𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬

Chapter 24

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"You are the chapter I never want to end, the story I want to keep writing forever."

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Osman entered the room quietly, the shadows of the dimly lit space casting long shapes on the walls. His steps faltered as his gaze landed on the small figure curled on the bed.

Aamirah was fast asleep, her fragile frame wrapped protectively around Mohammed. The soft rise and fall of her chest contrasted sharply with the dried tears staining her cheeks. Her expression, even in sleep, was troubled—her brows knit together, as if she were still trapped in a nightmare.

He stood at the doorway for a moment, his hand tightening on the doorknob. 0His rage earlier had been uncontrollable, but now, in the quiet of the night, maybe regret crept in, coiling around his chest like a vice.

Osman closed the door behind him softly, setting his jaw as he approached the bed. He carefully removed his watch, placing it on the side table with a faint clink. His movements were deliberate, measured, as if trying not to disturb the delicate peace in the room.

He leaned down and gently lifted Mohammed from Aamirah’s arms. The baby stirred briefly but didn’t wake, his tiny fist brushing against Osman’s chest before relaxing.

Osman’s lips pressed into a thin line as he carried Mohammed to the crib, lowering him with the kind of care he didn’t realize he was capable of. For a moment, he lingered there, adjusting the blanket over the baby’s small frame, his hand resting lightly on Mohammed’s chest.

His gaze returned to Aamirah, who remained asleep, curled into herself as if trying to shield her heart from more hurt. Osman stepped closer to the bed, his eyes tracing the faint red mark on her arm—the mark his own hand had left. Her see-through sleeve wasn't doing the job to hide them.

The sight made his stomach churn. He had been too rough, too cruel. She was so small, so fragile, and yet she bore the weight of his anger without a word of protest.

Osman crouched beside her, his fingers brushing a few strands of hair away from her damp cheeks. Her skin was soft, warm beneath his touch, but he pulled his hand back quickly, as though the contact burned him.

For a man who was feared by all, who thrived on control and command, he suddenly felt utterly powerless.

As his fingers lingered just inches away from her face, Aamirah stirred. Her lashes fluttered open slowly, her eyes hazy with sleep and confusion. For a moment, she stared at him, her gaze searching his face. Osman froze, caught in the vulnerability of her gaze, unable to look away.

"Aap-..?"

“you-..?” Her voice was a whisper, laced with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—fear, perhaps, or pain.

He cleared his throat, straightening as he stepped back to put some distance between them. “You were holding Mohammed too tightly,” he said with his usual sharp tone. “He needed to be in his crib.”

Aamirah sat up slowly, her movements tentative. Her hand instinctively went to her arm, covering the mark he had left. She nodded, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Why was she apologizing? She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet here she was, bearing the weight of his anger as though she deserved it. She thought to herself but before she could stop herself the apology left her mouth.

Osman hummed in acknowledgment, his usual sharpness still present, and without another word, he turned and walked toward the en-suite bathroom.

The sound of the shower starting soon filled the room, the steady rush of water masking the oppressive silence that lingered in his wake.