𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬

Chapter 41

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"You can struggle all you want, little one. In the end, you will still find yourself where you were meant to be—beneath me, trembling, whispering my name in surrender."
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Osman stirred at the sound of his son’s cries, the sharp wails piercing through the silence of the dimly lit room. His brows furrowed as his eyes adjusted to the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace.

Instinctively, his gaze shifted to Aamirah, his beautiful wife, who was still nestled against him, her delicate frame completely enveloped by his own. Her arms clung to him in sleep, as if even in unconsciousness, she sought refuge in his warmth. She looked impossibly small, fragile—almost swallowed by the sheer size of his body.

His eyes trailed down to the curve of her exposed shoulder, where the loose neckline of her dress had slipped, baring the soft expanse of her skin. His marks adorned her—purple bruises blooming across her neck and collarbone, evidence of his claim. A dark satisfaction curled in his chest at the sight. She was his. Every inch of her belonged to him.

Another wail shattered his thoughts.

With a sigh, he carefully untangled himself from Aamirah’s grasp, making sure not to wake her. As he stood, he cast one last glance at her, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest before turning his attention to the small bundle in the crib.

Mohammed’s tiny face was scrunched in distress, his little fists curled as he cried relentlessly. Osman reached down and lifted his son into his arms, his strong hands easily cradling the infant’s small frame.

The moment the baby felt his father’s warmth, his cries softened into whimpers. Osman raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So, you only needed me, huh?” he muttered, rocking the baby gently.

But as soon as Mohammed caught sight of Aamirah, his cries started anew, more demanding than before.

Osman exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Both mother and son cry too damn much,” he murmured under his breath, shaking his head.

Not wanting Aamirah to wake up, he walked toward the fireplace, settling down into the armchair with Mohammed in his arms. He expertly prepared a bottle, testing the milk’s warmth before offering it to the restless baby.

Mohammed latched onto it instantly, his tiny fingers curling around his father’s shirt as he suckled hungrily. Osman watched him in silence, a strange mix of emotions stirring within him.

For a man who had spent his life commanding men, making ruthless decisions, and keeping his heart encased in ice, the sight of his son in his arms was something he never thought he would cherish. And yet, here he was—watching over his son and his wife, feeling the unfamiliar weight of something dangerously close to peace.

His gaze flickered back to Aamirah. Even in sleep, she looked exhausted, her brows slightly furrowed as if she were caught in a restless dream. He knew she wasn’t used to this life yet, that she still feared him in ways she tried to hide.

That would change.

She would learn that there was no escape from him, no defying the hold he had over her. And in time, she would understand that beneath his iron control, he would give her everything—if only she surrendered to him completely, from soul, to heart, to body.

For now, he let her sleep. But soon, she would wake, and she would find herself exactly where she belonged.

With him.

Always.

Osman leaned back in the armchair, exhaling slowly as he watched the flames flicker in the fireplace. The baby had finally quieted in his arms, his small body warm and relaxed. Osman tilted his head slightly, studying his son’s face.