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đź“š: The Caged Rose.
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~Eshie🦋
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Author's POV.
After what felt like endless protests—or perhaps desperate begging that carried more of Isra's stubborn pride than actual submission—Zorain finally released her wrists, leaving her breathing ragged but her gaze unshaken. The air between them felt suffocating, heavy with an unspoken tension that neither wanted to acknowledge but both were drowning in. Their eyes locked, hers blazing with reckless defiance, his burning with something darker—something dangerous, raw, and consuming.
And then Isra's lips curved, slow and deliberate, into that infuriating smirk he hated the most. Her voice, sharp as a dagger, cut the silence.
"Maine toh socha tha ki tum loyal rahoge apni hone wali biwi ke liye, but I was totally fucking wrong."
The venom in her words lingered, and that smirk was like gasoline on his already unstable patience.
Zorain's jaw flexed as he leaned closer, his voice low, grave, and laced with a warning that could slice bone.
"Tumhe is cheez ki fikar karne ki zaroorat nahi hai."
But Isra wasn't the type to back down, not when she had the chance to make him burn. She scoffed, rolling her eyes before her words dripped with mocking sweetness, tainted with brutal honesty.
"Yeah, yeah, who's even caring… but it's just your so-called innocent fiancée will get hurt if she finds out her soon-to-be husband is fucking interested in a girl who's eleven years younger than him."
Her bitter laugh echoed, and for a moment, Zorain's fingers twitched as though restraining himself from grabbing her again—whether to punish her or silence her, even he didn't know.
His eyes narrowed, dark and ruthless.
"Who's gonna tell her?" he asked, the calmness in his tone more dangerous than any shout. He already knew the answer.
Isra tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with mischief, her lips parting in a taunting whisper.
"What… if I?" she dragged the words out dramatically, testing him, daring him, knowing exactly how far to push before he snapped.
His response was instant, deep, and edged with a threat that carried no emptiness.
"You'll not."
She arched a brow, feigning innocence, though the pulse in her throat betrayed her rising thrill.
"And why the hell do you think I'll listen to you?"
His smirk was faint, cruel, and dripping with power.
"Because there will be punishment for you if you'll do this." His voice was a low growl, the kind that promised no mercy, and Isra—reckless, wild Isra—knew from the look in his eyes that this time he was fucking serious.
Still, she wasn't about to hand him victory. She scoffed, tossing her hair back with a prideful tilt of her chin.
"Well, you both are made for each other. I don't have any problem with you guys."
Her voice faltered for the first time when she spoke again, softer, a demand that was more plea than she wanted it to sound like.
"Now get off me."
Zorain nodded slowly, but before pulling away, his lips descended upon hers, devouring and desperate, laced with hunger that carried nothing of restraint. It was a kiss that wasn't gentle, wasn't kind—it was possession, a fucking claim, and Isra hated how her body betrayed her by melting into it.
When he finally pulled back, her breath was shallow, her smirk trembling at the edges, and the ghost of his touch still burned against her lips.
Isra's POV.
Fuck him. Just fuck him. That goddamn bastard. I swear I'll kill him. My veins are still burning, my lips still taste of him, and the memory of his mouth on mine is making my skin itch with anger and shame. And that last kiss of his—God, that last kiss—like he owned me, like I was some desperate little thing waiting for his touch.
"Fuck off, Zorain. You fucking jerk. You arrogant bastard. Son of a bitch," I spat as he walked out, as if throwing those words would somehow peel his presence off my body. But the truth? It clung. It fucking clung like smoke in my lungs.
And God help me, I let him. I fucking let him. I stood there, quivering like a goddamn fool, letting his hands burn into my skin, letting his breath unravel me piece by piece. He was a lustful, controlling devil—no doubt about that. But wasn't I worse? Didn't I open the door, let him in, drown in that madness like I was starving for it?
No. No, fuck no. It wasn't me. It was just hormones, right? Some sick biological betrayal, making me weak, making me crave what I should despise. Yeah, that's it. Just stupid, reckless, uncontrollable hormones.
"Fuck," I hissed under my breath, dragging my hands down my face. My body still hummed, still begged, still remembered—and that's what made me want to scream. I needed a goddamn cold shower, needed ice water to scald out the fire he lit in me. I needed to sleep, bury this night, and pretend it never happened. Pretend he never touched me. Pretend I never wanted it.
But deep down, I knew—sleep wouldn't wash him away. Nothing would.
Author's POV.
The next day bled into shadows—inside a pitch-black room that stank of sweat, gunpowder, and iron-rich blood. Two men sat in silence, each claiming their own chair like thrones of violence, while another poor wretch—broken, bruised, and barely clinging to life—lay sprawled on the cold cement floor. His body twitched with each ragged breath, his ribs grinding against splinters of pain, his face a swollen canvas of fists and boots.
"B… Boss, please—fuck—please don't kill me," he rasped, coughing crimson into the dirt. "I swear, I'll tell you everything… just spare me."
One of the seated men tilted his head with the disinterest of a wolf bored of the hunt. Zorain. His fingers drummed against the armrest, cold, steady, unreadable. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he reached for the gun at his side, raised it with almost lazy grace, and—
BANG.
The bullet tore through silence, ripping into flesh and bone. The body jerked once before collapsing, lifeless, into a heap of useless meat.
"Pathetic fucker," Zorain muttered under his breath, sliding the gun back into its holster like it had kissed its rightful home. His eyes were empty, like the act hadn't even scratched the surface of his conscience.
The other man, older, gruffer, leaned forward, his voice low but laced with urgency. "Zorain… we need to find him. Fast. Or else—fuck—it won't just be blood on the floor next time. Something big, something ugly is gonna blow, and we'll be knee-deep in shit."
Zorain's jaw ticked, a slow, deliberate clench. He didn't argue, didn't speak more than a word. Just a nod—blank, detached, but sharp enough to cut through the tension.
In the suffocating dark, silence returned—but it wasn't peace. It was the kind of silence that hummed before carnage, before the next storm of bullets and broken bodies.
Zorain's POV.
It was already midnight, and the silence of the city gnawed at my ears while I steered the car towards Alvi Mansion—the place Isra and I called home for now. My body was fucking exhausted; the day had been a battlefield. Paperwork and boardroom snakes in the daylight, blood and bullets in the shadows of the night. Business life suffocated me—it was all numbers and lies, masks worn with polished smiles. But the mafia life? That was raw, real, drenched in power and fear. There, you either ruled, or you rotted. No middle ground.
Still, I knew the danger of it. Power without weakness made you a god, but with weakness? You became prey.
"Well, you also have a weakness, Mr. Zorain Raza," my subconscious mocked, the voice low, cutting.
"I know," I muttered back, jaw tightening against the wheel.
The car screeched to a halt before the main gates of the mansion. And the moment my eyes landed on it, my breath froze in my throat.
The mansion… the mansion was destroyed. The aftermath of chaos was painted across it like some twisted fucking masterpiece. Bullet holes riddled the walls, glass shattered into a million sharp stars on the marble floors, doors torn open. It looked like a fucking war zone.
Only one thought slammed into me.
Isra.
God, no. Nothing should've happened to her. Nothing.
I pushed the doors open and stormed inside, my veins thrumming like live wires. And then I saw her.
She was there, sitting on the couch. Her forehead was bleeding, a thin crimson line dripping down her pale skin. And yet—her eyes. Those fury-drenched eyes that could burn down empires. She wasn't crying. She wasn't broken. She was fire.
"Isra—" I moved toward her immediately, but before my words could even taste the air, she stood.
Her voice hit me like a gunshot.
"Tumne kasam khaayi hui hai na ki meri zindagi tabah karne ki?" she spat, fury trembling in every syllable.
"Isra—" I tried, but she slashed me with her next words.
"Nahi! Tum kuch nahi bologe. Sirf aur sirf main!" she roared, her voice shaking the very air.
God, this girl. She never listened. Only spoke. Fire and venom.
"Do you even know what happened today?" Her voice cracked but didn't break. "Tumhari wajah se un logo ne mera ghar barbaad kar diya hai. Mere Mumma-Papa ka ghar!" Her breath was ragged, her chest rising and falling with rage. "Zorain, chale kyun nahi jaate meri zindagi se?"
Her words sliced deeper than a fucking knife.
I clenched my fists, forcing my voice low. "Isra, tell me what exactly happened."
She let out a broken laugh, bitter, shaking her head. "Yes… you wanna know? Fine. Listen."
Her voice lowered, carrying venom and despair both.
"Kuch log aaye the. They butchered your so-called bodyguards like dogs. Then they grabbed me—slammed my head into the fucking wall. After that? Darkness. When I woke up, this—" She gestured around at the wreckage. "This was all that was left. My entire home, torn apart because of you. Zorain. I don't give a fuck whether it's your business world or your mafia world. But your enemies… tumhare dushman mujhe tak nahi pohachne chahiye."
Her voice broke at the end, weakening, softening into something dangerously close to fear.
I stepped closer, cupping her blood-streaked face gently, despite the storm ripping inside me.
"I promise, Isra," I whispered, my words harsh, raw, carved in stone. "This was the last time. I'll never—never—let anyone touch you. Not even your single fucking hair."
And for a fleeting moment, in her eyes… I saw it. A flicker of something fragile. Trust.
But she shoved me away, her voice shaking, weak but determined. "Leave me. Mujhse door chale jao."
I froze, then let the rage burst through my chest, my voice echoing like thunder.
"NEVER!"
That single word tore through the air, thick with anger and hunger, sealing a promise that no devil, no bullet, no fucking god could break.
Isra's POV.
What the fuck just happened to me? God, my whole fucking house looked like a graveyard of shattered glass and broken walls — a reflection of what I had become inside. I was still sitting on the couch, dried blood crusted on my temple, my head pounding, and I was waiting for that bastard.
When he finally walked in, I didn't give him the chance to open his mouth. I tore into him with my words, my taunts sharper than knives, because that's exactly what he deserved. If he thought he could come in here, clean up the mess, and act like the savior, then he really didn't know me.
But hours later, I found myself in my room, with him sitting beside me. The audacity. His rough, calloused fingers were tending to my wound with more care than he should have been capable of. The silence was suffocating, so I broke it.
"Why don't you just leave me?" My voice was flat, but my chest was burning, every nerve raw from the storm still inside me.
He didn't even flinch. "Because you're my responsibility." His tone was calm, steady — the kind of calm that made me want to scream.
I let out a bitter laugh that scraped my throat. "What a fucking liar you are, no?"
His gaze flicked to mine, and for a second I swore his jaw tightened. "Think whatever the fuck you want, Isra, but this is the truth."
I didn't reply. Not because I couldn't — hell, I had a thousand things to say. But because for once, I didn't know which venom to spit. My chest was tight, my lips pressed shut.
He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne mixed with smoke filling the space between us, choking me and pulling me in at the same time. His hand brushed a little too close to my collarbone as he adjusted the bandage, and I sucked in a sharp breath. Fuck. My body betrayed me, arching almost instinctively under his touch.
He noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. The flicker in his eyes told me he knew exactly what effect he had on me, and it pissed me off.
"You don't get to play hero after burning my world down," I hissed, my voice low, my face only inches from his.
He smirked — that maddening, dangerous smirk that always set me on fire. "And yet here I am, putting you back together piece by piece."
Before I could retort, his thumb grazed the corner of my mouth, wiping a streak of dried blood. The touch lingered a second too long, and my entire body turned to chaos.
Fuck. I hated him. And fuck, I wanted him.
Zorain's POV.
I stormed into my room straight from hers, my chest heaving as rage coiled inside me like a venomous serpent. My fists were clenched so hard that my knuckles turned bone white, veins threatening to burst. Fuck. The anger in me wasn't the kind that could be swallowed or soothed—it was wildfire, ruthless and uncontrollable. He had crossed a line, a line I had silently drawn, a line I thought even he wouldn't dare to touch. But he did. He fucking dragged her into this filthy mess between us, and now… now he had sealed his fate.
He thought hurting me was the way? No. He made the gravest mistake by laying even a scratch on her. The bastard underestimated the kind of darkness he just invited into his life. My blood boiled at the memory of her wound—his dogs did that. His men. And for that, I'll tear them apart piece by fucking piece, skinning their pride and dignity until they cry out for mercy, until their screams echo louder than the bullets I'll put in their skulls when I'm done. Death will feel like a blessing when I finally grant it. Until then, they'll learn what hell tastes like.
I pulled out my phone, dialing my most trusted man, my voice a low growl as I ordered him to trace their exact location. I handed him the footage from the mansion's security cameras, the perfect shot of the number plate glinting under the dim lights. That was all he needed. I gave him thirty minutes—no more, no less. Thirty minutes to drag the devil's spawn out of the shadows.
Those thirty minutes were spent pacing like a caged animal, the silence of my room vibrating with the storm inside me. Every second fed the fury clawing at my insides, every tick of the clock a reminder that someone dared to hurt what was mine.
And then the call came. His voice on the other end was steady, professional, delivering the information I demanded. I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly, a smirk pulling at the corner of my lips.
"Good," I muttered, my tone sharp enough to cut steel. "Now their bad time begins."
Because once I set my eyes on them, not even God Himself could drag them out of the grave I'm about to dig.
Words: 2730.