Page 36

The desert camp was still, save for the whisper of the wind carrying the scent of dry earth. The men had settled beneath sparse trees, the heat of the day lingering. There was no real order among them, no leadership. These were misfits, rogues, and bandits, and they were wild—untamed.

Oman stood infront of them, his arms crossed over his chest, watching. His gaze was piercing, seeing more than they could. These men didn't understand who he was, but Oman was determined to make them. He wasn't going to just command them; he was going to 'own' them.

The past two days went by like the wind. He briefly examined each and every member of the clan. Rashid had made it easy for him. He worked really well. Thats why without any doubt Rashid was the right hand of the kasim.

He strode into the center of the wast dry field. His boots hit the sand with a soft thud, carrying across the camp like a warning bell. The men fell silent. Oman's voice cut through the stillness, low and commanding.

"Get up," he ordered.

The men hesitated. Some exchanged looks—others, unsure—but Oman's gaze was unwavering. His eyes were cold, calculating.

A large man, built like a bull, stood first. "Who do you think you are?" he sneered, fists clenched.

Oman didn't flinch. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "You speak when I allow it," he said, voice low but carrying. "You'll listen when I speak, or I'll make you listen."

The large man's bravado faltered, but he stepped forward. "You think you can command us like cattle?"

The air in the camp growing heavy with the sound of the man's strangled gasps. The crowd around them shifted uneasily.

The man's face flushed red, hands clawing at Oman's grip, but it was futile. Oman held him effortlessly. The power he exuded radiating outward like an invisible force.

The group of bandits had gone silent.

Oman slammed the man back onto the sand, sending dust into the air. The man scrambled to his feet, his pride shattered but defiance still there. But something had changed. He wasn't laughing anymore.

He turned slowly, his eyes sweeping across the men who had been watching in silence. His stare was commanding, relentless. "Anyone else want to test me?" he asked, his voice cool but laden with menace.

The men stood frozen, eyes wide. No one dared speak, not even in a whisper. No one was foolish enough to challenge the man who had just broken their strongest in a matter of seconds. The lesson had been taught.

Oman stood tall. "This camp belongs to me now. You'll follow my orders, or you'll be gone."

There was a long silence. The men shifted uneasily.

"Rashid," Oman called, his voice calm but firm. "Get the others into position. I want this camp organized by nightfall."

Rashid moved quickly, the men grumbling but silent. Oman turned his gaze back to the group.

"I'm not here to make friends," Oman said. "I will shape you into something worth following. You'll either rise to the occasion, or you'll break."

With that, he stepped back, allowing them to process. They would bend to his will.

Layla appeared next to Oman, her face unreadable. She had seen his dominance, his ability to command and break men. Even she, with her sharp wit and cynicism, could not ignore the force that emanated from him.

"You really have a way of putting people in their place," she said, her voice devoid of her usual harshness.

Oman's eyes were distant, his expression unreadable. "A leader doesn't ask to be followed. He forces it."

There was a quiet pause, and for the first time, Layla didn't retort. The desert was silent, the men subdued, and Oman stood like a mountain—unyielding, unflinching, and in complete control.

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The evening silence stretched on.

Tara stood by the campfire, her fingers trembling slightly as she offered the plate of food to Oman, her hands slightly unsteady in the growing dusk.

His face remained impassive, his eyes unreadable as he took it from her, the coldness in his gaze just as sharp as the night air that was settling around them.

"Have you eaten?" Oman's voice was low, a hint of something in it that she couldn't quite place. He didn't look at her as he asked, his attention focused on the men around him.

Tara hesitated, the question catching her off guard. She wanted to say something, to tell him that she hadn't eaten because she didn't feel like but she couldn't bring herself to speak.

He had barely looked at her since they arrived, barely even acknowledged her presence. Was it her fault? Had she done something to make him distant?

Oman's jaw clenched when she didn't answer, and Tara could feel his anger simmering beneath the surface.

The tension in the air thickened, the quiet stretch between them speaking volumes.

He shifted his stance and stared at her with a gaze that made her shrink, but still, she didn't say anything. She couldn't.

She got up and left without saying anything.

As she passed Fatima, her gentle voice stopped her.

"Did you serve the food to Oman?" Fatima asked softly, a note of concern in her tone.

Tara didn't reply, only nodded with a barely perceptible dip of her head.

Fatima's eyes softened, her gaze shifting to Tara's slumped posture, like she wasn't feeling well and her movements slow, each step more reluctant than the last.

"You're tired, aren't you?" Fatima spoke as if she already knew the answer.

"Go lay down in the tent," Fatima suggested, her voice taking on a soothing tone. "I will come later."

Tara didn't argue. The very idea of lying down seemed like the only thing she had the strength for. She simply nodded once more, her body too drained to protest. Her back pain was getting worse.

Time passed, and eventually, Fatima finished her dinner and completed her tasks. She was still avoiding Oman. He had tried speaking to her, but every time, she found an excuse. She didn't know what to say to him. That she had murdered her husband?

With these thoughts swirling in her mind, Fatima entered the tent.

The flickering firelight outside cast long shadows, and when she stepped inside, her eyes immediately fell on Tara—who was weeping, clutching her tunic with trembling hands.

Fatima's heart twisted, she went to her and knelt beside Tara, her hands gentle as she cupped her face.

"What's wrong. Talk to me."

Tara shook her head violently, her sobs deepening, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. It was as though the words caught in her throat, too painful to say, too shameful to admit. Fatima's brow furrowed, but she didn't push.

Random things started to run in fatima's mind.

Suddenly, Fatima's eyes fell to Tara's tunic, and then she understood.

The bloodstains were unmistakable, dark against the bright fabric. Fatima's breath hitched, but she didn't react with shock or fear.

"Tara," Fatima whispered, brushing her hair and back with gentle hands.

"It's okay, Tara. You're not alone," Fatima murmured, her voice a steady stream of comfort. "This is a part of life, a part of what makes you a woman. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Fatima gently pulled back, her eyes meeting Tara's. "You are not just a girl anymore. You are becoming a woman"

"What you mean i am bleeding. I am going to die" she said and a loud sob left her mouth.

Fatima gave a tight smile to tara and hugged her again.

"Its not your fault no one told you before that" she cupped tara's face and explained her everything about menstruation.

Tara still was in daze and blinked, trying to process everything fatima told her.

Fatima explained how it worked, the cycle of the body, and the importance of care during this time.

Tara listened, still lost in the flood of information.

Gently, Fatima helped Tara clean herself, her touch tender and patient. She showed Tara how to wash properly and how to use the cloths to stop the bleeding. "You must change these when they are full, and keep yourself clean," Fatima explained.

Hours passed, and the night grew colder. Fatima slept soundly beside her, leaving Tara alone with her thoughts. The ache in her chest had settled into something deeper—an emptiness that gnawed at her.

Then, suddenly, the air inside the tent shifted. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Someone had entered.

Her breath hitched, her body tensing. Instinctively, she pulled the sheet over her head, trying to will away the panic clawing at her ribs.

But it was too late.

The weight of someone sitting beside her pressed into the bedding. Before she could react, the sheet was gently pulled away, and a hand covered her mouth, silencing her before she could cry out.

"Shhhh," a calm voice whispered against her ear.

Tara froze. She didn't need to see his face to know who it was.

It was him. Oman.

He moved with quiet precision, his body sliding beneath the covers, shielding them both in the cocoon of darkness. Then, without hesitation, he came over her.

"Oman" she gasped, her voice barely above a whisper, her panic clawing at her throat. He was too close, his weight pinning her down beneath the sheet, trapping her in the heat of his body.

He stilled. For a moment, the air between them was thick with nothing but their ragged breaths.

Then, his voice, low and edged with restrained frustration, cut through the silence.

Then, his voice came low and dangerous, barely above a murmur so as not to wake his sister, Fatima.

"Why do you fucking fight me every time I come close to you?" His breath was hot against her cheek, his frustration curling around every syllable. "Perhaps these are your ways of turning me on. Let me tell you, your tantrums work on me."

She turned her face away, her pulse thrumming in her ears. His remark has made her extremely angry. Did he accuse her of being fake.

She couldn't tell if he had spoken out of anger or not.

He grabbed her chin and forced her face towards him.

"You ignored me" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.

Oman let out a sharp breath, his fingers grazing her wrist, the touch sending an unwanted shiver down her spine.