•••
Loving you is a sin I'll gladly commit, again and again, even if it means losing my soul.
•••
Aamirah woke the next morning to an unfamiliar room drenched in muted luxury. Golden sunlight filtered through silk curtains, casting soft shadows over the cream-colored walls and the ornate furnishings. The bed beneath her was massive, covered in satin sheets that felt too smooth against her skin. Her head pounded with a dull ache, and the heaviness of her limbs made it difficult to move. Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, the disorientation paralyzed her.
Where am I?
Her breath quickened as fragmented memories of the night before slammed into her—the cell, the broken man, Osman's cold eyes, and her own collapse in his arms. Panic surged through her. What if he didn’t believe her? What if he had already done something to her family? And Mohammed—her mind twisted at the thought. He was so fragile, and he needed her now more than ever. She had to be with him.
Aamirah struggled to sit up, but the moment she moved, dizziness overwhelmed her. Her vision swam, and she clutched her head to steady herself. She tried to push away the nausea, but her body felt weak, almost feverish. When the fog lifted slightly, she became painfully aware of what she was wearing.
A long black T-shirt hung loosely over her small frame, barely skimming her knees, and a pair of cotton shorts peeked out from beneath the hem. Her cheeks flushed at the realization that she wasn’t wearing any undergarments.
The thought hit her like a blow to the chest. Did... did he change her clothes last night? Her heart pounded painfully at the thought. She wasn’t comfortable enough with him yet, but he was her husband. If he had wanted to, he could.
And who would question him?
The weight of those thoughts filled her eyes with tears. She clutched the duvet tightly around her, trying to hide her bare legs as shame and confusion battled within her.
A soft knock on the door pulled her from her spiral of thoughts. Her voice was barely audible as she granted permission.
The door creaked open, and a woman in her mid-forties stepped inside. She had a warm, motherly face, with soft brown eyes and streaks of silver in her dark hair. She wore a simple uniform but carried herself with grace.
“Good morning, ma'am. I’m Atara,” she said gently, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Aamirah managed a small nod. “Aamirah. You can call me Aamirah." She said softly.
Atara’s gaze immediately fell to the way Aamirah was clutching the duvet. Her kind eyes softened. “Sir instructed me to change your clothes last night. You were soaked through from the rain, and he didn’t want you catching a fever. Your new clothes are in the wardrobe if you’d like to change into something more comfortable.”
Aamirah’s face burned with embarrassment. Atara must have noticed but didn’t say anything. Instead, she continued, “Would you like to have breakfast here in the room or downstairs at the dining table?”
Aamirah’s voice wavered. “Where am I?”
“This is the Sir's ancestral home,” Atara replied.
Her heart thudded again. He had brought her here? Why?
“Where is he?” Aamirah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m afraid I don’t know about Sir’s schedule. But I can try to contact Salem if you’d like to speak to him.”
YOU ARE READING
𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬
Romance••• "Just because I haven't touched you as a husband should, that doesn't mean I won't," he said, his voice low and menacing. Her knees felt weak, and she didn't dare move from where she stood, his presence overwhelming her completely. She could b...
