꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༺Chapter 6: The Breaking Point༻
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
The roar of the motorcycle's engine filled the air as Priya rode away, her long hair whipping behind her like a dark flame. Zayne stood still, watching as she disappeared into the crowded Delhi streets, the distant sound of her bike fading into the chaos of the city.
Something twisted inside his chest. It was unfamiliar—an ache, a pull—something he wasn't used to feeling. Priya had barely acknowledged him before leaving. She hadn't even spared him a second glance.
She didn't like him.
The realization sat heavy on his chest, heavier than the weight of a gun tucked at his hip, heavier than the countless deaths on his hands.
A smug, feminine voice broke through his thoughts.
"See? Indian bitch doesn't like you."
Zayne barely had time to react before Masha's arms snaked around his torso from behind. She pressed herself against him, her perfume sickly sweet, suffocating in the warm Delhi air.
He tensed immediately.
"She's probably jealous," Masha continued, her voice laced with a mocking sneer. "You know how Indian women are—always so—"
Her tone was cruel, condescending, the kind of arrogance that grated against Zayne's patience like a blade against bone.
He ripped her arms off him, violently shrugging her away, his face twisting in pure disgust.
"Shut your fucking mouth, Masha."
His voice was cold, sharp as a knife's edge. His Russian accent deepened, dripping with barely restrained fury. His sharp jaw clenched, his hands fisting at his sides.
Masha's eyes widened, but she quickly recovered, rolling her eyes like a brat throwing a tantrum. "What? You mad because she didn't give you attention?" She scoffed, flipping her platinum blonde hair over her shoulder.
"You know nothing about Indian women. Or Priya."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but he didn't regret saying them.
Because it was true.
Masha knew nothing about Priya.
She didn't know about the way she cradled a stray dog in her arms, whispering in Hindi to it like it was the most precious thing in the world. She didn't know about the fire in Priya's eyes when she spoke, or the way she handled a gun with calculated precision.
She didn't know that Priya was the only person in years who had looked at him like a man instead of a monster.
Masha's lips curled in amusement. "Oh please, daddy," she purred, stepping closer again. "You think she's some angel? Maybe she fucks her officers—"
That was it.
Zayne's patience snapped like a fragile thread stretched too thin.
His hand shot out, grabbing Masha by the wrist in a vice-like grip. She gasped, her manicured nails digging into his forearm as she tried to pull away.
"Say another word about Priya, and I swear on my fucking life—"
His voice was dangerously low, lethal. His dark eyes bore into hers, a silent promise of violence flickering beneath the surface.
Masha swallowed, but she didn't stop.
Instead, she shifted tactics, her lips curling into a smirk. "Oh, Daddy daddy, don't be mad." Her voice dripped with false sweetness as she leaned in, pressing her chest against him.
Zayne didn't move. He just stared at her, unimpressed.
"I love you, Daddy daddy," she cooed, her hands trailing down his chest.
He glared.
"I love you, I'm your sugar baby," Masha continued, trying to wrap herself around him like a snake. "You know Russian women treat their men best—"
Zayne didn't react. His mind was somewhere else.
Somewhere with a woman who didn't throw herself at him. A woman who wasn't trying to own him like a possession.
Masha sensed his hesitation and saw it as an opportunity. She grinned, spreading her legs slightly, pressing her thigh against his.
"You know what they say about Indian women?" She mused, her voice laced with amusement.
Zayne didn't answer. His eyes remained cold, unreadable.
Masha took that as encouragement.
"They have hairy arms."
Zayne's jaw tightened.
"They cook too much."
His fingers twitched at his sides.
"They're too dark."
A vein in his temple pulsed.
"They have small tits."
Masha laughed.
"No man likes them."
Zayne went still.
Completely still.
A suffocating silence fell over the room.
Then, she whispered the final nail in her coffin.
"They have black clits."
The moment the words left her mouth, she barely had a second to register her mistake before—
BAM!
Zayne's fist slammed into the wall beside her head, the impact shaking the entire room.
Masha yelped, jumping back in fear. Her smug expression vanished instantly, replaced by pure terror.
"ENOUGH."
His voice was a thunderous roar, echoing off the walls, filled with a rage so intense it could burn cities to the ground.
Masha trembled. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She had never seen him like this.
His chest heaved with uncontrolled fury, his dark eyes blazing like an inferno.
Zayne turned his head slowly, his deadly gaze locking onto her.
"Listen closely, you ignorant bitch." His voice was low now, the kind of low that sent a chill down spines. "Indian women are beautiful, proud, and far too good for racist cunts like you."
Masha's breath hitched.
She had pushed him too far.
She tried to fix it, scrambling desperately. "B-But I'm your sugar baby!" She stammered, reaching for him again. "Zayne, I love you! Please—"
His lips curled in disgust.
"Get… the fuck… out."
His voice was eerily calm now. Dangerous. Final.
Masha froze.
For the first time, she realized something.
He didn't want her.
Not anymore.
Not after her mouth ruined everything.
His next words shattered her completely.
"I meant every fucking word." His gaze was nothing but ice. "You're nothing but a racist whore. And I'm done paying for your stupid mouth."
Masha let out a broken gasp, her world crumbling around her.
She knew this was it.
With shaking hands, she turned away, her heels clicking weakly against the marble floor.
She hesitated at the door, glancing back one last time.
But Zayne wasn't looking at her.
He had already turned away.
She had lost.
Masha's breath hitched as she pushed the door open and disappeared into the streets
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂ ꧁༒༻༺༒꧂
༶•┈┈┈༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓┈┈┈•༶
༺ To be continued… ༻
꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧂༒༻༺༒꧂
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