My head fell against his chest as I let everything go. I cried until there was nothing left—violent sobs fading into quiet, broken whimpers, my tears running dry. His hand continued to stroke my hair in a steady, soothing rhythm, his other arm wrapped firmly around my waist, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on my back. His chin rested lightly on the top of my head, anchoring me, grounding me.

He didn't say a word. He just held me as I trembled in his arms, fragile and brittle, like a dry leaf caught in a storm. My shivers grew more pronounced, and I felt the chill creeping under my skin, settling into my bones. Instinctively, I clung to him tighter, as if his warmth was the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.

Exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave, dragging me under. My body began to sag against his, every muscle in me surrendering, giving up. The world around us blurred, reduced to the sound of our breaths and the gentle crackle of the fire in the background. The intimacy of the moment was suffocating and yet strangely comforting, a bubble that enclosed us and kept the outside world at bay.

Then, shame slithered in, cold and unforgiving. It wrapped itself around me, coiling tightly as the realization sank in—I had just poured my heart out, exposed every crack, every raw, ugly part of myself to a stranger. A stranger.

What was he thinking? Was he regretting this already? I was supposed to be a casual distraction, someone to pass the time with, and here I was, crumbling in his arms like a pathetic lost cause. My mind spiraled further, each thought twisting the knife. He hadn't signed up for this. He wanted a hookup, not... whatever this was.

My body felt heavy, like dead weight, and I hated it. He must've felt it too because his grip around me tightened, his hands pressing into me with a quiet strength. The gesture should've been comforting, but all it did was make me wonder—was he just tolerating this? Waiting for me to pull myself together and leave?

"I'm sorry," I croaked, my throat dry and raw from crying. The sound of my own voice startled me—it was hoarse, broken, barely a whisper of its usual self.

The moment the words left my lips, I felt him freeze. His hands stilled, and for a heartbeat, I thought I'd made things worse.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted my face. His hands cupped my jaw, his palms warm against my cold, tear-streaked skin. He tilted my head back, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes met mine, a flicker of confusion and something else—something unreadable—darkening his gaze.

I tried to look away, but his hold on me was unyielding. Trapped, my eyes began to roam his face instead, almost out of desperation. I scanned his features, shamelessly memorizing every detail.

His eyes were ink-washed mahogany, almost black— a stormy, piercing shade that felt like it could see through me. His lashes were absurdly long, curling in a way that should've been unfair for someone so masculine. His sharp nose gave his face an almost regal air, and his skin—smooth, unblemished—caught the firelight in a way that made him seem unreal. His brows were furrowed slightly, the subtle crease giving him an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

And then there were his lips. Full, soft-looking, perfectly shaped. They weren't cracked or dry like most men's; they were smooth and faintly pink, as if he'd stepped out of some dream.

I stared at them, unable to look away, hunger stirring in me like a beast awakening. My breath hitched, and I felt my pulse quicken. Heat bloomed in my chest, chasing away the numbness. My gaze flicked back up to his eyes, dark and intent, and I knew he'd caught me staring. He saw the need written all over my face, the way my thoughts betrayed me.

I swallowed hard, my breath shaky and uneven. The exhaustion still weighed on me, dragging at my limbs, but it couldn't compete with the pull I felt toward him. His warmth, the solid strength of his chest, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room—it drowned out my thoughts, silencing every voice of reason.

Without thinking, without hesitation, I pressed my lips to his.

The world stopped.

I was kissing him.

But he didn't respond. That's when the weight of what l'd just done crashed into me like a bolt of lightning. I had come on to him—the Prince of Mewar. I, Mukti Roy, had just kissed royalty.

The realization struck hard, leaving me breathless. My trembling hands pushed him away, my heart hammering in my chest.

His eyes were closed, and his face held no trace of anger or amusement. Just calm.

The stark contrast to my own spiraling emotions made me feel even more exposed.

I broke free from his hold and stumbled back, shaking with fear and humiliation. My breaths came shallow and fast, my words barely audible.

"I-I'm sorry... I didn't mean—" My throat felt raw, the apology tasting bitter on my tongue.

He wasn't even looking at me.

I took a shaky step back, then another, retreating from his warmth, his steady presence, everything l'd just foolishly thrown myself into.

"So-" My voice cracked as I turned, ready to flee. I couldn't face him. But before I could take another step, he moved.

It all happened too fast. His arms shot out, bridging the space between us like it had never existed. One hand found its place on my waist, firm and unyielding, while the other curled around the back of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto mine for a split second before his lips crashed down on mine with unrelenting dominance.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was a storm-a ferocious, consuming force that left no room for doubt or hesitation. His grip tightened, pulling me flush against him, my soft curves meeting the hard planes of his chest. His hand at my neck tilted my head back, granting him deeper access, while the other pressed into my waist, as though trying to merge us into one.

His fingers sprawled open against my scalp, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a fleeting, tender motion that only heightened the chaos of his kiss. His lips moved with purpose, devouring mine until instinct took over and I found myself kissing him back.

My trembling hands clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor me. His pace was overwhelming, his control absolute, and I felt my knees weaken as my body melted into his. My hands slipped into his hair, my fingers tangling in the soft strands as if holding on to him was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

But he wasn't stopping. If anything, he was claiming more. His lips took mine entirely, consuming, demanding, as though drawing the very breath from my lungs. When his tongue slipped into my mouth, exploring and tasting, a soft moan escaped me, unbidden and raw. The sound seemed to ignite him further, his grip on me tightening as though he couldn't get enough.

I barely registered the moment he shrugged my coat from my shoulders, leaving me in just my cashmere set. The coat fell to the floor, forgotten, as he pulled me even closer.

Before I knew it, he had guided me backward, his lips never leaving mine, until he sat back down in the armchair and pulled me onto his lap.

My legs parted instinctively, straddling his hips as the soft cushion of the chair supported us. The air grew thinner, every breath labored and shaky. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. His lips trailed to the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, his breath hot against my flushed skin. His hands roamed under my sweater, finding bare, sensitive skin.

I gasped at the icy touch of his fingers against my warmth. My body jerked at the sensation, but his grip on me was grounding, his hand in my hair still holding me firmly in place. His lips moved to my neck, his kisses deep and wet, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He pushed my head back further, exposing more of my neck to him, his mouth working its way down like he was marking me as his.

I'd been touched before, but this... this was something else. It wasn't just physical-it was raw, untamed, and it consumed every ounce of me.

"We'll have to work on the sorry," he murmured against my skin, his voice low and laced with wicked amusement.

As I opened my mouth to respond, "Ru-uhh—" he bit into my neck-not hard, but enough to draw a gasp that turned into a soft cry.

His lips sucked the tender spot, the sensation sending jolts through me that made my grip on him tighten.

"Hmm," he breathed against my ear, his hand sliding to the back of my neck to guide me back to his lips. This time, his kisses were slower, deliberate. Each one was long, deep, leaving me reeling.

"You're right," he murmured between kisses.
"It wasn't your fault."

Each word felt like a balm to my wounded soul. Tears pricked my eyes again, but this time they weren't born of pain or shame. His words lifted something heavy off my chest, giving me the validation I hadn't realized I so desperately craved.

His hand under my sweater resumed its slow, deliberate circles, while the other pulled me impossibly closer. Our foreheads rested together, our breaths mingling as our eyes locked. His gaze was fierce, unrelenting, and I felt myself unraveling under it.

"I want you all to myself," he said, his voice husky and firm, like a promise. "And that's exactly how it will be, love."

His lips curved into a smirk, dark and knowing.

"You'll get used to it."