Isra's POV.
He was looking at me like he was about to devour me alive. Not just look—strip me, undress me with those fucking sinful eyes of his. I could feel it, every second, like his gaze was clawing through my clothes, through my skin, and fucking me without even touching. God, this monster.
I tried focusing on the wound, tried not to hurt him while cleaning it. It was deep, not a scratch but something that should've been stitched by a proper doctor. Why the hell didn't he go to one? The question almost slipped from my mouth, but I swallowed it down. Because if I asked, if I dared to ask, he'd think I cared. He'd smirk, he'd tease, and he'd believe I still had a place in my rotten heart for him. Which I didn't. Never. After what he did, after the way he shattered me, I would rather stab him myself, press the knife through his chest lovingly, and twist it until his heart bled dry. That would be my version of affection for him.
I finished the first aid, wiped my hands, and moved back. He didn't move. He just sat there, spreading his legs wide like he fucking owned the world, arms resting on the back of the couch, the posture of a king, a predator. And those damned eyes—still glued to me. Watching me. Measuring me. Eating me alive.
"Aise kyun ghoore jaa rahe ho mujhe?" I finally snapped, because his stare was crawling under my skin, burning me, making me nervous and furious at the same time.
"Dekhna kehte hain isey. Aur meri aankhein hain… kahin bhi dekhoon." His voice, calm and cruel, like he enjoyed watching me squirm.
"Haan, kahin bhi dekho lekin mujhe nahi." I bit back.
"Kyun? Nervous ho jaati ho kya? Ya… feel something?" His smirk carved into his voice, low, filthy, tempting. Bastard.
"Naa hi main nervous hoti hoon aur naa hi mujhe kuch feel hota hai. Lekin haan… tum mujhe eye-fuck zaroor karte ho aur woh mujhe zaroorat se zyada feel hota hai." I spat, throwing my irritation right at his face.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes dark, voice dripping poison and sin. "Hmm… I do. But still, it's not that much pleasurable as it will be when I'll fuck you in real."
My stomach dropped. My face flamed. No fucking way. Did he just say that? So casually, like we were talking about the weather, like talking about splitting me open was the most normal goddamn thing in the world. Bastard. Absolute bastard.
And yet—God help me—the wetness between my thighs betrayed me. Fuck, no. No. I clenched my jaw. Stop reacting. Stop giving his filthy words a place in your body. I scolded myself, hard, but it was useless. My body didn't give a shit about my pride.
"I'm leaving," I muttered, quick, desperate to escape before I burned alive in his gaze. I stood up, tried walking past him, keeping my head high, my expression sharp.
But then—fucker. He moved.
His hand shot out, rough, demanding. In a second he pulled me, yanked me down so hard I lost my balance. And the next thing I knew—I wasn't walking anymore.
I was on his lap.
Directly on his fucking lap.
My body collided with his, my chest against his hard torso, my thighs spread across his. His heat seared through me, his breath ghosted near my ear, and I froze. Just… froze.
"Wow," I muttered bitterly, my lips curling in rage. "Just wow. Fuck you, Zorain."
But the problem was… a part of me wanted to.
Zorain's POV.
She was too damn cute for her own good, even when she knew her body betrayed every poisonous word her mouth dared to spit at me. I yanked her onto my lap, and fuck… it felt like the universe finally handed me everything I ever craved. She cursed under her breath, calling me names, but her body? It didn't fight. And that was the biggest fucking sign—she wasn't uncomfortable, not even a little.
"Zorain, chaaku tumhare kandhe par laga hai ya dimaag mein ghusa hai jo tumhare dimaag ne kaam karna band kar diya hai?" she snapped, venom dripping from her tongue. Fucking fuckable, that mouth of hers.
"Think whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart, but you look too fucking perfect on my lap. And deep down, you know it. Admit it, baby," I growled against her ear, my lips brushing the shell.
She twisted her face toward me, eyes blazing. "Tumhe sharm nahi aati, na? Like seriously, Zorain—you're getting married to someone else, aur dekho khudko, kya harkatein hain tumhari."
Well, she wasn't wrong. But what the fuck should I do to my heart when it beats only for her? It doesn't twitch for Ibna, it doesn't burn for Ibna—it fucking aches, bleeds, and goes feral for Isra. The only reason I was agreeing to that marriage was Dadi's stubbornness, her pressure, her manipulations. Nothing else. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I didn't want it either.
"Jealous ho?" I taunted, my lips curling into a dangerous smirk.
She didn't answer right away, but that smug, devilish smirk slid onto her lips, sharper than a knife, and then she spoke with that razor-blade tongue of hers.
"Tumhe lagta hai, mai us ladki se—jo sachchai ki moorat bani phirti hai—usse jealous houngi? Please. But listen to me very carefully, Zorain. Agar yeh tumhari pyaari dadi ko pata chala na, toh wo sirf aur sirf mujhepar ilzaam lagayengi. Kehengi maine hi phasaya unke pyaare pote ko. Kyunki main toh ek bigdi hui, ek badtameez ladki hoon na… aur mujhse tumhari khushiyan kabhi dekhi hi nahi jaati. That's what she'll think. That's what she'll blame me for."
God. Fuck her mouth. I'd rather shut it with my cock than hear her spit another ounce of venom.
I leaned in, closing the space between us until my breath mingled with hers, my nose buried in the curve of her neck. Fuck… that scent. Strawberries. Sweet, sinful strawberries. My arm wrapped tighter around her petite frame, crushing her against my chest. She felt so fragile, so small in my hold, and yet she carried the power to wreck me entirely.
"Isra… you smell so fucking good," I muttered, my lips grazing her skin, every nerve in my body catching fire.
Her breath hitched, and her voice came out trembling, weak, begging, "Zo… Zorain, leave me, please…"
"No," I growled, my voice rough, my hand sliding lower down her waist, gripping, claiming. "You feel too fucking good to let go."
And before she could argue again, I latched onto her neck, sucking, biting, marking what was already mine.
"Umghhh—" her moan broke free, soft yet sinful, and fuck, it was the sweetest sound I'd ever dragged out of her.
Author's POV.
Isra was caught in a brutal war between her heart and her mind as she sat perched on Zorain's lap. Her brain screamed at her that this was wrong, that this was dangerous, that this was not who she was supposed to be. But her treacherous heart? It was fucking melting under the weight of his arms caging her in, under the heat of his breath brushing her skin, under the gentleness of lips that kissed her neck not with lust—but with a tenderness she didn't know how to resist.
"Zorain, jaane do mujhe ab," Isra's voice wavered, though she tried to lace it with steel.
"Nahi…" his reply was husky, desperate, almost broken, "thodi der aur. Mujhe sukoon chahiye… bas kuch der ke liye." His arms tightened around her like she was the only anchor keeping him sane.
"Then go to your fucking fiancée," she spat, venom dripping from every syllable. But her tone… her tone carried a fracture, something sharp and fragile. Something close to hatred. And Zorain—fuck him—he could feel it.
"Haan… jaana toh chahiye." He whispered against her skin, his lips grazing her jaw. "Lekin sukoon mujhe tumhari baahon mein milta hai, Isra… aur kahin nahi."
"Ohh please, huh," Isra snapped, rolling her eyes, "yeh cringe dialogues tum kisi aur pe maarna. Mujhpe nahi." She was trying to sound cold, unimpressed, detached—but her pulse, her shallow breaths, betrayed her.
"Mat maano…" Zorain murmured, his tone like sin whispered in the dark. "Par sach yeh hi hai."
Her body tensed, her chest rising and falling too fast. "Jaane do mujhe," she demanded again, sharper, weaker.
Zorain smirked against her skin, his voice a low curse. "Tum itni mehek rahi ho… I swear to fucking God, I'm getting addicted to your fragrance." His grip on her waist tightened like steel shackles, dragging her impossibly closer.
"I'll throw my lotion tomorrow. Pakka," she muttered, half under her breath, like she could erase his madness with sarcasm.
But Zorain wasn't listening. His palm slid lower, slow and deliberate, until it rested on her thigh. The soft fabric of her nightwear did nothing to hide the warmth of her skin beneath. His fingers flexed, caressing, claiming.
Her thighs—milky, smooth, fucking sinful—burned under his touch. He couldn't help it. He was a big man, rough and scarred, and yet the feel of her soft, delicate skin beneath his palm was enough to unravel him. He kneaded gently, his thumb stroking circles, and fuck, the contrast lit something wild inside him.
Isra froze, her body screaming at her to shove him off, to claw at him, to escape. But she didn't move. Her breath hitched instead. Her lips parted. Her eyes shut for half a second too long.
And Zorain? He saw it. He fucking felt it.
"Tumhari yeh skin…" his voice dropped, filthy and reverent all at once, "milky-soft, like it's made just to drive me insane." His teeth grazed her earlobe before he whispered, "Do you even know how hard it is not to ruin you right here?"
Isra shivered violently, but her retort came sharp, though broken at the edges: "Tum sick ho, Zorain. Bilkul sick."
Maybe he was. Maybe he didn't fucking care. Because right now, his hand was gliding further along her thigh, and she wasn't stopping him.
Isra's POV.
God… what the actual fuck was happening to him? Was he drunk? No. He wasn't. That bastard was very much sober, very much in his senses—yet look at him, shameless as hell, horny as fuck, touching me like he owned me.
Ohh are you sure he's the only horny one here? My subconscious whispered, mocking me like the bitch it was.
My thighs… fuck. His hand—no, his rough, veined, masculine hand—was on my thigh, gripping me so possessively it felt like he was branding me as his. And my pussy? My pussy was betraying me, slick and wet just because of that fucking touch. Just his palm on my thigh and I was already throbbing like a needy slut.
Was I that much of a horny mess?
Mumma, mujhe marna hai. Kill me. Because this… this was wrong. This was blasphemy. He was engaged. Getting married to Ibna. That bitch with her sugar-coated smile. And yet here he was, stroking my thigh like I was his property. Only his. And fuck me harder—I was letting him.
"I want to sleep," I muttered, my voice hoarse, desperate to cut the tension before my body gave away how close I was to completely breaking.
"Sleep here," he said, low and commanding, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm not comfortable," I snapped, trying to sound firm, but my body betrayed me again—the tremble in my voice, the hitch in my breath.
"I can see how uncomfortable you are on my lap, sweetness." His tone was laced with sarcasm, his eyes fucking devouring me. Bastard. He could read my body like an open book, like every twitch of my thigh, every shiver, every uneven breath was screaming what I wanted but couldn't fucking admit.
"Whatever. Leave me." My voice was harsher this time, but even I knew it carried no weight.
He didn't argue. Didn't even answer. Instead, that monster moved with such infuriating gentleness that it broke me more than his filth ever could—he placed my head on his chest. Carefully. Tenderly. Like I was something precious.
And fuck. Fuck me sideways. I felt like home.
No. No, no, no. I shouldn't feel this. I couldn't feel this. My body shouldn't melt into him like that, shouldn't sigh with relief against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. But fuck me—I was. I was resting my head on his broad chest, inhaling his scent, letting myself sink into him.
His palm didn't leave my thigh. It stayed there, stroking, caressing, burning. And I… I let him. My body was drowning in two fucking storms at once—relaxed, safe, calm in his arms… and at the same time, horny as hell, throbbing, aching with the need for his hand to slide higher, to touch where I was already soaked for him.
Thank God women didn't have a body part that betrayed their arousal the way men did. Because if Zorain fucking knew how wet I was right now… he'd destroy me. He'd ruin me. He'd tear me apart piece by piece until I begged him to finish what he started.
And the worst part?
A small, shameless part of me wanted him to.
I wanted to touch myself. Right here. Right fucking now. My body was screaming for it. My pussy was begging me to slide my fingers inside and ease the ache he had created. But I couldn't. I was frozen, trapped, betraying myself by choosing to stay on his lap instead of running away.
Because the truth was simple, brutal, undeniable.
Zorain was poison. And I was already addicted.
Zorain's POV.
She was so fucking small in my arms, almost like a fragile baby doll—but wrapped in a body that could tempt the devil himself. Soft curves, heated skin, that sinful scent of strawberry lotion clinging to her. She thought she could hide behind her sharp tongue and venomous words, but I wasn't blind. I could read her body better than she could read her own goddamn thoughts. She was as lusty, as needy, as desperate as I was. The only difference? I didn't pretend. She did.
Her head rested on my chest, her thighs pressed across my lap, and then… fuck. That warmth. That wetness. I could feel it seeping against me, soaking through thin layers of clothes like her body was confessing sins her mouth would never admit.
My jaw tightened. My cock twitched. I leaned closer to her ear and whispered, low, gravel rough, almost cruel:
"Aren't you wearing your panties, sweetness?"
She froze. For a heartbeat, silence. Then that stuttering, choked voice of hers, "Umm… w–what?"
I smirked. She could play dumb all she wanted, but her body had already told me everything.
"I can feel your wetness." My voice dropped, filthy, like a weapon. "Mujhe bewakoof mat samjho, Isra. You're soaking my lap."
Her body jerked, panic lacing her movements as she started struggling against me, trying to get off. Her small hands pressed against my chest, pushing, wriggling, but fuck—she was too weak compared to me. Her resistance was nothing but a game, and I was the monster who never lost.
"Leave me, Zorain!" she hissed, her eyes burning with humiliation and anger.
I leaned back, tightened my grip on her waist, and let one word cut through the air like a blade.
"No."
Simple. Sharp. Unshakable.
For a moment, she fought me like a wildcat, but I could feel her weakening. Her lashes fluttered, her breathing slowed, her body—God, that sinful body—began to soften against mine instead of resisting. My lust was raging, screaming at me to push further, to tear her apart, to make her beg. But then… silence.
Her head dropped heavier on my chest. Her breathing turned steady, peaceful. The little devil had surrendered not out of lust but exhaustion—she'd fallen asleep in my arms.
Fuck me. That innocence. That vulnerability. I stared down at her face and for a second my raging hunger quieted. She looked angelic when she slept, soft and untouched, like she was carved out of light. The same girl who spat venom at me, who cursed me, who called me shameless… was now curled in my arms like she belonged here. Like she'd always belonged here.
"Pagal ladki," I muttered under my breath, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Carefully, I stood, lifting her up as if she weighed nothing, her arms instinctively curling against my chest in her sleep. Step by step, I carried her upstairs, my heart betraying me with every fucking beat.
I entered her room, laid her down on the bed, and tucked the blanket around her. My gaze lingered on her—those long lashes against her cheeks, those lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in rhythm. Peaceful. Something she never allowed herself to be when awake.
I crouched beside her bed, my hand brushing the edge of the blanket.
"Sweetness," I whispered, my voice hoarse, "you'll be the death of me."
And as I walked out of her room, I realized one bitter truth:
No matter how much she hated me… no matter how much I was bound to another woman… nobody, nobody, could ever own her the way I did.
Because she was mine.
Fucking mine.
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