𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 46 -

My blood is boiling.

No—raging.

To say I'm furious would be the understatement of the goddamn century.

I did not have this planned. This night, I had planned to kidnap my babygirl away from this wretched hell quietly she calls family but that filthy scumbag decided put hands on her and I lost control. All control.

As soon as I saw that motherfucker put his hands around her waist through the surveillance, all my quiet and diligent plans went straight out the window. That 'kiss' question declared his death sentence.

As soon as my men and I stepped through the ballroom, all with a certain someone's help, of course, my eyes landed on her.

For fuck's sake... I haven't touched her since that night. I haven't seen her since that night, in person. Seeing my men give me surveillance, pictures and footage of her life for the past weeks is not the same as seeing her in the flesh.

There she was - standing in the middle of that room like a porcelain doll dipped in rose gold, but her eyes, those eyes I know better than my breath, were hollow. Her hair curled down her back like silk, that dress hugging every inch of her like it was made just to torture me. She looked ethereal. Untouchable.

And mine.

God, I want her.

No need for her. Like oxygen. Like blood. Like the very thing keeping me tethered to this fucked up world.

Her soft hands stained in his blood, her eyes wide and lost. And all I can think is—finally.

Finally, she sees what I'll do for her. What am I without her? Unhinged. Irredeemable. Hers.

The chaos around us is deafening—screams, commands, weapons being drawn—but none of it touches me. Not when I start walking toward her.

My steps are slow. Deliberate. Like we're taking a walk through the park. Like there aren't over a hundred guests cowering in the corners, or bodies scattering across the polished marble like insects under a floodlight.

My men move in perfect sync. Efficient. Ruthless. Silent.

They outnumber her father's guards five to one. I made sure of it. Her family's security is trained for politics, for appearances. Mine were raised in shadows—built for war.

They overpower them in seconds.

Her father's voice is hoarse, shouting my name like it'll stop me. Her mother is screaming bloody murder, trying to push through—but they can't move. They're held back like civilians at the edge of a crime scene.

And it is a crime scene.

Their crime was thinking they could keep her from me.

Still, I keep walking. My eyes never leave hers. That's all I see—Zara, frozen, trembling, and so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache.