The palace lay cloaked in silence, heavy curtains shielding the world outside from the flickering shadows of lamps. The royal suite, perfumed faintly with sandalwood and roses, was thick with the weight of the night. And in that stillness, on a velvet couch much too small for her fragile frame, lay Aayat—fast asleep, her breathing steady, her body curled like a lotus folding in on itself.
Anirudh Singh Rathore stood still for a moment, a shadow among shadows, his eyes tracing every inch of her face as though memorizing her even in the darkness. His bride. His possession. His obsession. His madness wrapped in silk.
She had chosen the couch over the bed. He could almost laugh at the naivety of that rebellion. Did she think the distance of a few steps would free her from him? Did she believe a barrier of cushions could shield her from the fate he had carved with blood, deception, and iron will?
He moved closer. The lamplight spilled across her skin, casting her in a glow too tender for the fire raging in his chest. He crouched beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her closed eyes.
"You are mine now, Aayat," he whispered, voice low, hoarse with the weight of emotions he rarely allowed himself to feel. "Mine. And no couch, no defiance, no god can change that."
With a swift yet gentle motion, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her against his chest. She stirred faintly, her lips parting as though to protest, but sleep's chains held her down. He smiled—dark, victorious. "Fight me in dreams if you must. In this world, you will always lose."
He carried her to the massive bed, its canopy draped in gold and crimson silks. Placing her carefully in the center, he pulled the quilt over her slight form. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, watching her—so delicate, so unaware of the storm she had been dragged into. Then, as if gravity itself bound him, he lay beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, yet careful not to wake her.
And then, like floodgates torn open, his thoughts consumed him.
He had waited for this night for years, plotting, weaving, ensuring every thread of fate bent to his will. To anyone else, it might look like coincidence, divine providence, or royal politics. But he knew. This night was carved by his hands alone.
The will.
His jaw tightened as he remembered the forged lines of ink that sealed her destiny. The family's inheritance had become a weapon in his hands, a lever to bend Rajmata's choices. The lawyer, fat with greed, had taken his gold and played his part well. The property belongs only to the one chosen bride. How simple it had been to tie that noose.
And Rajmata—ah, the queen thought herself clever. She believed she had made a wise, strategic decision. She never suspected the whispers that guided her, the subtle nudges of "information" about Aayat's family. Each fact, each carefully chosen tale of their "suitability," had been planted by him.
He turned on his side, facing Aayat fully, his hand slipping under the pillow to cradle his head as he drank in her face.
"You never knew," he whispered, voice a mixture of triumph and tenderness. "Every path you walked led to me because I paved it. Every choice they made was because I placed it before them. You think destiny bound us? No, Aayat… I did."
Her lips twitched in sleep, and he almost imagined she could hear him.
He closed his eyes, recalling the priest's voice at the mandap. "From this moment, you are husband and wife."
Those words had not been sacred vows to him; they had been a coronation, the crowning of his victory. He had looked at her then, draped in crimson, her eyes lowered in fear and defiance, and felt a rush so fierce it had nearly undone him. She had been a goddess forced to descend into his arms, and he—her worshipper, her captor, her jailor, her only devotee.
He had wanted to shout then, to tell the world she was his and his alone. But restraint had been necessary. Too many eyes, too many mouths waiting to whisper. So he had smiled instead, his hand tightening around hers until she winced, and whispered against her ear, "You belong to me now, Aayat. And I do not share."
Even now, the memory made his heart thunder. He reached forward, his fingers barely brushing her cheek, tracing the faint curve of her cheeks
For a man like him, tenderness was a weapon sharper than steel. And yet with her, he found it spilling out like blood from a wound he couldn't close.
He bent closer, his breath mingling with hers. "Do you know what you've done to me, Aayat?" His voice was a low growl. "I have conquered lands, bent men to my will, silenced enemies with one look. And yet… one smile from you unmade me. One defiant glare from those eyes burned me alive. You call me a monster? Perhaps I am. But only for you."
He brushed his lips across her forehead—not a kiss, not yet, but a claiming, a mark unseen.
"Sleep, my queen," he murmured, "for when you wake, the world will still be mine. And so will you."
His mind drifted again—back to the first time he had seen her. A fleeting glimpse across a courtyard, sunlight woven into her hair, laughter spilling from her lips. That day, something had snapped within him. She had been a girl then, unaware of the storm she had stirred. He, already a man burdened by power, had found himself caught in her orbit.
He had tried to resist—at first. He had told himself it was nothing but attraction. But attraction did not keep him awake at night, whispering her name into the darkness. Obsession did. Possession did.
And when Rajmata had spoken of securing alliances through marriage, he had known—this was his chance. His obsession turned into strategy. His longing became a plan.
Now, lying beside her, hearing the soft rhythm of her breathing, he felt the weight of his triumph press down on him. He had won. The world did not need to know the price. Only he knew.
Suddenly Anirudh's gaze hardened, the darkness in his heart unfurling like smoke.
"If you ever try to leave me, Aayat…" he whispered into the silence, "…I will break the world itself to drag you back. There is no corner of earth you can hide from me. No man, no god, no fate will stand between us. You are mine in this life and the next."
He pulled her closer, his arm snaking around her waist, careful not to wake her yet unwilling to allow even the air between them. Her warmth seeped into him, calming the storm for now.
"I will give you the world," he promised softly, "but you will give me yourself. Every breath, every tear, every smile—you owe it all to me. And I will not rest until you realize it."
His lips brushed her temple, a ghost of a kiss, as sleep began to tug at his own lashes.
"From the moment I saw you, Aayat, I stopped being free. And now… so have you. Neither of us will escape this madness."
He closed his eyes, holding her tightly against him, the predator finally at rest with his prey—but prey he vowed to worship, to chain, to destroy and protect in the same breath.
And in that chamber, beneath the weight of his obsession, the night drew on, silent witness to a love too dark to be called love, too tender to be mere possession.