Aayat's Perspective
Back in the guest chambers, Aayat sat by the window, sketchbook unopened on her lap. The laughter and music from the courtyard carried faintly through the stone walls, but none of it touched her.
Her mind was still in the candlelit corridor.
She could hear his voice replaying — low, deliberate, commanding. "You don't belong here." The words should have frightened her, should have made her feel small against the weight of his presence. And yet… they didn't.
Instead, her heart raced like it had been awakened, her breath caught between fear and something she didn't dare name.
Why had she answered him? Boldness was not her nature. She was a painter, an observer, not a challenger. But in his presence, silence felt unbearable. As if speaking to him wasn't a choice — it was a necessity.
Shaking her head, she closed her sketchbook firmly. "It's nothing," she whispered to herself. "Just a prince. Just a moment."
But deep down, she knew it wasn't nothing. And the thought of seeing him again both terrified and thrilled her.
Anirudh's Perspective
Alone in his chamber, Anirudh poured a glass of deep red wine, the liquid catching the flicker of firelight. He took a slow sip, though the burn of the drink was nothing compared to the fire she had left inside him.
Obsession — he knew it well. It was sharp, consuming, demanding. He had embraced it all his life, wielding it like a weapon to take what he wanted, to control, to conquer.
But this… this was different.
Aayat wasn't just under his skin; she was carving herself into his bones. He found himself recalling not just her defiance, but the vulnerability in her breath, the quiet strength in her eyes. And it was dangerous.
Love — if he dared call it that — was not meant for men like him. For men like him, love was not soft. It was not gentle. It was a chain, a claim, a fire that burned hotter than obsession itself.
And that terrified him.
Because obsession he could control. Possession he could enforce. But this slow, treacherous pull of love? It threatened to make him weak — and weakness was something Anirudh Rathore could never allow.
Yet, even as he told himself this, his lips curved into the faintest, cruelest smile.
Weakness or not, she would be his. Entirely.
Not just the subject of his obsession.
Not just the object of his possession.
But the woman who would belong to his darkness — and to his love, a love dangerous enough to ruin them both.