Chapter 48 :

Anvaya's POV

The door clicked shut behind us with the quiet finality of a gun being cocked.

His hands were already on me—no hesitation, no slow build, just that familiar, bruising certainty that stripped the air from my lungs. My back met the wall beside the door before I could breathe. My legs were around his waist, my hands tangled in his hair, my breath caught between our mouths.

The world narrowed to the weight of him pressed against me. Black fabric against bare skin. The smell of clean cologne and something darker—like smoke on silk. My own heartbeat pounded in my ears, fast, reckless, and his lips consumed the space where thought should have been.

We stumbled forward, still joined at the mouth, until the bed frame pressed against my thighs. His grip on me shifted—one arm braced under me, the other sliding up my spine—and he carried me the last step until I felt the mattress give under my weight.

The moment I leaned forward, angling toward his throat, that’s when I caught it.

Faint, but sharp.

Strong in a way that had nothing to do with me.

A perfume I somewhere knew.

My stomach dropped before my mind gave it a name—hers.
His wife.

The name I’d never said aloud between us, but one my memory carried like a shard under the skin. The scent clung to him, not like an accident, but like something that had been there hours before I touched him.

My mouth pulled from his as though burned. My hands slid from his hair to his chest, pushing—not hard enough to escape his grasp, but enough to put space between us.

"Go to her," I said. The words came out low, jagged. "You’ve already been with her tonight."

His brows ceased slightly, like the accusation was smoke in his eyes. "What?"

"You heard me." My voice was sharper now, the hurt boiling under it. "You made out with me at your office, then went to her, and now you’re here again. What—" My throat tightened. "Not satisfied?"

It's my fault that I thought he wasn't like other men. I don't even know why I thought that.

Something in his expression shifted—not guilt, not apology. More like a storm gathering its wall of silence. Before I could take another breath, his mouth crashed onto mine again. My protest broke into the kiss, muffled and stolen in the same instant.

I shoved at his shoulders, but he caught my wrists and pushed me back against the pillows. The scarf I’d tossed there earlier—white silk, abandoned without thought—was suddenly in his hands.

The fabric wound around my wrists before my mind caught up. The knot cinched tight against the headboard.

My pulse thundered, but not from fear. I hated that I knew this about myself—that I craved the danger in his control, even when I wanted to curse him for it.

He leaned close, his voice at my ear, quiet and lethal. "It wasn’t me chasing her."

I stilled. His breath was warm on my cheek, the weight of his body keeping me caged.

"It was Viola," he said, naming her without flinching. "She was on me. For s*x."

A bitter laugh clawed up my throat. "Congratulations. You must be irresistible to every desperate woman you meet."

"I didn’t touch her." The words were steady, certain. Then he dropped the real blow. "I’ve never kissed anyone before you."

I stared at him. "You expect me to believe that?"

"It’s the truth."

I scoffed.

"You’ve been married for years, Mr Oberoi," I scoffed again, a disbelieving laugh breaking free. The ache of being just another option brushed my skin, even if it didn't matter to him.

"Years. And you’re telling me you’ve gone all this time without—without that? What is this, some pathetic attempt to make me feel special so you can own me?"

His gaze didn’t waver. "Do I look like I need to lie to own you?"

"Yes," I shot back, the word too quick, too defensive. "You manipulate everything, everyone—"

His mouth brushed mine again, softer this time, but it stole the rest of my sentence. I tried to turn away, but his fingers curled under my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"I’ve touched women when I needed to kill," he said, voice low. "But I’ve never kissed them." His eyes searched mine, dark and unblinking. "You were the first. You’ll be the last."

The certainty in his tone hooked somewhere deep in me, twisting against my will. My body betrayed my mind—my breath shallower, my heart thrumming at the edge of belief. I didn't want to fall for his deceptive words.

He wasn't trustworthy. Or, was he?

"Why?" I asked, hating the break in my voice.

He smiled—not soft, just… slow, knowing. But like a man who’d cornered the truth. "Because kissing is surrender. And I don’t surrender to anyone but you."

He was surrendering to me?

Was this a dream?

The man who chased me day and night, following me in my shadow, expressing his control on me—was now surrendering to me?

He'd been controlling me and maybe that made me not want to believe him. I didn't want to but my foolish heart wanted to. It wanted to believe he was kissing me as his first kiss.

Something in me cracked open then, just enough for him to feel it. He kissed me again, and this time I let the knot at my wrists remind me I wasn’t leaving.

His mouth trailed lower, down the slope of my neck, slow and deliberate, as if tasting the tension out of me. His hands found the clasp at my back, and before I could second-guess it, my bra was gone—skin bared to the heat of his gaze.

I flinched, instinctively covering myself with my arms as far as the scarf allowed. "I—" My throat tightened. "I’ve been under so much stress lately… it’s made me—" I swallowed hard. "I’ve been lactating."

For a moment, I couldn’t look at him. The shame was hot against my skin, worse than any bruise.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. Instead, his hands closed around my wrists—not to free me, but to pull my arms gently away from my chest.

"Look at me," he said.

I forced my gaze up.

"Do you think everyone's polished while you're the one scarred?" he murmured. "The fact that something about you is this… raw. Real. Not factory-made." His mouth curved faintly. "If I could have your milk in my coffee every morning, I would."

The words hit like both a sin and a promise. My breath caught.

I didn't know if I should be flushed by his words or coil away in shame. Kaaryaksh spoke as if not scared or bothered about anything but I was. I wasn't used to all these.

Then his mouth lowered, and the heat of him replaced the air between us.

It attached to my nipple.

His warm mouth wrapped around my hard bud, already leaking, made me shudder. The soft, slow twirl of his tongue around it made my back arch, shoving myself more into his mouth.

I always hid this flaw under dark clothes and layers, knowing the society would tag me as used, unwanted, a shame and what not. I was girl. So, more than eyes of pity or understanding, there'd been eyes of lust and filth in my direction.

But Kaaryaksh, the man who'd bound me to him, made me feel as if I were someone special with that flaw.

He worshipped my flaw.

I didn't know what to do anymore.

I wanted to trust him. But he wasn't someone like me—open, in the light, expressing. He hid in the shadows, he wasn't even a gentleman, but I couldn't tag him as someone filthy kr even abusive. He never was one.

What was he even?

My body responded before my pride could object, a pull deep in my stomach that made my toes curl against the sheets.

The scarf at my wrists bit into my skin with every shift, reminding me how bound I was—and how much I didn’t want him to stop.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth glistened, his breathing matched mine—fast, uneven. His eyes were heavy with something I didn’t dare name.

“Still think I’m lying?” he asked.

I swallowed hard. “I think you’re dangerous.”

He smiled. “Good.”

His hands moved lower, dragging over my sides, my hips, until his mouth followed. Each kiss down my body left heat in its wake, making my thoughts dissolve. By the time he settled between my thighs, I was half-mad from the anticipation alone.

What followed was not gentle. It was consuming—like he meant to take every ounce of defiance I had and replace it with something that belonged to him. My fingers clenched in the scarf, the sound of my own breathing louder than any thought.

The darkness outside my window felt close, heavy, as if the night itself was leaning in to watch. And in that shadowed room, tied to the headboard, with his mouth claiming me like I was the only taste that mattered, I couldn’t decide if I was being destroyed or saved.

Maybe both.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he shifted lower, deliberate in every movement, like a predator making sure the prey understood there was no escape—and no desire for one.

My knees parted under his guidance, the air cooling where his hands had been. He didn’t rush. That was the part that unmade me—how he could stretch seconds until they throbbed like hours. His gaze dragged over me, steady, unblinking, and I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.

His palms pressed into my thighs, firm, claiming. The heat of them sank into me, rooting me in place. When his head lowered, my breath caught—not from fear, but from the inevitability of what came next.

The first touch was barely there. A ghost of contact that made my entire body tense in anticipation. He drew back a fraction, as if he wanted me to feel the absence more than the touch itself. My fingers twisted against the scarf binding me, a quiet plea hidden in the movement.

Then he returned—this time with intent.

It wasn’t gentle. His mouth found me like he’d been starving for the taste, and each movement was deliberate, unrelenting. The pressure built quickly, dragging every nerve to the surface, and my hips shifted instinctively, trying to meet him, to control the rhythm.

He didn’t let me. His hands gripped tighter, holding me still, forcing me to take every flicker of sensation exactly as he gave it.

My breathing turned ragged. The world outside ceased to exist—there was no sound but the rush of blood in my ears, no sight but the faint outline of him between me and the darkness, no thought but the way my body burned under his attention.

It was overwhelming. A surrender I hadn’t agreed to out loud but had given him the second he’d tied that knot.

He slowed suddenly, drawing out the moments in a way that was almost cruel. His mouth shifted, his breath hot against me, and then the pace changed again—deeper, more insistent.

I bit my lip to keep from giving him the sound he was coaxing from me. His eyes flicked up briefly, catching mine, and the look there was pure challenge.

The next movement broke me. A sharp inhale escaped me, my head pressing back into the pillow, and the knot at my wrists pulled tighter as my arms strained against it. My toes curled against the sheets, a reflex I couldn’t control.

He didn’t stop. If anything, the small victory seemed to feed him. Each pass of his mouth felt like it etched something permanent into my body, something I couldn’t scrub away even if I wanted to.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth glistened in the dim light. His breathing was as uneven as mine, and the slow drag of his tongue over his lips made heat rush to my face.

“You taste,” he said, voice low and rough, “like something that was always meant to be mine.”

The words settled over me like a brand, equal parts dangerous and inescapable.