Zayyan's Novella: In Possession and Shadow
The Seed — Legacy Claimed
Lucerne — Three Days Later
Emaan had locked the bedroom door for the first time.
Zayyan didn't knock.
He simply waited. Outside. Quiet. Patient. A storm sealed in silence.
She didn't come out for hours. She barely ate. But when she did step into the hallway — wrapped in her own clothes again, her face unreadable — he followed without a word.
They didn't speak that morning.
But that night, he came to her.
The door was unlocked this time.
She didn't meet his eyes.
"You said I'd still be yours tomorrow," she said flatly. "What if I told you I want to erase that name now?"
"You can't erase blood," he said. "You carry it. Mine."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I want to forget you."
"I won't let you."
She turned to him slowly.
"Why?"
"Because this hate you feel now… it's nothing compared to what you'll feel when you bear my child."
She froze.
His voice lowered. "You think this ends with a name? A bed? A contract written in childhood?"
He stepped closer.
"This ends with you giving me what no one else ever can. The bloodline. The continuation. You — carrying my heir."
"You're insane."
"No," he said. "I'm inevitable."
She shook her head. "I won't let you do this."
"You already have. The night you wore that pendant back to my bed. The night you shattered beneath me. The night you screamed my name and we didn't use protection."
Her mouth parted in disbelief.
He smiled.
"That's right," he whispered. "You invited me in. And I stayed."
She slapped him.
Hard.
But he didn't flinch.
He grabbed her wrist again.
Held it over her belly.
"Whatever grows here… it belongs to me."
She yanked away. Ran to the far end of the room. But he followed. Pressed her against the window overlooking the mountains.
"You won't run," he murmured. "Not with my seed inside you."
"I won't keep it."
"You will."
"I'll leave this place."
"You'll never find a door I haven't sealed. A path I haven't traced. You were mine before you bled. And now—"
He placed a hand flat on her abdomen.
"Now, you're something more."
She cried again. Quietly. But she didn't scream this time.
She just whispered:
"Why me?"
He kissed her cheek.
"Because even as a boy, I saw something eternal in you."
"You're not creating life," she said. "You're colonizing it."
"Call it what you like," he said. "But it will still call me father."
She sank to the floor, exhausted, cradling herself.
And for the first time, he didn't touch her.
He simply watched.
And smiled.
The Price of Rebellion
Lucerne — The Next Night
She thought he wouldn't notice. That a maid slipping into town, returning quietly with a plain paper bag, could go unseen.
But Zayyan saw everything.
Emaan sat on the edge of her bed, fingers trembling as she unwrapped the pharmacy bag.
Inside — a pill strip. White. Unmarked. But unmistakable.
She stared at it for a long time.
Her heartbeat was a scream inside her ribs.
This was her last chance — the only thread of choice left to her.
She peeled back the foil slowly.
Picked one pill out.
Lifted it toward her lips.
Her hand froze.
A breath — sharp, violent — echoed behind her.
The door slammed open.
She turned. The pill still in her fingers, barely inches from her mouth.
Zayyan stood in the doorway.
The maid behind him — dragged forward by her hair, gasping.
His eyes locked on Emaan's hand first.
Then on her face.
Something in him split.
The silence before the kill was louder than her scream.
"No—"
He didn't speak.
He slit the maid's throat in one clean motion.
Emaan screamed.
The woman crumpled to the floor, blood pooling like spilled wine. Zayyan dropped the blade. Looked at her. Breathing like an animal.
"You think you can undo me?"
"You're insane!" she sobbed.
"You tried to erase my future," he said. "You tried to murder my legacy."
She backed away. "I was protecting myself!"
"From me?" He laughed once — bitter and low. "You're mine. Your body is mine. Your womb is mine."
She tried to run.
He grabbed her by the wrist. Yanked her into the hallway.
Dragged her, kicking, into the next room — darker, colder.
He slammed the door shut behind them.
Threw her onto the bed.
"Who gave you the right?"
She screamed. "You're a monster!"
"You dare try to swallow that?" he shouted. "You dare try to destroy what I planted in you?"
She cried, clawed at the sheets.
"Let me go!"
"Never again."
He tore her clothes. Entered her without pause. No words. No mercy.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until her cries became hoarse.
Until her body stopped fighting.
Until the night outside vanished beneath the haze of possession.
He gave her no chance to rest.
No time to breathe.
No moment of stillness.
Only him.
He held her hips down when she twisted away. Bit her shoulder when she cursed him. Marked her thighs with bruises like seals of claim.
Her breath hitched every time he forced her open.
Her tears slicked the pillow. Her voice cracked into sobs.
She begged. Whispered pleas between the pain.
"Stop... please stop..."
He did not.
He held her face still, lips at her ear.
"You tried to cheat fate. Now I'll rewrite it inside you."
Hours blurred.
He used her on the floor. Against the wall. Dragged her half-conscious body to the bath only to take her again, soaking and limp.
She moaned — not with pleasure, but exhaustion.
He wrapped her in his arms between rounds like a lover, only to roll over and force her again.
By dawn, her body trembled with fever.
"I hate you," she whispered hoarsely, over and over.
"I know," he whispered back, still inside her. "But I love the sound of it from my wife's mouth."
Aftermath — Stillness and Shatter
The sheets were ruined. Blood. Sweat. Silence.
She curled away from him, broken, filthy, hollow.
He lay beside her like nothing had happened, stroking her hair.
"You'll forget this pain once you feel life move inside you."
She flinched.
"I'll never forgive you."
"You don't have to," he murmured.
"I'll never love you."
He kissed her shoulder.
"But you'll never leave."
Aftermath — Stillness and Shatter
The sheets were ruined. Blood. Sweat. Silence.
She curled away from him, broken, filthy, hollow.
He lay beside her like nothing had happened, stroking her hair.
"You'll forget this pain once you feel life move inside you."
She flinched.
"I'll never forgive you."
"You don't have to," he murmured.
"I'll never love you."
He kissed her shoulder.
"But you'll never leave."
The Seed Takes Root
Lucerne — Two Weeks Later
The nausea came first.
Then the blood stopped.
And when Emaan vomited behind the greenhouse, the bitter taste in her mouth was not only sickness — it was certainty.
She didn't need a test. Her body already knew.
Zayyan had planted something inside her.
And it had stayed.
That night, she stood beneath the moonlight outside the estate, arms crossed over her stomach, whispering to no one:
"I don't want this."
But even as she said the words, her hand drifted lower.
She touched her stomach.
And for a moment — just a breath — she smiled.
It was small. Fragile. Undeniable.
The idea of motherhood frightened her.
But it also warmed her.
A flicker of life. Of innocence.
She didn't want Zayyan's child. Not like this. Not through violence.
Not when the memory of her father still bled in her chest.
He would've protected me from this, she thought. He died because of this man.
And yet… something inside her rebelled against her own hatred.
The seed was not Zayyan.
It was hers, too.
A strange, bittersweet ache settled into her ribs.
She didn't want to carry his legacy.
But becoming a mother —
That feeling… it was something she couldn't describe.
A strange, guilty kind of joy.
And it hurt.
Because she didn't want to let it grow.
But she didn't want to lose it, either.
The Plan
She began to observe.
To memorize the guards' shifts. The angles of the cameras. The timing of Zayyan's most vulnerable hours — post-release, when he slept like a god who believed himself invincible.
She cleaned her blood from the sheets in silence. Smiled when he watched. Bit down when he touched her. Waited.
One night, she opened a hidden drawer in the library.
Found an old map of the original estate.
There was an unused tunnel beneath the east wing — sealed, according to the files, but old things break.
She began to gather things. Slowly.
Cash. Documents. A burner phone from the maid before she died — still hidden in a hollowed book.
She spoke to no one. Not even herself.
Every word she'd said in recent weeks had been a lie. Every moan a survival tactic. Every look a weapon being honed in plain sight.
Zayyan still touched her. Still filled her. Still whispered his legacy against her skin.
But Emaan had begun to count days not since she bled — but until she ran.
The Attempt — A Trap Laid
Lucerne — Midnight
The night came.
The guards rotated exactly as she expected.
The cameras blinked, rewound, looped.
She moved like smoke — a black coat, scarf pulled tight, a small backpack on her shoulder. One hand on her belly, one on the tunnel hatch.
She opened it. Cold air swept up. Freedom.
Her first step into the shaft felt like resurrection.
She didn't hear the click until it was too late.
Floodlights roared on.
Steel slammed down behind her.
The floor lit beneath her feet — sensors activated. A silent alarm.
She turned.
Zayyan stood there, in the shadows. Barefoot. Shirtless. A gun in one hand. Rage in the other.
He said nothing at first.
He simply watched her. Breathing. Seething.
Then —
"Where were you going, Emaan?"
She didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
"You think I'd let you run?"
"I had to," she whispered. "I can't breathe in here."
"You were carrying me." He pointed at her stomach. "And you were going to run?"
Her voice broke. "I'm not a vessel."
"No. You're a throne."
He moved too fast. Grabbed her. Threw her over his shoulder as she screamed and kicked.
He didn't speak again until they were in the room.
The Discovery — Claimed in Full
He threw her onto the bed.
She scrambled up, trying to get away.
He didn't let her.
"You're pregnant."
She froze.
"You knew?"
"I knew the second your blood stopped. The second you started hiding your scent like a feral doe."
He knelt in front of her.
Pressed his ear against her belly.
"It's there. Mine."
She wept.
"You don't deserve it."
"I own it."
"I'll tear it out before I let it live in your shadow."
He struck the wall beside her head. The plaster cracked.
"Say that again," he hissed.
She didn't.
"Say it again and I'll bury every doctor on this continent who touches you."
She shook. Not from fear — from the weight of how truly caged she was.
"Why won't you let me go?"
"Because I planted eternity in you. And eternity doesn't run."
He dragged her down to the bed.
Kissed her stomach.
Then her throat.
Then her mouth — hard.
And whispered:
"Try again. I dare you."
The Calm Before the Display
Lucerne — One Week Later
The estate was dressed in glass and gold. Staff hurried with candles, linen, delicate florals flown in from Istanbul. Zayyan had ordered celebration.
No one questioned it.
Not even Emaan — not aloud.
But inside, she screamed.
She stood in front of the mirror as a stylist painted her lips, draped her in soft silk — white, embroidered with pearls. A maternity gown, subtle and regal.
Her eyes were hollow.
Her belly barely curved — but Zayyan wanted it displayed.
His heir. His claim. His victory.
She didn't ask what the event was for. She knew.
He'd called it a "quiet winter dinner."
But she'd seen the guest list.
Politicians. Corporate heads. Old families. Men who whispered behind closed doors and moved borders with single phone calls.
She was to be paraded.
Not as a prisoner.
As a prize.
The Celebration
Music drifted through the chandeliers.
Laughter. Champagne. Firelight flickering across gold trim.
And in the center — Zayyan.
Dressed in a dark sherwani. One hand on Emaan's lower back as he introduced her again and again:
"My wife."
"The mother of my heir."
She smiled. Bowed her head. Let the men kiss her hand, the women murmur blessings.
No one saw how tight his grip was.
Or how her nails dug into her own palm, just to keep from screaming.
At the table, he leaned in.
"You look exquisite tonight."
She didn't look at him.
"I feel like a painting."
"You are."
"Framed and hung?"
"Worshiped," he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "And untouchable."
She smiled for the cameras.
But behind her eyes, the war had never stopped.
The Spark — A Rival's Interest
Later in the evening, a man approached her.
Tall. Elegant. Dangerous in a way that didn't pretend to hide itself. Tariq Dar — an old rival of Zayyan's family.
He bowed slightly, took her hand.
"Lady Al-Raheem," he said with a slow, smooth grin. "The most beautiful prisoner in Lucerne."
Emaan smiled.
Not politely.
But meaningfully.
Deliberately.
She let his fingers linger on hers.
She tilted her head and laughed at something he whispered.
And across the ballroom, Zayyan watched. Still. Silent. Burning.
The Aftermath — Claimed by Fire
He didn't speak on the way back to their suite.
He didn't touch her. Not until the door closed.
Then he grabbed her wrist. Pulled her against the wall.
"What game are you playing?"
She blinked slowly. "I was being polite."
"You were being provocative."
She smiled again. "He's not afraid of you."
"No one in that room matters except me," he growled.
"And I don't matter?"
"You're the only thing that does."
He kissed her then — not violently, but possessively. Desperately. With heat he hadn't let show in weeks.
She hit his chest once.
But then she pulled him closer.
He lifted her in his arms.
Laid her on the bed — not with violence this time, but with reverence laced in fire.
"Say it," he whispered, undoing the pearls at her back. "Say who you belong to."
She didn't answer.
So he kissed lower.
Bared her slowly.
Touched her like she was both altar and weapon.
She moaned before she meant to.
And when he entered her — hard, full, claiming — she gasped and clutched his shoulders.
He didn't give her time to adjust.
But it wasn't cruelty this time.
It was hunger.
He whispered her name like prayer and command both.
She whispered back — a broken breath.
"I hate you."
He smiled against her throat.
"But you still let me in."
He made love to her like he was erasing Tariq's breath from her skin.
Over and over.
Until her body broke again.
And her mind went silent.