𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬

Chapter 35

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You can fight, you can run, but you’ll never be free. You wear my name, my ring, and that alone seals your fate. Whether you see it as a cage or a crown, it doesn't matter—you belong to me.

•••

Aamirah sat up in an instant, her movements sharp and instinctive. Her hand immediately went to the baby, resting protectively over his tiny body as if shielding him from his own father. Or the man infront of her who looks like the storm itself. The other clutched the duvet tightly, her knuckles whitening under the pressure.

Her breath was uneven, her heartbeat an erratic rhythm in her chest.

Osman stood at the threshold, silent and unmoving, his tall frame casting a long shadow into the dimly lit room. His piercing gray eyes took in everything—the way she trembled slightly, the way her fingers clutched the fabric, the way her gaze flickered with barely concealed fear.

This wasn’t new to him.

He had grown up in an environment steeped in blood, where violence was a language spoken fluently. Reactions like this were normal—expected, even. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing a man return home with blood on his hands.

A part of him felt the urge to speak, to tell her something—anything—to lessen the alarm in her eyes. But another part, the colder, more rational side of him, knew words wouldn't change anything. But she should get accustomed to this now. In their world, it's either kill or get killed. He prefers the former one. He wants to talk to her, to calm her but...

Instead, he simply observed her for a moment longer, his gaze lingering.

And then, without a word, he turned and strode toward the bathroom.

The sound of the shower turning on echoed softly through the quiet room.

As the warm water cascaded over him, Osman placed his hands against the cool marble walls, his head bowing slightly, his muscles are still tensed. His mind replayed the past two days, the weight of it pressing down on him like an invisible force.

After their last encounter in the hospital lobby, after the conversation with his aunt and grandma.

He had wanted to speak to Aamirah then.

To tell her that his suspicions had not been born out of hatred, nor were they a personal attack. But betrayal—true betrayal—always came from the ones closest to us. He had learned that lesson far too many times, and it had been carved into him with a precision so brutal that trust was a privilege he did not grant easily.

But why he wants to explain anything to her? He clenched his muscles thinking about this.

He knew he had been cruel when he brought up her family. He shouldn’t have done that. That's a sensitive topic for her.

He had seen the way her face had changed, the way her composure had faltered for just a second before she held herself together. Osman knew Aamirah was not foolish—she understood the weight of his words. She had felt the sting of his suspicion like a blade pressed too close to the skin.

But fear…

Fear was the most effective tool when it came to extracting the truth. It stripped people down to their rawest forms, exposing what lay beneath pretense and carefully crafted facades.

And yet, even knowing that, a part of him—deep and unsettling—regretted it.

Not because it had been unnecessary.