“I have to go tend him,” Zara said, her expression turning grave as she moved toward the noise with a purposeful stride.
The sight that greeted us in the adjacent room struck me with cold dread. Marcellious lay on a makeshift bed. His body was wracked with convulsions. He was a shadow of his former self—beaten, bruised, and emaciated—his skin pallid and slick with sweat.
Zara approached the bed. She whispered words meant to soothe him, but his body continued to thrash wildly, revealing the depth of his agony.
I tried to steady his flailing arms and legs, the muscles beneath his battered skin twitching uncontrollably. It was like trying to restrain the sea itself—unpredictable and overpowering.
“Get a bottle of Calabar healing potion,” Zara said over the chaos, her eyes never leaving Marcellious’ tormented face. “It’s an antidote for belladonna. It’s in the next room in a cupboard across the bed.”
Driven by the urgency in her voice, I bolted for the door, my heart pounding against my chest. I burst into the next room, my mind racing.
The sight before me slammed into my senses like a rogue wave, halting my step. There, upon the unadorned bed, lay a woman, naked, her skin a moonlit tapestry against the linen.
She was not merely beautiful but the incarnation of every unspoken dream that had ever danced at the edges of my consciousness. Her form was a delicate interplay of shadow and light, curves and lines composing artistry so natural that it seemed to mock the notion of flaw.
I sucked in a breath as a strange captivation took hold of me, a magnetism I had never known. It was as if her very presence reached into the deepest vaults of my being, touching a part of me that was hidden even from me.
Time slowed, and I faltered, ensnared by something beyond visual allure. She was the embodiment of vulnerability and strength entwined, a silent siren call that spoke directly to the dormant protector within me.
Duty roared back into focus, a clarion call that could not be ignored. With a wrenching effort, I tore my gaze away from the enigmatic figure on the bed, chastising myself for the lapse.
“Do what you came to do, Malik,” I muttered, scouring the room for the potion that promised salvation. As lonely as I was, I could not yield to temptation. And yet, as I knew all too well, when did I ever listen to reason when it came to a woman—especially one as captivating as the one who lay before me?
CHAPTER EIGHT
MALIK
Istood before the bed of this bewitching, unknown woman, utterly captivated. The sheet slipped from the woman’s fingers, fluttering like a surrendering flag before it settled over the edge of the bed. It was an inadvertent revelation, a moment too swift to undo. Her body, a silhouette of curves and grace, was bared to my unintended gaze. The shock that etched her features mirrored the paralysis seizing my own. Words, typically my allies, deserted me in the face of such unexpected beauty.
Her hair, a cascade of ebony waves, framed a face that seemed sculpted from the finest marble, with high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin. Her eyes, a startling azure, gleamed like fragments of the Mediterranean Sea, their depths hinting at stories untold and wisdom far beyond her years.
Her appearance exuded an ethereal beauty, yet there was a subtle frailty in her frame, a slenderness that suggested a strong gust of wind could easily topple her.
However, this impression was deceptive. Beneath her seemingly delicate exterior lay a resilience that might have been forged from years of silent perseverance and intellectual rigor. Her olive-skinned heritage lent her an exotic allure, a blend of cultural richness and history that painted her as Scheherazade, with tales waiting to be whispered into the ears of an enraptured audience—namely, me.
Her duality—her delicate appearance and formidable strength—made her fascinating. She was a living contradiction, a beautiful enigma with a core of unyielding strength and intellect that shone brighter than the jewels in the Ottoman treasury.
“What a beautiful woman,” I whispered, my voice so faint it barely rippled the heavy tension between us.
Her skin was flawless, the warmth of olive skin, except for the cruel patches of violet bruises staining her flesh—a silent testament to the suffering she had endured.
“She has the face of an angel,” I murmured again as if the words could soften the harsh reality of her wounds, as if naming her beauty could create a fragile shield against the truth.
Compunction twisted inside me, and I struggled to stitch my scattered thoughts into coherence.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed, feeling the unfamiliar stumble of my tongue as I spoke. “I had no idea someone was in this room.”
My voice sounded alien, halting, and insecure—unlike the composed man I was known to be.
With each stutter, my desire to retreat grew, to give her the sanctuary of solitude.
“I’ll come back,” I said to her, though I couldn’t quite discern whether it was a promise or a plea.
“It’s all right,” she said with a softness that seemed at odds with the bruises that flowered on her skin. There was a grace to her movements as she pulled the sheet up, trying to cover what was already seen, wincing slightly as it grazed her tender wounds.
I could not move, my feet rooted in place despite my best intentions.
“I’ll leave now,” I said, fumbling over the words that felt like stones in my mouth. It was strange, this sensation that washed over me—a mixture of desire and concern, something I hadn’t felt stirring within me for years.
