Arranged To The Devil (Incest Romance) Prt 5

 

Chapter 5
Sakina's POV

I stood under the shade of the building, trying to escape what felt like the heat of a nuclear reactor. Even beneath the shelter, I was practically cooking. My small battery-powered fan—usually reserved for the unbearable classroom heat—was now working overtime out here. The weatherman, as usual, had lied through his teeth. He promised September rains, but all we were getting was a relentless sunstorm.

I was practically begging for rain. I loved it—the gloom, the softness, the way it could bring peace with such quiet, graceful beauty.

As the clock on my watch flipped from 10:59 to 11:00 a.m., I saw it: a sleek, black, tinted private car winding its way slowly up the curved driveway. I switched off the fan and tucked it away, then gently wiped the sweat-soaked strands of hair that clung to my skin. There was no way I could wear a headscarf in this kind of weather. I usually reserved it for business settings, events, colder seasons, or during my fasting periods.

The car came to a stop beneath the shelter. Was she always this punctual? It felt oddly precise—arriving exactly at 11 a.m. to pick me up.

The driver stepped out and opened the back door. She emerged—Hassan—running her fingers through her hair, smoothing it with practiced ease. She adjusted her suit next, crisply flicking the collar into place, straightening the tie that rested perfectly across her chest, and smoothing out the tailored dark gray jacket. I smiled faintly when I noticed the pocket watch—a dangling, golden piece that somehow paired flawlessly with every inch of fabric she wore.

My curiosity stirred, restless like a bird ruffling in a tight nest.

What was she really like beneath all that polish? She had to be more than just a nut job.

Then, she bent back into the car and emerged holding a massive bouquet of flowers. I stared, captivated, momentarily frozen in place.

Should I move toward her… or wait for her to come to me?

She began walking toward me, her legs swinging with a purposeful stride, and stopped just inches away.

“Happy brunch?” Her deep voice greeted me. She sounded like she was trying to be cheerful, but with a voice built on such rich, resonant bass, it was almost impossible to sound anything but commanding.

“Good morning,” I replied, soft and polite.

“I brought these for you, my dove.”

She held out a massive bouquet of flowers.

I bowed slightly in thanks. “Thank you.”

Her gaze lingered as I tucked my long hair behind my ear.

“Where’s your headscarf?” she asked.

“Oh—I don’t wear it to lectures,” I replied. Then, before I could stop myself, I added, “Do you want me to put it on?”

Regret bloomed instantly. Why was I being so submissive? I shouldn’t be trying to please her—not my cousin. Was I seriously starting to internalize this ‘my cousin is my wife’ nonsense?

She stared at me in silence, clearly weighing her response.

“Go put it on,” she finally said, her tone dropping into a firm command.

Absolutely not. It was hot.

“Sure,” I muttered instead, reaching for the flowers.

But she held them tightly, not letting go. My hand instinctively dropped away.

“I’m sorry,” I said, flustered.

“I don’t want anyone seeing your hair. Only your parents. You must always be covered.”

I can do what I want, cousin, I wanted to say.

“Yes,” I murmured instead, eyes downcast, my hair cascading forward to shield my face.

“These are for you to bring to school,” she continued. “So that if anyone asks, you can tell them you’re engaged to your beloved.”

I will most definitely not be doing that.

“Yes,” I said anyway.

“Please go and put on your headscarf,” she repeated.

She reached for my backpack, and I handed it to her without protest, heading back into the house.

As I entered, my mother scrambled away from the window like a guilty child caught snooping. She straightened quickly, trying to appear casual.

“What were you doing, standing at the window?” I asked.

She shook her head, glancing around like she hadn’t just been caught.

“Nothing much. Just admiring the beautiful sunlight lighting up my garden.”

“Hm.”

“What did your wife say?” she asked casually.

I let out a heavy sigh and moved toward the stairs. I was going to be late for class—and all because of my cousin. Her possessiveness was seriously uncalled for.

I climbed the stairs, headed straight to the drawer where I kept my headscarves, and pulled out the first one I could find. Normally, I made an effort to match my scarf with my dress, but today? I didn’t care.

“Is something wrong, sweetie?” my mother asked gently.

I shot her a look. She stood there looking soft and harmless, her finger pressed thoughtfully to her lips.

“I don’t like her,” I said flatly.

“But she’s the one for you.”

“No, Mom. Omar is the one for me,” I said, my voice hollow. “She told me I always have to wear a headscarf. It’s scorching outside.”

“You’ll get used to it,” she replied calmly. “You know how we always try to please our partners, right?”

“I know,” I muttered.

I turned to the dresser and pulled my hair into a rushed, messy bun. Then I threw the scarf over my head with little care, wrapping it sloppily and grabbing a pin. I stuck myself in the process—sharp pain shooting through my pinky.

Suddenly, I felt everything hit me at once. My chest tightened, and the threat of tears burned behind my eyes.

“I just don’t like her,”

“You’ll learn to love her,” 

I looked at my reflection. The scarf clashed with my dress, sitting crooked and unflattering on my head. I looked… off. I usually relied on my hair to frame my face, especially on days like this when I hadn’t worn any makeup.

My mother stepped closer and gently removed the scarf. I clutched my stinging pinky, where a tiny bead of blood had begun to rise.

“How can you learn to love someone?” I asked quietly.

The truth was, I didn’t want to learn. I wanted all of my love—all of my heart—to belong to Omar. Not to my cousin. This marriage, born from tradition and family arrangement, felt more like an act of incest than anything sacred. And it wasn’t going to work in my favor. It shouldn’t.

“There’s no written manual for it,” my mother replied. “Love comes naturally. And whether you see it or not, you’re already showing it. She asked you to wear your headscarf, and without argument, you did. You’re trying to make her happy.”

“Well, she’s not doing a great job of making me happy,” I snapped.

“She will. She’ll give you a better life, stability, children—the kind of marriage you always dreamed of.”

“But I want those things with Omar,” I said, firmly.

My mother gave me a soft, knowing smile as she carefully fastened the scarf in place with a pin, making sure it stayed secure on my head.

“In time, you’ll fall madly in love.”

She meant sadly in love. There was no way—in hell or heaven—that I was going to fall for my cousin.

“Thanks, Mom. But I have to go. And Omar is the one for me,” I said, kissing her cheek quickly before rushing outside.

She was waiting for me patiently.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” I said as I reached her.

I shouldn’t have apologized. This delay was her fault.

She nodded and, at last, handed me the bouquet of flowers. Probably as a reward for my “good behavior,” like I was some obedient child. Still, I accepted them with a quiet “Thank you.”

She walked ahead to the car, opened the passenger door for me, and I climbed in. Then she got in beside me.

“I like the flowers,” I said as she reached over to take them, setting them gently on the front seat. She leaned in a little closer, and my heart suddenly turned shy.

“I had them specially arranged for you,” she said.

“Thank you,” I murmured again.

“What are you studying?”

I was sure she already knew. She knew my full name, my background—probably my whole academic record. Still, I answered politely.

“Health and Science. I was planning to work—”

“Work?” Her voice clearly laced with demurral.

My original plan was always to work for a while. Omar wasn’t against the idea of me being both married and employed. Eventually, I would become a stay-at-home wife once we started having children. But looking at my cousin—no, my wife—I could already tell she wasn’t going to be supportive of that at all.

“I’ll work for a little while,” I said quietly, testing her reaction.

She stared at me in silence. It was becoming increasingly clear that this was her way of asserting control—without words, without raising her voice. Just... watching. Calculating. She already knew everything about me, especially that I was naturally submissive. And it was obvious she planned to take full advantage of that.

She looked like the kind of woman who tolerated no margin for error, who needed the world to bend to her will. That’s how wealthy, eccentric people usually operated—the world revolved around them. And if it didn’t, it was chaos.

“My dove,” she said.

Yes, nut job. “Yes, cousin,” I replied sharply, letting the word sting. I needed her to remember that this wasn’t normal. Not in this day and age. Maybe if I were born in her time, I might have fallen for someone like her. But now? Arranged marriages like this felt archaic. A mistake.

“I’m your wife,” she reminded me.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want anyone telling you what to do.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, wary.

I wanted to use my degree, even if it was just to work in the field for a year or two. I needed that experience. That freedom.

“The working world is harsh. People out there can be cruel, unkind. I wouldn’t want my wife going through something as soul-crushing as that,” she said.

“Oh...” I murmured.

Omar would have understood. He would have supported my dreams. He would have let me be me.

The car slowed to a stop, and I felt a rush of relief when I saw my university’s gates.

“I want to see you later,” she said. “The driver will come to pick you up...”

“I finish my classes at 6pm,” I lied. It was only around 4 p.m., but I didn’t want to spend any more time with her, even though I couldn’t exactly tell her that. As I reached for the door handle, she gently tugged me back. I turned to face her. “Yeah?”

She slid closer, and I knew exactly what she was about to do. I didn’t move away, though. She was my cousin, for crying out loud. How could this not feel forbidden? How could she not see how strange this was, kissing a family member on the lips?

I closed my eyes, not wanting to meet her gaze as her lips neared mine. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when she kissed me softly. This wasn’t a simple peck, a quick goodbye before my day. No. It was her full lips on mine, pressing firmly. My neck tensed, as if it were my body’s way of holding me in place, ensuring I wouldn’t break the moment. Only one part of me moved: my lips.

She had me so damn curious about what this was. I was kissing my cousin. That’s what this was. I felt her move even closer, her knees brushing against mine, deepening the kiss. She wrapped her hand around my mid-back, pulling me closer, and I gasped. There was an urgency in the way she kissed me, and when her tongue slipped inside my mouth, I froze. I’d never kissed anyone this way before. It felt uncomfortable, unnatural—one tongue should have been enough.

My tongue stayed still as hers move fluidly inside my mouth. My lips kept moving, following her lead. What made this less repulsive was the freshness of her breath—it was oddly inviting, even if it didn’t quite make sense. But that’s the thing about wealthy, powerful people—they always seem to have this strange, magnetic pull.

I knew I needed to pull away before things escalated further, but my curiosity and the desire to please her were still very much alive.

“Mmhmm,” I made a soft noise, caught between wanting to stop and not being able to.

To my surprise, she pulled away first. My eyes snapped open, and I could see in her expression that she realized she had gone too far.

“I have to go,” she said softly.

Her gaze lingered on me, and in that moment, I understood what she meant by “starved.” It wasn’t a physical hunger—no, it was something deeper, something darker, and more sexual.

“I have to see you tonight,” she added, her words heavy with intent. It was like a vow, and I nodded, as if I understood and agreed, even though I wasn’t sure I did.

I stepped out, my book bag slung over my shoulder, and hurried toward the entrance of the building. Just as I was about to go in, I heard her call my name. I turned around to see her standing outside the car, and for some reason, I found myself walking back to her.

“Yeah?” 

“I’ll miss you,” she said, her tone surprisingly soft.

“Me too?” I muttered, glancing down, unsure how to respond.

“You’re forgetting something,” she added, a knowing look in her eyes.

“What?” My brow furrowing.

“Your engagement ring,” she said, slowly kneeling in front of me. I glanced around, relieved to see no one in sight. Quickly, I extended my hand, wanting to get this over with.

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” I answered quickly, not allowing her to ask the question I already knew was coming. She took my other hand and slipped the ring onto my middle finger.

“In our family, it goes on the right hand, not the left,” she murmured.

“Oh,” I replied, feeling the weight of the ring on my finger.

She smiled and stood, stepping back.

“Thanks. Bye.”

She stood up. “You’re forgetting something else.”

I glanced down and noticed a bit of dust on her pants. Instinctively, I brushed it off. She looked at me with a smirk, clearly amused by how easily I fell into these submissive patterns. My brain was screaming one thing, but my body kept betraying me—eager to please, even when I didn't want to.

“How old are you?” I asked.

Her lips curved into a crooked smile. “Old enough to tell you what to do and what not to do.”

“So… you're old then?”

“You're nineteen,” 

“Yeah, which means I’m young enough not to have a say in what I want.”

“You can tell me what you want,” she said. Her tone held an edge of something darker, something unspoken—but I knew exactly what she meant.

I forgot whatever it was she originally claimed I was forgetting. The question on my mind came out before I could stop it. “Are we going to have sex later?”

Her eyes darkened immediately. One of her hands slipped behind her back, and I had no doubt she was armed. Her jaw clenched tight, and her whole face shifted.

I regretted asking. It sounded like I was the one who wanted it. “We’ll start slow,” she said at last.

A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded—because I couldn’t tell her no, even if I wanted to.

“Have you ever been touched before?”

“No.”

My 'no' only seemed to work when it didn’t matter.

“I’ll see you later, my dove.” She reached into the car, pulled out the bouquet of flowers, and handed them to me. “You forgot these.”

She never really answered my question—but she didn’t have to. She wasn’t going to see me tonight.

“Bye,” I muttered, taking the flowers.

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