The air inside the wardrobe room had gone still, hanging heavy like a held breath. Every object—the mirror, the folded clothes, the ticking clock—felt suspended in time. Anaya could hear the sound of her own pulse in her ears, louder than her footsteps as she stepped away from Rudra. The floor beneath her felt too quiet, each footfall swallowed by the tension that lingered in the corners of the room.
She tried to focus on mundane tasks: checking her closet, smoothing her blouse, adjusting the strap of her bag. But her mind was elsewhere—still back in that charged silence where Rudra had looked at her like she wasn't someone who could just leave. Like she was a chapter he refused to close.
"Why is he questioning me like that?" she murmured under her breath, careful not to be heard. "He's the CEO. Of course, he knows who I'm traveling with."
But her voice carried only to herself, barely audible above the low hum of her thoughts. Her hands moved automatically, sliding open the drawer to check for last-minute essentials. She leaned slightly forward, her body framed by the soft yellow light of the room. She didn't see the way Rudra's gaze followed her, how his eyes scanned the curves of her back beneath the delicate loops of her kurti's doori, how his jaw tensed and released slowly like a man holding back a thousand things at once.
Then came the sound of his steps.
Measured. Deliberate.
"Anaya."
Her name, spoken low and certain, made her pause without turning. She knew that voice. It wasn't a call. It was a tether.
"So you're leaving after dinner?"
She nodded before slowly turning to face him. He was closer than she expected. Standing with that same unreadable expression—half calm, half storm. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of them blinked.
"So, I'm going to live without him for a week," she said aloud, more to herself than to him. The words hung between them. Heavy. Personal.
He took a step forward.
She stayed where she was.
His gaze dropped slightly, trailing over her features. Not hungry. Not gentle. Curious. Possessive.
"Are you going to miss your devil-wallet husband?"
Her breath hitched.
She didn't expect the words to land so closely to the center of her chest. Her lips parted, her fingers tightening around the edge of the dressing table behind her. And before she could speak, she felt it—his hand sliding slowly around her back.
Not rushed. Not forceful.
Just a touch.
Intentional.
The fabric of her kurti gave way beneath his palm, and the doori at the back exposed the warm skin of her spine. Her hair had fallen to one side, baring more than she meant to. She didn't move. She couldn't.
His other hand came up, cupping her face. Fingers traced her jaw, thumb brushing the line of her cheek. Her skin heated under his touch, not from embarrassment but from the sudden electricity that flooded her nerves.
"You... shouldn't," she whispered.
"But I should," he answered, his voice dark with certainty.
He leaned in closer. His lips hovered over hers. Just a whisper away. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the pull of his presence. Her body responded before her mind did—leaning slightly forward, just a tremor.
Her hand came up, pressing lightly against his chest. It wasn't a push. It was contact. Connection.
"You're playing with fire," she said, but her voice cracked like it wanted to burn.
"And you're the one holding the match," he replied.
His thumb brushed her lower lip.
She stepped back, just enough to breathe, her heart pounding like a warning bell.
But he didn't chase her. Not yet.
He watched.
She moved around the table, her fingers trembling as she reached for her hairbrush. She pulled her hair forward, trying to hide the exposed skin on her back. Trying to gather composure like scattered papers.
And still—he followed.
Not like a shadow. Like a storm creeping in through a cracked window.
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She turned again.
And there he was.
Standing behind her—not touching, not even brushing his shadow against her—but close enough that the air between them sparked. Close enough that she could feel the weight of his breath on her skin, warm and unapologetic. Close enough that her body reacted before her mind could argue.
His eyes were on her. Not her face. Not her hands. But her.
All of her.
"I haven't even kissed you yet," he murmured, voice a low, dangerous whisper that curled around her spine like smoke.
She swallowed hard. A dry, slow movement. The back of her throat tightened like it didn't want her to speak, like even her body knew words would only make things worse.
"And you think you should?" she said, but her voice wasn't firm. It was soft. Cautious. And curious.
He smiled, slow and dangerous. The kind of smile that didn't need to move past his lips to have effect. It lived in his eyes.
"I think," he said slowly, stepping forward again, "you're waiting for me to."
The silence after that was deafening. She could hear the sound of her own breath. Could feel her heartbeat thudding in her wrists, her throat, her ribs. Her knees felt untrustworthy.
He wasn't asking. He wasn't begging. He was reading her.
And the worst part was—he wasn't wrong.
Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Her eyes dropped for a second to his shirt collar, then drifted back to his face.
She didn't move.
She didn't retreat.
But she didn't surrender either.
Her body was a war.
And he was winning without lifting a weapon.
His hand rose again, slow, deliberate.
Not to touch her cheek, not to reach for her hand.
But to touch the doori of her kurti.
Her back tensed before his fingers even found the knot. But when they did—lightly, barely grazing the fabric—the reaction inside her was instant. A shiver, deep and fine, rippling down her spine as if her nerves had been waiting for this single, subtle violation of distance.
His fingers didn't untie it. They just lingered. Traced. Dared.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Her back arched subtly—an unconscious move, an ancient one. Her body leaning away from fear but toward fire.
Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second. Not because she wanted to close them.
But because they betrayed her. And when she opened them, his face was right there. His breath warm against her cheek. His mouth barely a whisper from hers.
She turned her head, desperate to reclaim control. To clear the fog creeping into her ribs. Her jaw was clenched, not in anger, but restraint. A wild, thin line between want and warning.
But her breath betrayed her. It came out ragged. Unsteady.
"I have to leave," she whispered, the words stumbling from her lips like apology.
He didn't back away. He leaned in instead. Brushed a kiss—light, unhurried—just below her ear. Her knees buckled slightly.
"Then go," he said. "But don't pretend you're running away from the trip."
His lips hovered over her skin.
"You're running from me."
She turned—fast. Slipped out of his reach like water escaping a clenched fist. Her heartbeat was out of rhythm now. Her skin flushed, but her eyes? Her eyes were on fire.
She didn't look angry. She looked alive.
Her chest rose and fell like the breath in her had weight. Her hands hovered by her sides, unsure whether to push, to pull, to reach, or to shield. She walked backward, keeping her gaze on him.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she didn't trust what would happen if she turned her back again.
Her fingers caught the edge of the doorframe. The wood was cool beneath her skin, grounding. She paused there, half-out of the room. Half still in his gravity.
"I'll see you when I get back," she said, voice tight. Each word controlled. Weighed.
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at her.
And smiled.
Slow.
Dark.
He let her go. Let her walk away.
But he didn't tell her the truth.
He didn't tell her he had seen the itinerary the second it was confirmed. That his name was added two days ago. That he would be there before her. That he had reserved the hotel suites. That he had arranged the meeting rooms. That the schedule itself bent around his arrival.
That she wouldn't be getting a break from him.
She would be getting closer.
She wouldn't just see him when she got back.
She would see him the moment she landed.
Because Rudra didn't chase fire.
He waited.
He followed.
And when the moment was right…
He consumed.
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She left the room with too many thoughts crammed between her ribs. They weren't loud, but they pulsed—each one brushing against the next like restless shadows. Her pace quickened as she moved down the hallway, the soft thud of her footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the marble floor. The silence of the mansion didn't help. It only amplified the weight she carried—not in her suitcase, but in the way her chest felt tight, her throat dry, her hands suddenly uncertain. Her bag should've felt light. She'd barely packed the essentials. But now it dragged at her shoulder like it was made of stone.
Inside her mind, the reel refused to stop. Over and over, it played: the way his fingers brushed the delicate tie of her doori, the electric proximity of his breath near her nape, the way he hadn't even kissed her—but made her body respond as if he had. That closeness lingered in her like the aftertaste of something forbidden. The ghost of his presence still clung to her skin, warm and unwelcome, like sunlight that wouldn't let go. She could still feel it, low on her back, where his hand had hovered—barely there, but enough to make her forget how to breathe properly.
She brought her fingers to her lips instinctively. There was nothing there—no kiss, no contact. But the sensation? That stayed. As if her lips remembered something her mind wanted to deny. As if his voice, low and possessive, had settled into her jawline like a mark no one could see.
When she reached her room, she didn't hesitate. She stepped in, shut the door behind her, and turned the lock. The click of it echoed in the quiet like a declaration of war. Her back pressed against the door as she leaned into it, her breath catching in a slow, uneven rhythm. Her eyes closed—not to rest, but to block the image of him out. It didn't help. Behind her eyelids, he was still there. Still watching. Still daring her to admit that she'd felt something, that he'd touched something deeper than skin.
The silence roared in her ears.
It wasn't just tension. That would've been simpler. This—this was layered. Intentional. It was a slow, burning game, and she hadn't agreed to play. Or maybe she had. Somewhere between that almost-kiss and the way she didn't shove him away. Maybe silence was its own kind of permission. And that was what terrified her the most. That her resistance wasn't loud enough to matter.
She reached behind her, her fingers grazing the tie of her kurti where his had lingered. The knot was still tight. Still secure. But her skin felt different now. Branded. Not in pain, but in memory. A place that had been claimed, not with words, not even with action, but with intention. His presence hadn't been a touch—it had been a possession. Subtle. Unspoken. Irresistible.
She exhaled deeply, shaking her head once as if she could dislodge the thoughts from where they'd embedded themselves. Her feet moved on instinct toward her suitcase. She knelt and zipped it shut, the sound far too loud in the quiet of the room. Final. Like the punctuation on a sentence she didn't want to write.
Across the hall, in the wardrobe room, Rudra hadn't moved.
His hands were still. One tucked in his pocket, the other grazing the edge of the dresser she had brushed against only moments before. His fingers moved slowly, lightly, as if retracing her steps. His gaze was fixed—not on the room, but on the space she had left behind. The outline of her, the scent, the way her breath had caught when he leaned in. He hadn't said more. He didn't need to. He'd seen what he needed to see.
The smirk had faded from his face.
What remained was focus.
Sharp. Cold. Calculated.
She had cracked. Not completely. But enough. Enough to show him where the seams of her composure lived. Where her breath stumbled. Where her eyes dropped. Where her body tensed—not in rejection, but in want disguised as defense.
He didn't press harder. Not yet.
He didn't need to.
He would let her think she had gotten away.
Let her walk out with the suitcase. Let her leave the house. Let her believe she had drawn a line.
Because Rudra knew better than to chase too soon.
Sometimes, fire doesn't burn the house down on the first strike.
Sometimes, it waits.
It follows.
And when the timing is right—it doesn't ask for permission.
It consumes.
.