She thrashed, instinct more than thought. Her body twisted, elbows driving, hips bucking, every muscle straining to break free. In the frantic struggle the belt of her robe slipped its knot. The fabric parted like water, sliding open in slow betrayal. Cool air kissed newly bared skin; her breasts, her stomach, the vulnerable dip between hip bones...all of it exposed in one helpless heartbeat to the dark heat of his gaze.
His eyes devoured her in that suspended instant, pupils blown wide with something ravenous and reverent at once.
Then he hauled her toward the low couch, her bare feet skidding uselessly across the rug. She landed on her back among the cushions with a soft thud, the impact jarring through her spine. Before she could roll or kick, he followed her down, knee driving between her thighs, forcing them apart. His body settled heavily atop hers, chest crushing her breasts, hips pinning her pelvis, the solid unyielding weight of him turning every frantic writhe into futile ripples beneath stone.
One hand remained locked over her mouth, fingers splayed so tightly she tasted the faint metallic tang of her own fear-sweat on his skin. The other braced beside her head, caging her. His face hovered inches above hers...close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the sharp edge of adrenaline on his breath.
Tears welled hot and unstoppable and spilled from the outer corners of her eyes, tracing slow, glittering paths across her temples and into her hair. Her lashes clumped wetly; her vision blurred at the edges, yet she refused to close her eyes.
Beneath the crushing press of his body her ribcage struggled for air. Shallow, panicked sips slipped past his fingers. Her heart hammered so violently she was sure he could feel it drumming against his own chest.
For a long, suspended moment neither of them moved beyond the minute tremor of their breathing.
Then his gaze dropped again, lingering, deliberate, taking in every inch of skin the fallen robe no longer guarded.
"You shouldn't have been there that night, Layla."
His voice was low, almost tender, as he leaned in closer. The words brushed the shell of her ear like smoke. Then his nose grazed the crook of her neck slowly, deliberately, inhaling the faint scent of her jasmine soap mixed with the sharp salt of her fear.
"Now look what you've done. You invited a predator straight to your doorstep."
Layla's body locked rigid beneath him. The couch cushions sank deeper under their combined weight; every shallow breath she managed felt stolen from the crush of his chest. Her robe had fallen completely open in the earlier struggle, silk pooling uselessly at her sides. Exposed. Vulnerable. The cool air of the apartment raised gooseflesh across her bare skin, but the heat of him burned hotter overwhelming, inescapable.
She tried to speak, to beg him to stop, but his palm remained sealed over her mouth. Her words dissolved into muffled whimpers against rough skin.
"What do you want?" The question came out garbled, desperate, vibrating against his fingers.
He stilled for a moment, as though savoring the sound.
"What do I want..." he echoed softly, tasting the words. "That's an interesting thing to ask."
Slowly...agonizingly slowly...he lifted his hand from her mouth. She gasped in a ragged breath, lips tingling from the pressure. Before she could form another word, his fingers trailed downward. They skimmed the column of her throat, over the frantic flutter of her pulse, then lower still. The backs of his knuckles brushed the soft outer curve of her breast, tracing its outline with deliberate reverence. Her body jerked involuntarily; a fresh sob caught in her throat.
"You are a beautiful woman, Layla," he murmured, voice thick with dark appreciation. "With a very beautiful body."
Tears spilled faster now, hot tracks carving down her temples. "It's... it's sin," she choked out, voice cracking on the word.
He gave a low, knowing chuckle soft, almost affectionate.
"I knew you would say something like that."
She tried to twist away, arms crossing instinctively to shield herself, but his free hand caught her wrists in one easy grip, pinning them above her head against the arm of the couch. The position arched her back slightly, offering more of her skin to his gaze. Humiliation burned through her like fever.
"That's exactly why I'm proposing this," he continued, calm as though discussing business over coffee. His thumb stroked idly along the inside of her wrist, feeling her racing pulse. "I want to sleep with you. Fuck you until you can't walk for weeks. Until your breasts are swollen and red from my hands, my mouth. Until my marks adorn every inch of this perfect skin."
Each crude promise landed like a blow, yet his tone remained measured, almost gentle...terrifying in its patience.
"But I'm not an animal, Layla. I'm giving you a choice."
He released her wrists then, surprising her. His weight shifted; he rose from her in one fluid motion, leaving her sprawled and trembling on the cushions. Cool air rushed over her exposed body. She immediately curled inward, dragging the fallen robe closed with shaking hands, clutching it like armor.
He stood over her...tall, imposing, suit still immaculate despite the violence of moments ago. From this angle he looked every inch the prince the television had shown: regal, untouchable, inevitable.
"Marry me," he said simply. "And you won't have to carry the guilt. No sin. No shame."
He reached down, almost tenderly, and drew the edges of her robe together, fastening the belt with careful fingers. The gesture felt possessive rather than kind...like marking territory.
"Or refuse," he added, voice dropping lower. "Live with the guilt. Fight it every time you pray. Every time you remember how your body responded even while you cried."
He straightened to his full height, suit still pristine, posture regal in the way only inherited power can be. He looked down at her...not with anger, not with lust in that moment, but with the detached patience of a man who has already won.
"Two days, Layla."
His voice carried no warmth, no negotiation. It was the tone of a verdict being read aloud.
"Either way, I will fuck you."
The statement fell between them like a guillotine blade...clean, unadorned, absolute.
"There is no scenario in which your body remains untouched by me. No door you can lock, no city you can flee to, no prayer that will undo what I have already decided. In forty-eight hours I will come back. And when I do, I will take you...completely, repeatedly, until your legs give out and your voice breaks and every part of you carries the memory of me inside it."
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the faint heat radiating from him again, though he did not touch her.
"If you refuse marriage, then I take Layla Hamdani as she is: unmarried, untouched by any man's name but mine in the dark. I will fuck you raw and ruthless...on this couch, on your prayer rug, in the shower where you try to wash me off afterward. I will mark you until your skin bruises and your thighs tremble for days. You will feel me for weeks: every step a reminder, every breath a stolen gasp, every salah interrupted by the echo of what you let happen because you said no to the only path that would have made it halal."
His gaze never wavered...black, unblinking, merciless.
"Or you agree. You become Layla Yahzaan Al Saeed. My wife in the eyes of God, the law, and every person who will ever look at you again. And then I fuck you the same way...deep, relentless, possessive but with papers that make it clean. You will open for me in silk sheets instead of cotton. You will cry my name instead of begging forgiveness. The marks will still be there, the ache will still linger, but you will carry them as a wife carries her husband's claim, not as a secret shame you scrub at until your skin bleeds."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips...cold, satisfied, final.
"The difference is not whether I bury myself inside you until you shatter. That is already written. The difference is only whether you do it bearing my name... or whether you do it knowing you chose the sin freely when a halal door was held open."
He adjusted his cuff one last time, the small motion impossibly loud in the silence.
"Two days. Use them to pray. Use them to cry. Use them to understand that refusal changes nothing except the label you wear while I ruin you."
He turned and walked to the door without looking back.
The lock clicked shut...soft, irrevocable.
Layla remained curled on the couch, robe clutched to her chest like a shroud. Her body shook with silent, wrenching sobs she could no longer hold back. Between terror and the sick, traitorous pulse still throbbing low in her belly, one truth burned clearest of all:
He had not asked for her consent.
He had only asked whether she preferred to be broken as a wife... or as prey.
'Astaghfirullah.'
The word dissolved on her tongue, useless against the weight of forty-eight hours ticking down.
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End of the chapter🤍
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