Chapter
Chapter One
The rain didn’t simply fall; it seemed to mourn as it washed over the golden dome of the small neighbourhood mosque. Hazel stepped out through the side entrance, her prayer beads slipping through her fingers. Her deep emerald-green hijab—dark enough to look almost black in the rain—was edged with delicate gold embroidery that caught the streetlamp’s glow. It framed her fair, warm-toned face, drawing attention to her green eyes, delicate button nose, and full plum-brown lips. Her dark curls were tucked beneath its folds.
At five feet four inches, Hazel was slender and graceful, but there was a quiet steadiness in the way she held herself. Her heart still carried the peace of the Isha prayer when the metallic tang of blood and the rich scent of expensive tobacco cut through the smell of rain-soaked earth.
She turned. The peace vanished.
A man slumped against the stone archway. Even hunched over, he seemed too large for the narrow alley. At six feet seven inches, Zarek Noxenblade was broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Rain-dark hair fell in unruly strands across his forehead, framing an angular face and a strong jaw. A scar ran beside his left eye. His right eye was dark, while his left was a startling ice blue. His mismatched gaze fixed on Hazel with cold intensity.
One hand was clamped to his side; blood seeped between his tattooed fingers and stained his black suit. A snake-and-skull tattoo climbed his neck and vanished beneath his open collar. A scorpion spread across his exposed chest, and a snake curled over the back of his tattooed hand.
“Don’t,” he rasped, his low, husky voice edged with command.
Hazel froze, one hand gripping the wooden doorframe. She should have run. She should have screamed. Instead, concern rose in her before fear could stop it.
“You’re—you’re bleeding,” she whispered, her voice soft against his rough rasp. “I can help. I can call—”
“Don’t call anyone!” Zarek snarled, staggering toward her.
He towered over her, forcing her to tilt her chin up. He looked like a predator in a place of prayer—a man who had built an empire on the very sins Hazel had spent her life avoiding.
His free hand lifted. Black ink curled over his knuckles, and a heavy ring glinted in the streetlight. He stopped an inch from the gold-embroidered edge of her hijab. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to.
“You smell like sandalwood and heaven, little saint,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate hush. “But I don’t believe in the God you just bowed to. I believe in the gun at my hip—and the blood on my hands.”
Hazel looked up at him, her green eyes holding a compassion that seemed to unsettle him more than the wound in his side.
“He sees you, even if you don’t see Him.”
Zarek let out a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest.
“If He’s watching, does He know I’m about to ruin His favourite masterpiece?”
He leaned close, his lips near her ear.
“Go inside, Hazel. Lock the door. The next time I see you, I won’t ask for mercy—I’ll be taking it.”
To be continued…
