𝕿his was how I was going to die.

Ghazanfar swore and, with an alcohol-induced rage, swung his hand back and I knew exactly where it was headed. Except at that moment, the door to the room swung open. The chills that ran up my spine announced him long before his face came into view. My body froze. My lungs refused to breathe. Every sense was alert. I hadn't heard him. I hadn't heard the door drift open.

But I knew he was there.

Faster than I could process it, Taimoor grabbed Ghazanfer's wrist and swung him back up against the desk, away from me, his other hand locking around his throat. I'd never know if he planned on saying more because Taimoor gripped his shoulder and spun him toward him, slamming his fist directly into his jaw and sending him flying backward onto the wall away from me.

The rage that had been on Ghazanfar's face melted into fear like he was facing a real lion about to tear him limb from limb. Taimoor was standing over him, with the deadliest snarl on his face like he was about to tear Ghazanfar apart.

"I'm going to say this once," he paused and let out the softest yet deadliest laugh I'd ever heard—like the kind of laugh they give to the quiet psychopath murderers in horror films. "If I find you anywhere near her, I will break you; I will break you into so many pieces that it would be a sheer impossibility to find them all to put you back together to identify you again."

"Hey man, this isn't your problem. She's-" he squinted, pushing himself up as Taimoor advanced on him. Ghazanfar's eyes bulged when they opened and saw him—the man who'd hit him. "Monster—" bending down, Taimoor's hand cinched tight into the collar of Ghazanfar's shirt, cinching off blood and air to his disgustingly small brain.

"Don't fucking speak," Taimoor demanded, hauling Ghazanfar to his feet and forcing him back toward the elevator. "Don't even look at her."

Fear evaporated the color from his face. When his grip tightened around his throat, Ghazanfar started to turn a sickly purple.

"I didn't mean it," he wheezed through Taimoor's grip.

"Liar," Taimoor drawled. "One more thing," faster than I could see, faster than Ghazanfar could react, Taimoor hit him on the cheek, leaving a mark at the exact place Ghazanfar had left on my cheek. "A small reminder so you don't get any ideas."

"W-What kind of monster are you?" Ghazanfar demanded, his gaze indicating that he meant both in action and appearance. I gasped and Taimoor's grip tightened, and Ghazanfar began to jerk against him, his body desperate for air that Taimoor was rapidly rationing, his face going hard and drawing attention to the ropes of scars beside it.

Maybe I was the monster here—for not caring about what happened to Ghazanfar. But I wasn't monster enough to not care about his widowed mother. A woman who loved this boy with all of her heart. A woman who'd dedicated her entire life to him.

"Taimoor!" my voice tainted by fear and concern, made him realize just how close he was coming to doing something irreversible.

He allowed himself one glance. One look over his shoulder to check I was there. Bitterness burned like acid in his eyes as he whipped his gaze back to my cousin.

"I'm the kind of monster that's always watching," he growled, yanking his face closer to his and threatened. "Every step. Every word."

Ghazanfar choked out a gasp, his wide, petrified eyes watching Taimoor as he gave him a push, sending him crashing back into the furniture, knocking him out cold and gesturing for the man who'd accompanied him to take care of it as he marched into his office.

He looked so fucking powerful in his charcoal gray suit and black tie but it was the fierce rage in his eyes that sent me after him, leaving the smartly dressed man he'd come with to deal with Ghazanfar. The door shut completely before he turned to me, anger still in his eyes searching for something to destroy—and I was the only target in sight. His head turned over his shoulder first before the rest of him slowly rotated. I could see how his body strained against his clothes—the adrenaline and exertion of what I'd just witnessed plumping up his lean form like air into a balloon, testing the limits of what his clothes would absorb before they burst.

He stalked toward me, the sounds of the world slowing and warping the closer he came.

"It was stupid to be alone, late at night," he said with a voice that oozed with reproach. I bit my cheek, now more skilled at hiding the effect his cold, degrading words had on me. "Next time, I might not be here to stop him."

"There won't be a next time."

"You shouldn't have stopped me."

"He didn't deserve to die."

"He's scum. He deserves much worse," I bit my lip, not sure who to respond to that. "I was teaching him right from wrong," he bit out, the brief flash of white revealing his perfectly clenched teeth.

"By killing him?" I breathed.

"I wasn't going to kill him," he growled. "It wasn't the first time I'd-"

"What?" I demanded when he cut himself off.

"Why were you here?"

The words of reprimand that were loaded in my throat caught and detonated into a gasp, choked off by the look in his eyes. His eyes were an unwavering mosaic of fierce anger and protectiveness, but up close, I could see flecks of something deeper as they scanned over my face—up, down, left, right—finally settling on my mouth again. Those tiny flicks were something far more dangerous to me than Ghazanfar ever was. My feet carried me closer to him, searching for the familiar details of his face in the darkroom, from the smooth unmarred landscape to the puckered flesh of his left side.

"I had some work to do. And it wasn't that late, I thought I was safe," I said more softly this time, my tone soft and placating.

He stood close. Not close enough for any other parts of us to touch, but too close to be called appropriate."Did he hurt you?" he asked, a menacing growl in his voice.

I clutched my chest, trying to control the burning in my eyes from the unshed tears, swallowing over the lump in my throat. "N-no, you were just in time."

He didn't respond, but I caught the way his eyes shimmered, and I wondered if he'd ever been the savior before. If anyone had ever seen him as anything more than a monster.

He took off his jacket and slung it over my shoulders."May I?"

I nodded, his hand toyed with my hair, and then I gasped when his hands touched me for the first time. We'd been right to avoid it in the first place. Like when the ocean pulls back from the shore, his touch drew a desperate, current of desire from every corner of my body with a force that was impossible to resist, and that would send that lust crashing back down over me if I stuck around long enough. I felt my head being pulled back. Slowly at first, and then with a firmness that bared my entire neck to him. I fought to swallow—and to keep his gaze—as my pulse skyrocketed and my hands, both now free, reached out as my balance became unsteady. He let out a long hiss when my fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt—a poor mask for the hard muscles that rippled underneath it.

And he wasn't even touching me in a sexual way. No, he touched me—cupped my face—like he was inspecting me for damage. Tilting my head side to side, he looked for any sign of any permanent damage. I could have told him that there was none, but I didn't because I didn't want him to let go.

I hated him, but I craved his touch. Even a simple brush of his fingers made the ache in me unbearable.

"We're breaking our rules."

"We're not being intimate," his words were a soft breath over my neck, though I could tell he didn't give a damn about the rules. I felt the warm granite of his other hand at the base of my neck, gently brushing over my skin before resting on the rapid racing of my pulse. "Is this intimate?" it was hard to see him from this angle, but I could feel the wave of desire that radiated off of him as he allowed himself to touch me.

"What's the difference?"

A minute passed, maybe two, with him just breathing, low and deep and deadly. He was holding himself back. From doing what, I didn't want to know.

"The difference is in the intent."

"The intent," I parrotted.

"For example, I'm checking for any injuries," he continued as I felt the heat of his breath against my neck and knew his lips were so close.

"I think you're doing a little more than that," I managed in a ragged whisper. "What will you do to him?" I blurted out tartly, reaching out to grip his arm and stop his advance.

I felt the rush of air that carried his growl, the air thinning with each breath I tried to take. The ripple through the rock-solid muscle sent a shiver up my arm, down my torso, and pooled needily in my stomach. Why was everything with him too much? Too intense. Too fast. Too deep.

"What do you want me to do with him?"

"The police..." I gathered my wits. "The police should handle this."

He turned back to face me, but before my hand could fall, his fingers locked around my wrist, holding it prisoner between us as his head bent down to mine. His fury didn't ebb. If anything, it became a thundercloud between us, and I grew tense, not daring to look away as I waited to see if it would erupt.

"Fine," he finally gritted through his teeth as though he loathed to release the word. "But you're coming home with me," he rasped, dragging me against him.

"What? But-"

"Either you walk to my car or I carry you and throw you inside it. The choice is yours," his face drew up over mine and captured my widened eyes. Simmering silence caged us, and we both remained focused on each other for taut minutes. His face was void of anything welcoming, blank, and ferociously cold.

"Come," he broke off with a growl, his gaze lingering on my lips for a moment before he strode angrily back to the door.

From what I could tell, the man was more skilled at abruptly leaving conversations than he was at being anything else. I couldn't stand it, hated that I couldn't keep myself still, that I couldn't keep enduring the quiet, the frustration, the ire, so I followed him.

"Akbar," his voice was quiet like distant thunder. Dressed in a suit, his salt-and-pepper hair short and tidy, Akbar stood looking at his boss with a blank face. He was tall, elegant, and quite good-looking. I judged him to be somewhere north of fifty-five in age.

"Yes sir?"

"Tell Aziz to bring the car around. We're going home."

I dragged my heels in protest. "What about my parents? Who's going to tell them? They're not safe! And the police report? Who's going to file that?"

"Leave that up to me."

"Can I at least meet my parents? Get my things?"

"Aziz will get them for you."

"How will he-"

"Ask your sister to pack your stuff up. Aziz will pick that up."

"But that's-"

He lifted me in his arms, the suit jacket he wrapped me in almost falling away, but he caught that, too, keeping it huddled around me. And when I tried to push away from his hard chest, when I tried to free myself of his grip, he only tightened his hold on me.

"Let me go!" I twisted in his arms as he carried me past the lobby and farther down the long corridor.

He didn't budge. My struggles didn't seem to impact him at all. He glanced at me, but it was too dark to read his eyes. It was hard enough when it was light. He didn't reply to any of my comments. No smart jab, no infuriating smirk, remaining stone-faced as we headed towards the main entrance, his car ready to take me to his home.

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Yo yo yo! What do we think? Has this chapter satisfied your urges? Given you all some time to think about what's going to happen next? Comments, thoughts, feedback?

By the way, thank you for all the lovely and constructive feedback over on Instagram ✨ I really appreciated your participation ❤️

So, Daania's headed to Taimoor's house. She's finally going to have a lot of interesting interactions with him 😎 There's lots to come 🌚

Next update is on Wednesday 😄 (I'm trying to train myself and you guys for the Sunday updates 😳)

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