around in her sleep. Her breathing was soft, rhythmic, the rise and fall of her chest almost hypnotic.

Darius exhaled, shaking his head. *Careless woman.*

Moving closer, he crouched by the bed, his strong hands sliding beneath her legs. Effortlessly, he lifted her, repositioning her fully onto the mattress. The unconscious shift of her body made her look fragile—vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be when awake.

For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on her face.

Strands of dark hair fanned across the pillow, her lips slightly parted, her brows relaxed. In sleep, she looked at peace, stripped of the wariness and sharp defiance that usually guarded her expression.

He swallowed, forcing himself to look away.

But then, like a cruel trick played by his own mind, another memory surfaced.

Her body pressed against his, bare and trembling, the warmth of her skin branding his own. The night she had surrendered to him, the way her nails had dug into his back, the way she had whispered his name—

His jaw clenched.

Heat coiled in his gut, his body growing tense with restless energy. With a frustrated exhale, he turned onto his side, putting distance between them.

*Sleep,* he told himself. *Just sleep.*

But before he could fully settle, Sasha stirred.

In her sleep, she shifted toward him, her arm instinctively seeking warmth. Within seconds, she had curled against his side, her head resting on his chest.

Darius stiffened.

A slow, controlled breath left him as he glanced down at the woman now wrapped around him. One arm tucked under her cheek, her fingers loosely gripping his shirt as if afraid he would disappear.

He tried to pry her off.

She only clung tighter.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. *This woman…*

Carefully, he maneuvered them, extracting himself from her grip just enough to slide a small pillow into her arms instead. Almost immediately, she hugged it, her face nuzzling into the fabric.

Darius exhaled, shaking his head.

*Troublesome woman.*

Settling back against the pillow, he finally allowed his eyes to close. Sleep came easier this time, though somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew—this peace wouldn't last.

Tomorrow, everything would change.