Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

The day dragged on, thick with an oppressive silence neither of them dared to break.

Darius remained seated across the room, his gaze fixed on his phone. His fingers moved steadily over the screen, but whatever occupied his attention, he gave no sign of it—his face a mask of cold detachment, carved from stone. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his features, as if he'd perfected the art of shutting her out without ever leaving the room.

Sasha, on the other hand, buried herself in her own device, pretending to be absorbed by the endless scroll of headlines, photos, meaningless content. But none of it registered. The words blurred together, images flickered past without leaving an impression. Her mind wasn't on the screen; it was on the heavy silence, on the man mere feet away, yet miles apart.

Every breath between them felt calculated. Each movement, deliberate and careful, as if one wrong glance might shatter whatever fragile thread kept the peace. They didn't speak, didn't exchange even the shallowest pleasantries. The distance wasn't measured in steps, but in something intangible—something simmering beneath the surface, unspoken but palpable.

When evening came and the quiet stretched unbearably, Darius finally rose without a word. The clatter of plates, the muted sounds of dinner being prepared, only underscored how little had been said between them.

She thought maybe tonight would be different. Maybe he would leave her to fend for herself, finally acknowledge that she didn't need him hovering over her, treating her like something breakable.

But when he returned, setting the plate down before her, it was him who picked up the fork—his hand steady, his eyes unreadable.

Her throat tightened with the urge to refuse, to push the plate away and snap that she wasn't some helpless thing. She could eat on her own. She didn't need his constant care, his wordless insistence on control.

But before the words could form, his gaze lifted and caught hers.

There was no room for argument in the way he looked at her—quiet but immovable, sharp as a blade without ever being raised. His eyes held her captive, a silent command that made her stomach coil in frustration and something far more dangerous.

Her lips parted, but no protest came.

So, she ate. One bite after another, each one heavier than the last. Not because she was hungry, but because refusing felt like losing to him, and complying felt like surrendering something she wasn't ready to name.

Neither of them spoke as the meal ended. Darius set the plate aside without a word, retreating back into that impassive silence that gnawed at her more than any argument ever could.

Later, as the night closed in and they lay in bed—separated by mere inches, yet each turned to their own side—it wasn't the physical space between them that kept her awake. It was the weight pressing down on her chest, thicker than the dark, heavier than the sheets.

The tension had followed them, a shadow neither of them acknowledged but couldn't escape. It curled between them like smoke, dense and suffocating, daring one of them to break first.

But neither did.

And the silence swallowed them whole.

Sasha stirred, dragged from restless sleep by the faint, persistent vibration against her nightstand.

Her hand groped blindly across the sheets until her fingers brushed the cool surface of her phone. Squinting against the dim light filtering through the curtains, she blinked blearily at the illuminated screen.

**Lea.**

The name stood out sharply, unexpected at this hour. Her brows knit together in a frown as she registered the time—barely six in the morning, the world outside still shrouded in the hush of dawn.

With a soft sigh, she slid her thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to her ear.

Before she could form a greeting, a rush of excitement burst through the line.

*"Sasha! It happened! I felt the baby kick last night!"*

Lea's voice was a breathless mix of wonder and exhilaration, carrying so much unrestrained joy it seemed to pierce through the quiet stillness of the room like a ray of morning light.

For a moment, Sasha just listened, the corners of her lips twitching upward despite the heaviness she often woke with these days. Something in Lea's happiness settled gently against the hollowness inside her, softening it.

Lea continued, her words tumbling over each other as she described how strange and beautiful it had felt—the tiny flutter beneath her skin, like life itself whispering from within.

Sasha found herself relaxing, the tension she carried always coiled beneath the surface easing slightly.

Her voice, when she spoke, was lower, but there was something almost tender woven into it.

"How are you feeling? Any morning sickness? Are the doctor visits going well?" she asked, each question deliberate, steady, as if clinging to these details could somehow anchor her to something safe, something normal.

Lea answered eagerly, launching into talk of ultrasounds and vitamins and little preparations being made—the kind of conversation Sasha had once dismissed as trivial, but now she let herself sink into it, welcoming the distraction.

She didn't notice the subtle shift in the room's atmosphere.

Across from her, by the dresser, Darius stood, his tall frame framed by the muted light, methodically buttoning his crisp white shirt.

His movements were practiced, precise, each fold smoothed down without thought—but his eyes were not focused on his reflection.

Every so often, his sharp gaze flicked toward her, lingering as she spoke, taking in the softness of her smile, the faint warmth in her voice that she rarely let slip when directed at him.

He said nothing.

Didn't break the quiet, didn't offer a single word—he simply watched, his expression unreadable, lips pressed into a thin, contemplative line.

Only when she let out a soft laugh at something Lea said, the sound light and unguarded, did he finally move.

Without a sound, he crossed the room, slipping out the door and leaving behind the faint scent of cologne, the subtle echo of something unspoken.

And Sasha, phone pressed to her ear, didn't realize she'd had an audience at all.

The morning air carried a crisp bite, cool enough to make the skin prickle, yet kissed by the faint promise of warmth as the sun hovered low on the horizon. The sky, painted in soft hues of peach and gold, felt impossibly serene—mocking, almost, in contrast to the turbulence coiling inside her.

Sasha stood by the window, arms crossed, her restless gaze fixed on the shimmering pool below. The walls around her felt stifling, the silence inside the villa pressing down on her shoulders like a weight she couldn't shrug off.

Without another thought, she turned sharply on her heel and headed out, barefoot steps purposeful against the cool tiles.

The moment she slipped beneath the surface, the water enveloped her like silk—cool, smooth, and calming. It eased the soreness lingering in her muscles, washing over the bruises and the tension. For a brief second, she allowed herself to float, to forget, to breathe.

But then—

She felt it.

That unmistakable, heavy sensation crawling over her skin like a physical touch.

His gaze.

Sasha broke the surface, water dripping down her face as she turned toward him, her breath catching involuntarily.

Darius stood waist-deep in the pool, chest rising and falling steadily. His dark hair was slicked back, droplets tracing rivulets down his sharp jawline. But it wasn't his appearance that made her pulse stutter—it was his eyes.

Cold. Hard. Controlled, but flickering beneath with something far less contained.

"Get out," he said, voice like a whip crack against the still morning air.

The command struck her, sharp and unmistakable, but it only made something stubborn twist tighter inside her chest.

"I want to swim," Sasha replied, her tone deliberately even, though she lifted her chin just slightly in challenge.

The muscle in his jaw ticked, his gaze darkening even further.

For a beat, he didn't move.

And then—

He was in front of her.

One moment there was space between them, and the next, it evaporated as he closed the distance with predatory ease. His hand curled firmly around her left arm—strong, possessive, but not cruel. It wasn't enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her exactly who held the reins.

"You are so damn stubborn," he muttered, voice low, his breath warm against her wet skin. His grip tightened fractionally, sending a pulse down her spine. "Learn to obey."

Sasha's pulse hammered in her throat, but she forced her features to stay smooth, meeting his glare head-on.

"And if I don't?" she threw back, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.

For a moment, she thought he might snap. Say something cutting. Push her under until she learned to submit.

But instead—

He simply acted.

Without warning, Darius bent, one arm hooking beneath her knees, the other around her back, lifting her as though she weighed nothing at all.

"Put me down, you brute!" she hissed, squirming, her wet skin sliding against his. Her fists found his chest, pounding futilely against solid muscle, legs kicking to no avail.

He ignored her entirely. His hold didn't falter. He carried her like she was weightless, like struggling didn't matter.

And then—

He tossed her onto the nearest poolside sofa.

The cushions broke her fall, but it still sent a shock through her, her breath catching as she sat up, chest heaving. Fury buzzed beneath her skin, hotter than the sun rising over them.

She lunged at him, fingers locking around his wrist, shoving against him with all the force she could summon.

It was useless.

Effortless, infuriating—he caught her again, spinning her like it cost him nothing. His body shifted, pinning her down beneath him, forearm braced beside her head, his weight caging her completely.

Her breath came faster, not just from the struggle—but from something far more dangerous crackling in the space between them.

The air felt thick, charged.

His face hovered just above hers, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the faint trace of water and something darker beneath it—something uniquely Darius.

Drops of water slid from his hair, trailing down onto her collarbone, her pulse thrumming wildly beneath the surface.

And then, without warning—

He kissed her.

There was no hesitation. No restraint.

His lips crashed against hers, rough, consuming, as though he'd finally allowed the simmering tension between them to boil over. It wasn't gentle—it wasn't meant to be. It was possession and frustration, a demand and a dare all at once.

Sasha's mind screamed to resist, to shove him away, to remember why she hated him.

But her body betrayed her first.

Her hands curled against the fabric of his soaked shirt, fingers fisting tightly. A soft, broken sound escaped her throat, one she couldn't swallow down fast enough.

Heat spiraled low in her belly, pulling her under.

For the first time, she didn't fight.

She kissed him back.

Desperately. Hungrily. As though she could devour the control he always held so tightly between his teeth.

But just as quickly as it started—

He pulled away.

Abruptly.

Darius hovered over her for a heartbeat, his breathing uneven, gaze flickering with something unreadable—something dangerous and tightly leashed.

And without a word—

He stood.

He left her there, soaked and trembling, the ghost of his kiss still burning on her lips.

Sasha stared after him, chest rising and falling, her fists clenched at her sides.

Frustration—hot, furious, and maddening—coiled beneath her skin like wildfire.

*Damn him.*

The rest of the morning passed without incident, a quiet, almost oppressive stillness settling over the room.

When breakfast finally arrived—brought in with the same efficient, silent precision she was starting to grow used to—Darius, as if by habit, reached immediately for the spoon, prepared to feed her without question.

But this time, Sasha caught his wrist before the gesture could go any further.

"I can eat on my own," she said evenly, her fingers lightly gripping his hand, not aggressive but firm enough to leave no room for argument.

His gaze lifted to hers, dark, unreadable, lingering on her face for a beat too long, as if weighing whether to challenge her assertion.

Then, wordlessly, he withdrew his hand and resumed his own meal, leaving her to hers without a single comment. It almost felt like a test she'd unknowingly passed.

For a while, she focused on her food, the clatter of silverware the only sound between them. But the silence eventually stretched thin, heavy and dull, tugging at her nerves.

Boredom settled over her like a fog once the plates were cleared. Darius had turned the television on, his attention fixed intently on the rolling news ticker and muted voices of anchors discussing markets, politics, and crises.

Sasha shifted restlessly on the couch, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye. The glow of the screen cast shadows across his sharp features, his expression stoic, impenetrable.

*"How boring,"* she muttered under her breath, but loud enough to be heard.

His gaze flicked toward her, brief but sharp, acknowledging her complaint without fully giving her his attention.

She crossed her arms, letting the irritation show. "You said this was supposed to be a trip. That you were staying away from work. So why are you glued to this?" Her voice carried a pointed edge, half provocation, half genuine curiosity.

For a moment, he didn't respond, his eyes returning to the screen as if weighing how much to reveal.

Then, his lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—and he spoke, voice low, almost contemplative. "Some things never leave you," he said, gaze still fixed ahead. "They follow you like your own shadow. Whether you want them to or not."

The words lingered between them, heavier than she expected, as if he'd unintentionally let something slip beneath his usual armor.

She rolled her eyes, brushing off the strange tightness in her chest. "Then at least let me have the remote. I'm not interested in watching your shadows."

Without even looking at her, he reached out lazily and tossed the remote her way. It landed near her arm, a casual dismissal that somehow still felt like he was watching her reaction closely.

She snatched it up, flicking through channel after channel, seeking something—anything—that might distract her from the odd, lingering tension in the room.

Eventually, she stopped on a movie. Something light, something harmless, or so she thought.

But only minutes in, her posture stiffened. The scene on screen shifted abruptly—dark lighting, soft breathing, a man backing a woman up against the wall, kissing her with an intensity that felt all too familiar. His hands roamed possessively over her body, fabric falling away piece by piece, the woman surrendering completely beneath his touch.

Sasha's throat tightened, heat creeping up the back of her neck before she could stop it.

With a flick of her thumb, she changed the channel, avoiding the scene as if burned.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Darius smirk—subtle, but unmistakable.

Her temper flared.

"Shut up," she snapped, not bothering to hide the sharpness in her voice, even though he hadn't said a word.

His smirk only deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable, something that made her pulse quicken against her will. But he remained silent, infuriatingly calm, letting her stew in her own reaction.

Before the tension could spiral further, her phone buzzed on the table beside her.

Lea's name flashed on the screen.

Relief bloomed in her chest, and without hesitation, Sasha grabbed the phone, answering quickly, letting her friend's familiar, warm voice become an anchor—a much-needed escape from Darius's suffocating presence.

That evening, the air carried a faint chill, the oppressive heat of the day finally dissolving beneath a sky streaked with deep, velvety shades of blue and purple. The garden lights flickered faintly in the distance, casting long shadows over the manicured paths like silent, watchful sentinels.

Sasha stood by the window for a moment, her fingers absently tracing patterns along the glass. The stillness of the house pressed in on her, suffocating and heavy, amplifying the restless energy simmering beneath her skin.

She felt trapped.

Restless, irritated, a caged bird yearning for a breath of freedom.

The walls of Darius's estate felt too close tonight, his presence too suffocating. She needed space, distance—just for a little while.

And she needed it without him hovering over her shoulder, without the silent weight of his gaze tracking her every move.

So, when she heard the sound of running water from the en suite bathroom, the low murmur of Darius's voice on the phone momentarily quiet, she seized her chance.

Without a sound, she slipped on a light shawl over her shoulders and moved toward the door, easing it open with careful precision. No creak. No footfall out of place.

She stepped out into the hallway, the cool marble beneath her feet grounding her as she navigated past the silent guards stationed discreetly by the entrance. They didn't stop her. Perhaps they assumed she had permission. Or perhaps no one dared question her movements, knowing Darius's unpredictable temper.

Outside, the garden stretched in front of her like a dark maze. The neatly trimmed hedges and winding pathways were familiar, but tonight they felt different.

She wandered aimlessly, her thoughts tangled and heavy, each step meant to shake off the growing tension coiling inside her chest.

But that was her first mistake.

She was too focused on the storm inside her, too distracted by the silent war she fought within herself to notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

Didn't see how the shadows behind her thickened unnaturally.

Didn't catch the faint scuff of hurried footsteps, too light, too careful.

By the time the prickle at the nape of her neck registered—a whisper of unease—it was too late.

A rough hand clamped over her mouth, yanking her back.

Panic flared in her chest, but before she could react, a damp cloth pressed firmly against her lips and nose.

The acrid, chemical scent invaded her senses instantly—sharp, suffocating.

Her body fought instinctively, struggling against the iron grip holding her captive, but her limbs betrayed her, growing weaker by the second.

Her vision blurred, spinning wildly as her muscles slackened, her mind slipping into a thick fog.

The last thing she felt was the cold night air on her skin and the heavy drag of darkness pulling her under.

Then everything went black.

She woke to a nightmare.

Her mind surfaced slowly, dragging her from darkness into something far more terrifying—a dimly lit hotel room, shadows stretching across peeling wallpaper, the air heavy with something foul.

Two men stood at the foot of the bed, their gazes fixed on her.

She realized, with bone-deep horror, that she was naked.

Panic crashed over her like a tidal wave, choking the breath from her lungs, making her pulse pound violently in her ears.

She tried to move, to scramble away, but her limbs felt sluggish—heavy, foreign. Drugged.

One of the men smirked, his eyes roaming over her exposed body like she was a piece of property. "Darius really keeps some treasures, huh?"

His partner chuckled darkly, the sound making her stomach twist. "Our boss made the right call."

Terror gripped her throat, a sharp, suffocating claw.

One of them climbed onto the bed, looming over her like a predator. His rough hands seized her wrists, pinning them to the mattress. She struggled weakly, whimpered, but her body betrayed her, too sluggish, too weak to fight back.

He leaned down, his breath rancid against her skin. His lips brushed her shoulder. His hands wandered lower—

The door burst open with a deafening crack.

A gunshot echoed, sharp and final.

The man on top of her was yanked away, his body thrown viciously against the wall.

And there, in the doorway, stood Darius.

His face was carved from fury, every line hard, his dark eyes blazing like twin coals. His gun still smoked faintly in his grip.

Without hesitation, without a word, he crossed the room, his movements swift and lethal.

He tore the blanket from the bed, wrapping it tightly around her trembling, exposed frame. His arms slid beneath her, lifting her with an ease that should have terrified her—but all she felt was relief. Shattering, consuming relief.

She clung to him instinctively, her sobs muffled against his chest, her entire body wracked with violent shakes.

Darius carried her out of the room, barking low, deadly orders to the men outside. His voice was calm, composed—but beneath it simmered a lethal promise.

Sasha barely processed any of it.

All she felt was his warmth.

The safety of his arms, sheltering her from the horror.

Back at the hotel, Sasha locked herself in the bathroom.

She turned the water scalding hot, watching as steam clouded the small space, blurring her reflection in the mirror.

She dropped the blanket, stepped beneath the punishing spray, and scrubbed her skin raw.

Desperate.

Desperate to wash away the invisible stain left behind by their hands—their touch.

Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as she dragged the loofah over her arms, over the bruises blooming like shadows across her skin.

She scrubbed until her skin burned, until the water swirled pink around her feet, but it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

She dragged the loofah harder over the marks, as if she could scrub away the shame, the memory, the sheer violation of it all.

And then—

The door burst open.

She barely had time to spin around, startled, before Darius was there.

His dark silhouette cut through the steam, broad shoulders tense, his expression unreadable—but his presence filled the space like something suffocating, immovable.

"Get out," she hissed, recoiling instinctively, her voice sharp and brittle.

He didn't move.

Instead, without a word, he stepped forward and seized her wrist, halting her frantic movements.

His grip was firm, unyielding, anchoring her in place.

His eyes burned into hers, dark and relentless.

She glared at him, hatred crackling in her gaze like lightning. "You don't understand," she spat, her voice shaking with fury and something deeper, more fragile. "The ones who give pain never do."

His fingers slid from her wrist to her waist, pulling her closer despite her resistance. His touch branded her, possessive and inescapable.

His voice dropped, dangerously low. "I saved you."

Her nails dug into his forearm, her breathing ragged. "You could never understand what it feels like."

A charged silence stretched between them, so thick she could barely breathe.

The weight of it pressed into her chest, threatening to crack something open.

Then, after a beat that felt like forever, he released her.

His eyes didn't waver, didn't soften.

"Pack your things," he ordered, voice flat, final. "We're leaving."

She stood there, frozen beneath the scalding water.

Didn't move. Didn't blink.

She would not go with him.

But Darius didn't care what she wanted.

He returned minutes later, barely giving her time to dry off before he scooped her effortlessly into his arms.

Her fists pounded weakly against his chest, her curses laced with venom, but he didn't flinch.

Didn't falter.

He carried her out of the hotel like she weighed nothing.

And that night, in Paris, he brought her deeper into his world.

But Sasha wasn't finished.

Not with her vengeance.

When he returned hours later, blood still staining his hands, his shirt dark and rumpled, she was waiting.

She watched him step inside, his presence sucking the air from the room like a storm rolling in.

And then she spoke.

Her voice was laced with something cruel, something jagged. "You're the Pakhan," she sneered, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Yet you couldn't even protect your own wife."

Her lips curled bitterly. "What a joke. Your power is nothing but empty words."

The room fell deadly silent.

For a moment, he stood utterly still, his gaze fixed on her.

Then—

His patience snapped.

In a single step, he crossed the distance between them, his fingers wrapping firmly around her throat—not to choke, not to hurt, but to hold her in place. To force her to look at him.

His voice was pure steel. "Do you want him dead or tortured?"

Sasha's heart thudded violently, but she didn't flinch.

Didn't tremble.

She met his gaze, cold fire in her eyes. "Both," she said, her voice cutting like ice. "But he dies when I say so. I want to watch him suffer first."

A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at his lips.

"Then you will."

That night, without ceremony, he handed her a tablet.

The screen flickered to life, revealing her attacker chained in a dark, windowless room. His face was a mask of terror.

Darius leaned close, his breath ghosting against her ear. "Watch," he murmured. "And when you've had enough, say the word, and I'll end him."

**Four Days of Suffering.**

Each day, she watched.

Darius kept his word.

He broke the man methodically, with calculated precision—pain layered upon pain, fear etched deeper each hour. He stopped only when the man lost consciousness, only to begin again when he came to.

And on the fifth day, Sasha sent the message:

**Kill him.**

Her fingers didn't tremble when she typed the words.

She didn't look away when, through the screen, Darius's dark eyes flicked up to meet hers before delivering the final blow.

But afterward, when the screen went dark, something shifted.

A memory surfaced, unbidden.

*"Marriage is sacred. I will treat this marriage as one."*

And suddenly, her chest felt too tight.

That night, when Darius returned—silent, blood still staining his hands—she couldn't stop herself from looking.

Really looking.

Watching as he shed his shirt, as he stepped into the shower, water streaming over the hard lines of his body.

She didn't know why her mind betrayed her.

Why it conjured the sensation of his hands on her skin, the press of his mouth, the heat of his body.

By the time he emerged, water droplets trailing down his chest, his dark hair damp and tousled—

Something inside her broke.

She stood, crossed the room without thinking.

And before she could stop herself—

She kissed him.

It was desperate. Feverish. A taste of something dangerous, something forbidden.

For a heartbeat, Darius stilled.

Then—

He pulled her in.

The kiss deepened, rough and consuming, heat coiling between them like wildfire.

His hands roamed down her back, gripping her tightly, lifting her easily as he carried her to the bed.

His mouth traced a burning path down her throat, his fingers undoing buttons, slipping fabric away, baring every secret.

And when he entered her—

She gasped, pain and pleasure crashing over her, leaving her undone.

He moved slowly, deliberately, every touch controlled, reverent.

It was the first time she had ever given herself to someone.

And it was to him.

Darius.

The man she had sworn to destroy.

When it was over, they lay tangled in the sheets, the silence pressing heavy around them.

Sasha stared at the ceiling, her thoughts a chaotic tangle.

*"Why did I do this?"*

She had given her virginity to the man she believed murdered her parents.

But she had wanted him.

Hadn't she?

Maybe it was comfort.

Maybe it was the relief of safety.

Or maybe—

It was something else entirely.

Something far more dangerous.

Something she didn't dare name.