Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

Sasha barely flinched when Darius reappeared, a small glass bottle glinting between his fingers. The faint sound of its contents sloshing as he walked toward her barely registered past the steady throb pulsing through her limbs. Pain lingered like an old shadow—her muscles tight, her body aching from exhaustion and her still-healing wounds. She sat rigid, shoulders tense, her breathing shallow as she eyed him cautiously.

Her confusion flickered to the surface the moment he neared. She instinctively shifted back on the bed, her spine stiffening as her eyes narrowed warily.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was sharper than she intended, a defensive edge lacing her words.

Darius didn't offer her the courtesy of an answer. His expression remained unreadable as he reached out, one strong hand wrapping firmly around her ankle. In a swift, controlled movement, he tugged her down, forcing her back onto the bed. A surprised gasp escaped her lips as she hit the pillow, the sudden proximity to him disorienting.

Her eyes snapped to his face, searching for something—explanation, amusement, anything. But he avoided her gaze completely, as if she were incidental to whatever task he'd set in his mind.

Instead, he uncapped the bottle, pouring a small amount of oil into his palm. The faint scent of herbs and something warmer, almost woody, rose between them. He rubbed his hands together briefly before placing them on her leg, the contact searingly intimate despite its simplicity.

Sasha stiffened again, her breath catching in her throat as his hands began moving over her calf, kneading with practiced precision. His touch was firm but measured, each stroke intentional, almost clinical. Yet the effect it had on her was anything but detached. She could feel her muscles slowly unraveling under his care, could feel the unfamiliar warmth curling deep in her stomach, coiling tighter with every pass of his fingers.

She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the flutter beneath her ribs. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice softer now, laced with genuine confusion.

"Doctor said." Two clipped words, delivered without elaboration.

Her brow furrowed, but she remained silent, lips parting slightly as his hands traveled to her second leg. His thumbs pressed firmly into her sore muscles, finding knots she hadn't even realized were there. She bit back a sigh, torn between the instinct to shove him away and the undeniable relief spreading through her limbs.

It was maddening—the way her body reacted to him, disregarding everything her mind screamed. Every calculated reason she had for keeping her distance unraveled beneath his fingertips.

Darius's focus never wavered. Without glancing at her, he shifted his attention to her arms, his fingers gliding carefully over the smooth planes of her skin. He avoided her injured hand entirely, his touch lighter there, almost cautious.

The scent of the oil lingered thick in the air, filling the space between them, mingling with something else—something unspoken that neither of them dared acknowledge.

When he finished, he reached for the blanket and pulled it over her without asking. Sasha immediately squirmed beneath the heavy fabric, frowning.

"It's hot," she muttered irritably, pushing at it.

"I know," Darius replied, his tone calm but edged with quiet authority. His gaze flicked down, assessing her without softness. "But you need to remove your clothes."

Her eyes widened, the muscles in her jaw tightening. "What?"

His eyes met hers squarely, unyielding. "Just stop this nonsense."

Before she could find the words to protest, he was already reaching for the hem of her shirt, his movements efficient, devoid of hesitation. There was no teasing, no deliberate provocation—only the same calm control that always unnerved her more than any threat.

Her breath hitched when the fabric slid over her skin. She wanted to slap his hands away, remind him that she wasn't his to command. But the words tangled uselessly on her tongue.

His touch wasn't rough this time. It wasn't even possessive. It was… careful. Detached, almost, like she was something fragile he needed to fix, nothing more.

But her heart didn't understand detached. It pounded erratically, every nerve hyperaware as his hands pressed the warm oil into her skin. He started at her stomach, palms spreading the heat slowly outward, gliding up over her ribs, her collarbone. His fingers skimmed the delicate line of her throat, trailing down her arms, each pass paradoxically tender yet impersonal.

She couldn't decide if it unnerved her more that he treated her like she might break—or that part of her wanted to lean into it, to close her eyes and let herself forget who he was.

When he finished, he calmly pulled her shirt back down and tucked the blanket over her once more. Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing but another task checked off his list.

"Now just rest," he ordered quietly, his voice brooking no argument. "Don't move from here."

Sasha's eyes flicked up to his face, her pulse still racing. She lifted her chin, refusing to let him have the last word.

"What if I need something?" she asked coolly, challenging him despite the way her body still tingled beneath his touch.

He didn't miss a beat. "Then call me."

And just like that, he turned away, already reaching for his phone. Within seconds, his voice shifted—sharp, commanding—as he barked instructions to his men, his attention no longer on her but firmly on business.

Sasha lay there beneath the too-warm blanket, staring at the ceiling, her pulse slowly settling. Yet no matter how she willed herself to relax, her skin still felt branded by the memory of his hands. The tension in the room hadn't left with him; it lingered, thick and oppressive, like the scent of oil clinging stubbornly in the air.

And no matter how much her mind tried to tell her she despised him—her body wasn't listening.

Sasha watched him for a long moment, her gaze sharp yet unreadable, her thoughts an endless tangle she couldn't quite unravel.

She didn't know what unsettled her more—the sudden shift in his demeanor, the gentleness threading through his actions, or the unsettling ache it stirred inside her chest.

It made no sense. None of this did.

This was Darius.

The man who had ripped her life apart piece by piece.

The man who had dragged her into this world without asking, who never flinched at trampling over her will, who treated control as his birthright.

And yet… here he was.

Unhurried. Steady.

Tending to the bandage on her injured hand with a care so meticulous it felt like mockery. Making sure she ate, ensuring her body had what it needed. Kneading the sore, strained muscles in her shoulders like he could smooth out the knots twisting her from the inside out.

Why?

Why was he doing this?

What was the angle?

What kind of man destroyed someone and then calmly patched up the aftermath like it was routine?

Her brow furrowed, the questions pressing heavily against her ribs. But no answers came.

Eventually, exhaustion seeped into her bones, dulling the edge of her thoughts. She fought it, wary of sleep—wary of him—but the weight dragging her under was too strong. Her eyelids slipped shut, her mind drifting in restless, uneasy loops.

That's when she heard it.

A low voice sliced clean through the haze of her dreams, close and commanding.

"It's afternoon. Eat your food and take your medicine."

Sasha groaned, turning her face into the pillow, willing herself not to hear him. She wasn't ready to get up. She wasn't ready to see him—deal with him—pretend she didn't feel the war brewing inside her.

But Darius, of course, wasn't the type to let her choose.

Without warning, a firm tug on both her wrists yanked her upright.

Her breath caught, eyes flying open in shock.

He stood over her, his hands wrapped tightly around hers, steady but unrelenting. Their faces were far too close—his dark eyes fixed on her, unreadable, unyielding.

Annoyance flared like a spark catching on dry wood.

With a huff, she yanked her hands free and threw the covers back, stomping toward the table like a rebellious child forced into submission. Dropping heavily into the chair, she scowled at the plate waiting for her, poking at it as if it had personally offended her.

She barely reached for the fork when his hand shot out, capturing her wrist with ease.

Her glare snapped to his face. "What now?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he sat beside her, movements smooth, deliberate. Without a word, he picked up the spoon, scooped up a bite, and brought it to her lips like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sasha froze, staring at him.

The sheer audacity of it made her want to lash out.

Her first instinct was to shove the spoon away, to snap something sharp, to remind him she didn't need—or want—his care.

But then she noticed how he was watching her.

Calm. Expectant. Unflinching.

Not coaxing. Not demanding. Just waiting.

Like he already knew she'd give in.

Her pride burned.

Yet, something inside her cracked. Something she couldn't quite place.

With a reluctant breath, she parted her lips and accepted the bite, chewing slowly, refusing to meet his eyes.

Darius continued, silent as ever, alternating between feeding her and taking bites himself, the whole thing playing out like a ritual neither of them dared acknowledge.

Sasha tried to focus on the food, on the bland rhythm of eating, but her chest felt tight—too tight. Every small gesture, every measured movement chipped away at her defenses, leaving her raw and exposed.

She hated this.

She hated how effortlessly he blurred the lines between captor and caretaker, between cold control and quiet tenderness.

Hated how easy it was for him to act like this—as if he cared. As if he was something other than the monster she knew him to be.

And most of all, she hated how some small, treacherous part of her wanted to believe it.

The meal had barely ended, but the drowsiness that once clung to her had vanished entirely. The oppressive midday heat pressed against the windows like a physical weight, the sun a merciless, glaring force in the sky. Inside, the coolness of the house felt suffocating in its own way, the walls closing in with their stifling stillness. She couldn't sit still—not when her skin felt like it was on fire, not when her thoughts felt too loud.

Restless, Sasha found herself drawn outside, her footsteps light but purposeful as she made her way to the pool. The blue water shimmered invitingly under the sun's harsh glare, promising a brief escape from the suffocating warmth.

Without hesitation, she lowered herself onto the edge, dipping her legs into the cool water. The contrast sent a pleasant shiver up her spine, soothing her overheated skin. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, pretending—just for a heartbeat—that she could forget everything. The walls, the unspoken rules, the watchful eyes.

But the illusion shattered almost immediately.

A sharp voice sliced through the quiet, low and commanding.

"Don't go swimming."

Her eyes snapped open, her head turning toward the source. Darius stood at the doorway, a sleek phone in his hand, his dark gaze locked on her with unsettling calm. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing casual about the weight of his stare.

Her jaw clenched, the muscles tightening almost reflexively.

Of course.

Every time.

Every single time she sought even the smallest taste of freedom, he found a way to leash it, to remind her who controlled the boundaries she lived within. His words weren't loud, but they didn't need to be. Authority clung to them like a chain she couldn't quite shake off.

Something hot and reckless flared in her chest—rebellion, stubborn pride, maybe even something deeper and darker she didn't want to name.

Without answering, she deliberately turned her face away, keeping her expression unreadable as she let her legs sway gently in the water. The sun beat down mercilessly, baking her skin, the heat prickling at her scalp. Sweat slid slowly down her back, dampening the thin fabric clinging to her body.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of obedience. But she wouldn't let herself suffer needlessly, either—not for him, not for this war she wasn't even sure she was still fighting.

After a long pause, she pulled her legs out of the water, the cool droplets sliding down her calves. She stood, not sparing him another glance, and walked back inside, her footsteps echoing faintly.

The moment she was inside, she headed straight for the sink, splashing cold water on her face. The icy sting against her skin brought no relief—it couldn't wash away the tight coil of frustration wound deep in her chest.

Everything felt unbearable—the heat, the silence, the boredom pressing in like an invisible cage.

She grabbed her phone, her fingers swiping aimlessly through messages, news, anything to distract herself. But the words blurred before her eyes, meaningless. No matter how much she scrolled, she couldn't seem to outrun the one thought circling like a predator at the edges of her mind.

Him.

His voice, always quiet but unyielding.

His eyes, always watching.

His touch, seared into her memory whether she wanted it or not.

Sasha sucked in a sharp breath, setting the phone down roughly on the table. Her reflection glared back at her faintly from the dark screen—restless, tense, eyes too bright with something she refused to name.

She hated him.

She hated the way he controlled her, the way he could unnerve her with a single look.

And yet, as she stood there, the truth twisted bitterly inside her.

What she hated more was the way her pulse quickened when he was near.

The way, no matter how far she tried to distance herself, he always lingered beneath her skin.

And she didn't know if she hated him more for causing it—or herself for letting it happen.