The Bound Princess (Dark Romance)

Chapter 52

Hamza

Ricardo and I entered my apartment in New York, but before I could even turn on the lights, someone grabbed Ricardo and threw him to the floor, and his shocked gasp echoed.

"Ricardo," I called out, worried.

Who could break into my apartment? Was it some thief? I could hear the sound of punches being thrown. I saw a profile of a hulk of a man who leaned over a kneeling Ricardo when my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

I jumped on the attacker, but he grabbed my throat and pinned me to the nearest wall squeezing it to restrict my air supply but not wholly block it. I clawed at the man's hand, but he held me in a deathly grip. I tried to knee him, but he stopped it with his free hand.

Ricardo pushed to his feet and attacked the man from behind, but he turned at the last moment and punched Ricardo in his face. Ricardo stumbled back with a groan, holding his nose.

"Call the police," I told him, struggling in the man's hold, but he was too large and too strong for me.

Before Ricardo could react, the man hit his head with something, and Ricardo's body fell to the ground with a thud. What did the attacker use to hit Ricardo? What if he was wounded fatally?

"You bastard, what did you do to him?" I screamed in rage.

What if something happened to Ricardo?

"He is just passed out," a familiar voice echoed in the room's silence, and the lamp beside the couch lit up after someone flipped the switch.

My eyes fell onto the man sitting on the armchair, illuminated by the lamp's soft glow.
A shiver ran down my spine as his warning echoed in my mind the last time I saw him in Azmaayir.

Mohammed Al Jahaan.

My eyes darted to my attacker. Sabir's empty brown eyes stared back at me.  Why was I even surprised it was Mohammed's bodyguard and lapdog, Sabir? The bastard was incapable of portraying any emotion. A sociopath through and through.

Mohammed Al Jahaan wasn't the kind of man who would get his hand dirty. He was too put together to get into a physical fight with anyone. Hence he always had Sabir at his side to do his dirty work. While Ahmed was part of countless brawls in the school, Mohammed, on the other hand, never even got into a verbal fight. He was a man of few words and only spoke out of necessity. But when he spoke, he commanded the attention of everyone present, just like his father.

Sabir dragged me to the center of the room by my throat and pushed me to the floor before Mohammed, who was settled on the armchair like some Goddamn king on his throne.

"You son of a bitch. You broke into my apartment," I cursed.

A punch landed on my side, and I doubled over, groaning.

"Careful, Hamza, you can be beheaded for disrespecting me," Mohammed leaned forward, contempt storming in his eyes.

"This is not Azmaayir. I can report you for trespassing," I hissed.

"You can try," Mohammed chuckled darkly.

The bastard was enjoying my helplessness too much for my liking. Sabir was still holding me by my hair, and I regretted growing them longer than before. My scalp stung from how tight his hold was on my hair.

"I warned you to stay away from my sister," Mohammed pushed to his feet.

"I am a man of my will. You don't own me," I retorted.

Sabir's grip tightened on my hair, making me wince. If Mohammed thought he could force me to do his bidding, he had another thing coming.

"I might not own you, Hamza, but I own the country you live in," Mohammed reminded, taking a step forward.