Isra's POV.
The fuck. Everyone is just on my nerves lately. Fuck her, fuck him, fuck every damn person breathing in this godforsaken house. First this gilded cage they shoved me into, and now his fiancée? Oh, for heaven's sake—kill me already.
"You should respect your elders, he's your brother. Call him brother," I mocked in a whiny, shrill tone, mimicking her perfectly. The words tasted like venom on my tongue. Respect? For him? Please. If disrespect were a currency, I'd be filthy rich by now.
I swear I'll die young—not from fate or some tragic accident, but from sheer irritation these people gift me daily.
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Night time, Dinner.
My stomach was clawing at me, hungrier than it had been in weeks. No clue why, but I was starving. So I did the unthinkable—I came downstairs on my own before the maid could scurry up to fetch me. Sat on the chair like I owned the place, unbothered, unfazed. His presence meant less than dust on my sleeve. He could sit there all regal, all superior, and I still wouldn't give a fuck. Prince of his grandma's fairytales or not—he was nothing in my book.
The maid laid out the dishes. I stabbed a piece of butter chicken, shoved it into my mouth, and—holy hell. Fire. Pure fire. My throat shrieked in agony, and my eyes watered instantly. For me, this was torture—my spice tolerance was laughable, nonexistent, a joke.
At first, I tried to tough it out, swallowing with clenched teeth because hunger was gnawing at my bones. But then—no. Impossible. It burned too much. My lips tingled, my tongue begged for mercy, and tears welled up against my will.
"God! Water—ahhh!" I screamed, thrashing slightly in my chair. The words tore out louder than intended, sharp and demanding. Out of all people, my stupid cries went straight in his direction. Maybe because he was too damn unbothered, maybe because he didn't even bother looking up. Fuck him. Seriously, fuck him.
Zorain's POV.
I sat where I always did—at the head of the dining table. My place. My seat. My throne, if one wanted to stretch the metaphor. But tonight, something unusual happened. She came down on her own. Isra. Miracle of the damn century. Normally the maid had to drag her out, or she'd storm down with all her dramatics, but today—quiet. Just sat there.
I didn't utter a word about the earlier scene, especially not about Ibna. The last thing I needed was to fuel her fire.
Dinner was served. Butter chicken. My favourite. The chef, trained to near perfection, always made it just the way I preferred. Rich, thick gravy, layered with spices strong enough to set the tongue alive. Not burning, but sharp, biting—the way I liked it. And tonight, it was flawless.
I was enjoying my meal in silence, deliberately ignoring her presence because acknowledging her usually meant sparring. But then—her sob. A sharp, muffled sound, followed by a sudden cry.
"Goddd, water. Ahhh!"
My head snapped up immediately. And there she was—her eyes locked onto mine, blazing like wildfire. She was burning from the inside, literally and metaphorically.
I pushed the glass of water toward her without hesitation, and she snatched it like she'd been stranded in a desert for days. She gulped it down so fast that I could almost hear her throat screaming for relief. Tears brimmed in her eyes, spilling down, while her nose flushed an angry red from sobbing.
That's when it struck me.
Damn it. How the hell did I forget?
Her spice tolerance had always been nonexistent. Since childhood, she couldn't stand so much as a pinch of chili. Back then, she would cry, her little voice hoarse, her lips trembling—and I remembered scolding the cook for it every damn time. And tonight, I just sat here eating while she choked on fire.
Guilt hit me like a blade twisting into my chest.
She couldn't even form her words properly, her voice rough and broken.
"If y… you want to kill me, th… then kill me by gun or by p… poison. J… just don't use t… these cheap t… things. M… my throat hurts. I… I can't even speak properly."
Her cracked voice nearly split something inside me. God, why does she always think so wrongly of me? Always assuming I want her harm, when the truth is the opposite. She was hurting, and all I could think was how badly I'd failed to remember the simplest thing about her.
I snapped at the maid, ordering her to bring something sweet now. Within moments, she returned with a bowl of chocolate ice cream. Relief came when Isra grabbed it instantly, digging into it like a desperate little girl. Each spoonful cooled her tongue, eased her throat, and slowly, slowly her sobs began to calm.
"Slowly, Isra," I said quietly, softer than I intended. But all I got in return was a murderous glare that could've burned me alive where I sat.
I shouldn't have found it amusing. But damn, she looked cute—red nose, watery eyes, and fury blazing through her broken state.
And then, like the storm she always was, she stomped away, retreating back to her room, but not before shooting me one last glare. One final, daggered look that promised chaos.
Sweetness.
Mine.
Author's POV.
The mansion was cloaked in silence when the clock had long struck midnight. Darkness hung over the corridors, broken only by the pale silver of the moon filtering through the tall windows. Isra, oblivious to the world, was fast asleep in her room. She lay on her stomach, her delicate frame pressed against the soft sheets of the bed, breathing evenly, as though all the storms of her waking hours had vanished in her slumber.
She was dressed in a light brown night suit printed with tiny bears, paired with shorts so small they barely covered her thighs. Innocent in appearance, childish almost, yet on her — everything had a different meaning.
The door clicked soundlessly.
Zorain entered.
His steps were silent, deliberate, careful, as though he were trespassing into sacred ground. He approached her bed and lowered himself to sit beside her, filling the small space her body had left untouched. His hand reached out almost on instinct, resting against her forehead. Warmth. But no fever. Relief loosened the tension in his chest.
And then he simply stayed there. Watching. Breathing her in. Isra was a heavy sleeper — he knew this well. She would not stir, no matter how long he lingered.
His gaze traveled over her face, soft and serene in sleep, stripped of all the sharpness she carried in daylight. Gone were the barbed words, the venomous glares, the defiance that so often set fire to his veins. In this state she was silent, vulnerable, almost angelic — reminding him of the little girl she once was, the one who clung to him, called him Zozo, and believed he could protect her from the world.
But his eyes did not stop at her face. Against his will, they roamed lower. Her night suit was new, he noticed. Not the reckless, suggestive one she often wore — the one that tempted and infuriated him at the same time. This one was softer, innocent… and yet not innocent enough. Her tiny shorts bared too much of her legs, smooth skin glowing in the dim light.
His hand betrayed him. Before he could stop himself, it slid downward, brushing against the bare skin of her thigh. Just a touch. But that single touch set his palm aflame, as though her warmth were searing him from the inside out. His heart thudded violently, his breathing tightened.
Every man harbored desires. He was no saint. But why her? Why only her? She was younger, forbidden in every sense, yet the pull was undeniable. His eyes caught on the two undone buttons of her nightshirt, revealing just enough cleavage to drive his mind into places it should not wander. A rush of heat coiled low in him, his body betraying him as thoughts darkened. What would it be like… if she were his completely?
His jaw clenched. He dragged himself back from the edge, disgusted with his own hunger, furious at the weakness clawing at him. This was Isra. His Isra. The girl who had once been his shadow, who now looked at him as though he were the enemy. He could not, would not, let his desires taint what fragile bond still remained.
Zorain inhaled sharply, forcing his hand away. Instead, he reached forward and tucked a stray strand of hair gently behind her ear, revealing her full face. And there she was again — not the sharp-tongued viper who stabbed him with every word, but the Isra of ten years ago. Innocent. Sweet. His sweetness.
His voice dropped to a whisper, words only meant for the stillness of the night.
"I wish I could tell you the truth, Isra. I wish. Maybe I never deserved your love… but your Zozo will always remain with you. No matter how deep your hatred runs, no matter how much you curse my name."
His lips brushed her forehead softly, a fleeting kiss that carried the weight of years gone by. The same way he used to when she was little, when she would fall asleep clutching his arm, believing he would never leave.
Pulling the blanket gently over her fragile frame, he rose. One last look — at the only peace he'd ever known — and then he slipped away into the shadows, leaving the room as silently as he had entered.
Zorain's POV.
"Ahh… Zorain… faster, please," she moaned beneath me, her voice trembling with desperation, ragged breaths escaping her parted lips as her nails raked mercilessly across my back. Her body was writhing, arching to meet me, yet still begging for more.
"You want it fast and hard, sweetness?" I growled into her ear, my hips slamming against hers with brutal force, each thrust shaking her small frame.
She nodded wildly, almost frantically, clinging to me as though she might drown without the anchor of my body. Her arms wrapped tight around my waist, her nails sinking deeper into my flesh, drawing both pain and a dark kind of pleasure that made me groan.
"God… you're so fucking tight," I hissed, my voice thick with lust, "clinging around my cock so perfectly, sweetness. Like you were made for me."
Her eyes brimmed with tears, not of sorrow but of pure overwhelming pleasure. She whimpered, burying her face into my neck, and I could feel the heat of her tears dampening my skin as her body surrendered to me, trembling beneath my relentless rhythm.
I lowered my lips to her neck, kissing and biting, branding her with my mouth as though she were mine alone. Her messy moans and broken curses filled the air, and I fed on them like a starving man.
"You—ahh, Zorain—you're a monster," she gasped, her voice cracking, "stop—stop fucking me like an animal!"
Her words, though laced with accusation, only fanned the fire inside me. She wasn't pushing me away—her hands clawed at me, her legs locked around me, her body melting against mine in a perfect mix of pain and pleasure.
And God, she was so tight. Too tight. It was driving me insane. Every thrust buried me deeper into her heat, every clench of her body around me threatened to rip the last thread of control I had left. I was fucking her like a madman, unhinged, lost to the beast inside me.
Her voice came again, weaker this time, her body trembling beneath the force of my pounding.
"Zorain… ahh… I'm tired now."
I gritted my teeth, pulling back to look at her flushed, tear-stained face. "Just one more round, sweetness," I rasped, leaning down to claim her lips in a punishing kiss—
Beeeeppp. Beeeeppp.
My eyes flew open. The sound of my alarm tore through the room, shattering the haze of heat and sweat and raw desire. I was alone. My sheets were damp, tangled around me, my body slick with sweat.
Fuck.
It was a dream.
A fucking dream.
I dragged a hand down my face, cursing under my breath. "Goddammit."
The shame and the hunger crashed over me at once. I'd dreamt of her—Isra—in such filthy, raw detail that my body still pulsed with the ghost of it. The hardness pressing against my pants was proof enough.
I should stay away from her. Yes. I needed to stay the fuck away. No more looking at her that way. No more letting my mind crawl into those dark, forbidden corners. No more dirty thoughts.
But then—what the fuck was I supposed to do with these goddamn hormones? With these unbearable desires that clawed at me like a curse?
Because she was too perfect. Too dangerously perfect. Those breasts—full, round, perky—shaped like they were sculpted for my hands. Her thighs—slender yet thick in the right places—I wanted to bite them, to leave marks, to spread them wide open and bury my face between them. I wanted her pussy. Her tight, little cunt. To fuck her raw until she screamed my name, until she broke apart beneath me.
I imagined her legs wrapped around my waist as I drove into her. Her taste on my tongue, her wetness dripping down my lips as I devoured her. Her cries when my mouth worked her clit, when I pushed her over the edge and made her lose herself completely.
"Fuck," I hissed, gripping the edge of the bed. My cock twitched painfully just at the thought, and I cursed louder. "God, stop thinking about her like that!"
My subconscious screamed at me, but it was already too late. The images, the sensations—they had carved themselves into me.
"Yes… you're right," I muttered to myself, forcing the words out, trying to wrestle control back. "I need to stop."
I hauled myself into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed my face with cold water, then stepped under the freezing shower, hoping the icy shock would calm both my head and the throbbing ache between my legs.
By the time I dressed and left for the office, I still wasn't free of her. Her image clung to me, haunting me, every detail of that dream etched into my skin like a scar.
Isra. My curse. My sweetest sin.
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Alright my Flutterz🦋🤍, I've poured all my effort into this chapter—drama, spice, and emotions wrapped just the way you like it. Now don't just sneak away like silent ninjas, support me and let me know if this chapter hit the spot. Did you enjoy it, or should I bring in even more chaos next time? Your words keep me going, so don't hold back!"
~Eshie🦋🤍.
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