Something snaps inside me when I meet his gaze—something fragile, something I can't put back together. But I keep going, my voice trembling yet defiant.

"He would ask me to do things in bed, an—and when I hesitated, when I complained, h—he said I was destroying our relationshi—"

My words fracture, suffocated beneath the weight of memory. His fingers tighten around my throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to command.

His face hardens, sculpted from fury, his eyes dark as the ocean's deepest trenches.

Shame coils in my chest, thick and unbearable. I lower my head, squeezing my eyes shut as the past claws its way back—awkward, suffocating, inescapable.

"He came to tell me that I—I was the problem." The words tumble out, raw, unfiltered.

"That I should have tried harder—fixed it—fixed myself—"

"Shhh." His voice drops to a whisper, a lull in the storm. The pad of his thumb brushes my cheek, and when he exhales, his breath grazes my skin—apricity, the warmth of winter sunlight against the cold.

A contradiction. Just like him.

I open my eyes, and he's right there—watching me. Not just looking. Watching. As if he sees something buried inside me, something even I don't understand.

His gaze is unreadable, but its intensity burns into my skin, into my bones, into the spaces between my ribs where my breath gets caught.

"Let's not waste another breath on that filth," he murmurs, his voice edged with something dark, something merciless.

He says it so simply, so assuredly, as if he's stating a fact—like he's explaining an equation I should have already solved.

"You were the fruit of his good karṁ," he continues, tilting his head slightly.

"His time is up."

Like it was inevitable. Like my suffering had an expiration date the moment he stepped into my life.

I blink at him, my mind fumbling over his words, over him. Why does he unravel me like this? Why do I always end up peeling myself open for him when I've spent so long trying to stay sealed shut?

His breath grazes my lips. My pulse stumbles.

He leans in, slow and deliberate, until our noses touch. The hold on my throat isn't just a hold—it's a claim.

His fingers spread wide, firm against my skin, while his thumb drags lazily over my lower lip. My breath stutters. My lips part involuntarily, and his gaze drops to them, studying, considering, deciding.

A shiver rolls down my spine.

Because he's already made his decision.

Simultaneously, his hand snakes around my waist, pulling me in with a slow, deliberate ease, as if I already belong there. Our lips are only a breath apart, the anticipation coiling between us like a silent command—until, at the last second, he veers sideways.

His lips press against my cheek instead. A lingering, possessive kiss.

A quiet exhale shudders out of me, a breath I didn't even realize I was holding.

My fingers curl into his biceps, gripping him instinctively, the fabric of his shirt bunching between them. The butter-soft texture melts against my skin, sinking into me, feeding a craving I refuse to name. Something raw. Something consuming.

Something I should not want.

And yet, I do.

His stubbled cheek drags against mine as he moves back, his presence a slow, burning gravity pulling me deeper. His lips hover just shy of mine, teasing, withholding. My fingers inch higher, crawling over the hard muscle of his arms to his shoulders, my body betraying me before my mind can catch up.

Then his thumb is back on my lower lip, tracing it, claiming it.

I part my lips, instinctively offering something unspoken. His gaze drops, his eyes hooded, deliberate.

I scan his face, his mouth—remembering the way it felt against mine before. Remembering the way I unraveled with nothing but a kiss.

Then I meet his eyes.

And I see it. That glint—dark, endless, inevitable—like the first swell of a tsunami rising in the distance. And I am standing on the shore, my feet already sinking into the sand, foolishly waiting for the waves to crash.

For him to drag me under.

He tilts his head again, and my breath stills—I close my eyes, waiting, expecting—but he only leaves me hanging, his lips veering at the last second to brush against my other cheek.

A strangled noise catches in my throat.

I clutch his shirt tighter, my fingers fisting into the fabric so hard that my nails dig into my own palms through it. My body is taut, strung between anticipation and frustration, trapped in the heat of his nearness.

Then he leans in, breath feathering against my ear, his voice low, thick, carnal.

"Do you want me to stop?"

A shudder rolls through me, my thighs pressing together involuntarily.

God, that voice. That low, commanding timbre, laced with a slight accent that curls around the words like silk. I wouldn't be surprised if he had studied abroad. The way he speaks English—controlled, deliberate—dangerous.

I try to breathe, try to think, but my thoughts are drowning in the weight of this moment. I don't answer. I can't.

His hand glides back, fingers slipping beneath my shirt again, searing against bare skin as he settles his palm over my stomach.

I inhale sharply, my eyes snapping open just as his fingers begin to move lower.

The heat of his body crowds me, his face so close that his lips almost—almost—touch mine. My pulse hammers as his hand trails downward, my skin tightening beneath his touch.

Then it stops.

Right at the button of my jeans.

Two fingers slip beneath the hem, just barely, teasing. Testing.

A pulse of heat throbs deep inside me, my body already surrendering before I can stop it. As if I have no control over myself, I lean in, my lips parting, my eyes fluttering shut—

But I never find his mouth.

I blink, breath hitching as I realize—he's leaning back. Just enough to keep me starving for the contact I was so willing to give.

The space between us is still tight, suffocating, but it's not enough.

He's toying with me.

He knows it. I know it.

And worst of all—he knows I'll let him.

He presses our foreheads together, his breath a slow drag over my lips.

"Should I stop, Mukti? Hmmm?"

I gasp.

His voice—low, indulgent, ruthless—wraps around me, each syllable winding tighter inside my chest.

"If I slip my fingers inside your jeans," he murmurs, his tone so shamelessly blunt it scorches my skin, "would I find you wet?"

A violent tremor ripples through me, my body betraying me before my mind can catch up. He can't be serious. He can't say things like that—but he does. With no hesitation. No restraint.

And worst of all?

I want it.

The single snap of my button coming undone feels like a detonator going off in my bloodstream. Heat tears down my spine and pools between my thighs, liquid and desperate.

"Look at me."

It's not a request.

His voice is molten, seeping into my bones like hot water over tensed muscles, unraveling me inch by inch.

I lift my gaze, and the sheer intensity in his eyes holds me captive.

"Tell me to stop... okay?"

I just stare.

Disbelief. Hunger. Surrender.

When I don't answer, he tilts his head, his grip tightening. "We stop the moment you tell me to."

I nod.

His fingers flex against my neck. "Use your words."

A command. A test.

"Yes," I breathe.

And then—his eyes change.

The black of his pupils spreads, swallowing the gold, until there's almost no light left.

"But will you, Sugar?"

His voice—sin.
His eyes—darkness.
His body—steel.
His scent—masculine.
His presence—devastating.

And before I can even think to respond—

His fingers brush my core.

Oxygen shatters from my lungs.

And I fall.

I gasp, my body betraying me, my balance slipping. But he doesn't let me fall—our joined foreheads keep me right where he wants me.

Caged. Owned.

His fingers—cold, precise—slip against my warm, soaking core. A featherlight caress over my slit, teasing, barely there. Cruel.

I flinch at every delicate movement, but the wetness pooling onto his fingers confesses for me.

He finds my clit, circling it slowly, deliberately—a predator savoring his prey.

A moan tears from my throat.

"You like that?" His voice—dark amusement dipped in heat—coils around me.

He presses harder.

I gasp, my thighs clenching. Lost. Spiraling. Drowning.

And then—

He stops.

My eyes snap open, desperation bleeding into my gaze.

His grip tightens. "What did I say about using your words, Mukti?"

His dominance communicates directly with my core, commanding submission from deep inside me.

"Yes," I rasp, barely managing through the thick fog of need.

His fingers return, pressing back—two of them dipping in just enough to part me, to tease, to wreck me without even breaching.

I cry out, my knees trembling, my body quivering like an autumn leaf caught in the wind.

"Keep your eyes on me."

The words are a leash wrapped around my throat, pulling my gaze to his—binding me to him.

His fingers move again, delicate but devastating, exploring me as though he's molding me to fit him.

"Oh—ohkay," I breathe, clutching his shoulders, fingers curling in his shirt, my body melting into him.

His hand on my throat holds me exactly where he wants me.

His fingers between my thighs are a promise of how easily he could break me.

And I want him to.

His fingers keep teasing, tormenting, denying. A slow, deliberate glide along my slit, parting me just enough—never enough.

Pleasure tightens, coiling low in my belly, building, throbbing, begging. I know exactly where this is going, exactly where he's taking me. And I need it. I want it.

His breath scorches my skin, his hands keep me caged, his warmth seeps into my bones. He's everywhere—everywhere except where I need him most.

My body burns with too much sensation, too much want.

This is so wrong.

Yet I can't pull away.

He is so wrong.

Yet nothing has ever felt so right.

My heartbeat hammers in my chest, my breath ragged, my body tightening like a bowstring. More. I need more. I don't know what, but I need—

I whimper. A plea. A surrender.

His grip tightens. His lips brush mine as he speaks, voice thick with dark promise.

"Do you want to come, baby?"

He presses his fingers harder. Just enough to send a white-hot jolt of pleasure through my core.

"You want me to finger you to your orgasm, Sugar?"

The words—blunt, filthy, humiliatingly necessary—send me spiraling into a haze of pure physical need.

"Ruh—" I try. Fail.

He gives in.

Two fingers find my clit—just the right pressure and rhythm. His lips crash against mine, devouring, conquering, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth, stealing the breath from my lungs as he takes.

And then—

Bliss.

Pleasure detonates inside me, white-hot, overwhelming. My cries of release are swallowed by his kiss, my body shuddering, breaking, shattering against him.

But he doesn't stop.

He never stops.

His fingers continue their relentless torment, dragging my orgasm out, wringing me dry. His mouth is still on mine, owning, consuming, destroying.

The kiss slows, but it doesn't fade. Soft, deep, intoxicating. My body floats, boneless, lost in him.

My grip on his shoulders weakens, but I don't let go. I can't.

He finally pulls back, and my head collapses onto his shoulder, my body spent, my mind swimming in the aftermath of submission.

His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, holding me in place. I don't fight it. I melt into him, nuzzling deeper, drowning in his warmth, his scent, his presence. He is everywhere.

His breath is heavy against my skin, but not rough—not demanding. Just there. A shared rhythm, a silent conversation of bodies still trembling in the aftermath of something raw, something irreversible.

Then, I feel it—his face burying into my neck, the slightest brush of his lips against my ear.

A shiver races down my spine. Not of lust, not just lust. Something deeper, heavier, terrifying in its tenderness.

Neither of us speak. We don't need to.

We just breathe.

Basking in the silence, in the intimacy of being this close, this claimed.

The silence between us pulsed with something thick, something neither of us rushed to break. My breath, still uneven, fanned against his throat, my body boneless against him, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. His hold hadn't loosened. His arms remained around me, securing me in the aftermath of everything he had just taken, everything I had just given.

I should have pulled away. I should have found words. But I stayed.

Pressed against him, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin seeping into mine. My senses were still raw, hypersensitive to every shift, every touch.

And then—he moved.

His hand, still resting on my back, lifted just enough to tilt my chin upward. I blinked up at him, my gaze unfocused, my lips parting instinctively. His eyes, dark and unreadable, studied me for a moment before lowering—

To his fingers.

I followed his gaze in a daze, and my stomach tightened at the sight of them.

Slick.

Coated in the evidence of my release.

The breath caught in my throat.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he lifted them to his mouth.

I gasped—inaudible, breathless.

His tongue flicked over his fingers, sweeping over them with an intimacy so bold, so claiming, that heat flushed through me all over again.

He didn't break eye contact.

Didn't look away as he licked them clean.

Possessive. Intentional. Like he was consuming a part of me, claiming it in a way that left no room for doubt.

My thighs clenched, my pulse stumbling over itself, the sensation of being utterly known settling deep in my bones.

He smirked, slow and wicked, as if he could see exactly what he was doing to me.

And then, just as effortlessly, he let his fingers fall away, his hand finding my waist again, pulling me closer.

My forehead met his.

For a few minutes, we simply breathed.

Together.

His hold was firm but gentle, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against my spine. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of him surround me, letting myself exist in this space where words weren't needed, where silence spoke louder.

Then, with a final brush of his lips, he pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead.

Something settled inside me.

Something I wasn't ready to name.

When he pulled away, his touch didn't leave me.

Instead, his hands moved with quiet deliberation—fixing the button of my jeans, smoothing down the fabric of my T-shirt with a gentleness that felt almost at odds with the control he had just exerted over me. Yet, it was the same.

Commanding. Intentional.

He moved as if every part of me belonged to him, even in this—restoring what he had unraveled, dressing me with the same care he had stripped me.

Once he was satisfied, he lifted me effortlessly, adjusting me so that I was no longer straddling him.

Instead of setting me aside, he placed me onto the chair beside him with an ease that made my breath catch all over again.

Delicate. Warm.

Like I was something to be handled with care.

And then, just like that—

The space where his warmth had been was left cold.

The warmth of his touch still lingered on my skin, but the shift in the air was unmistakable.

The moment Rudra pulled away, something colder settled between us—not distance, not detachment, but something measured.

Purposeful.

He didn't waste time with words that weren't necessary. He reached for the tumbler on the table beside him, taking a slow sip of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the room.

I watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his fingers wrapped around the crystal-cut glass with practiced ease—unhurried, assured, like he had all the time in the world and yet wasted none of it.

Then, as if remembering something, he finally spoke.

"I'll be gone next week."

The words landed heavier than they should have.

I blinked, my fingers curling slightly against the armrest. "Where?"

The question left my lips before I could think better of it.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he placed the glass back down with a quiet clink, his long fingers resting against the rim for a second before he turned to me fully.

"Business," he replies, his voice calm, deliberate.

I nodded, the shift in conversation grounding me. The weight of his absence added a new dimension to it.

Rudra tilted his head slightly, watching me—not just looking, watching, like he always did. Like he was assessing what I wasn't saying.

Then, as if coming to a conclusion, he reached for his laptop. The sleek black device clicked open with effortless precision, the glow of the screen illuminating his sharp features in a cold light.

"I've structured a lesson plan for you." His tone left no room for discussion. "You'll be working through it while I'm gone. It won't affect your progress."

I straightened as the screen came into full view.

Neatly organized folders—legislative case studies, parliamentary proceedings, landmark judgments. No textbooks. No redundant theory.

Only raw, undiluted data.

Real speeches. Real bills. Real parliamentary press releases.

I inhaled sharply, my mind racing to keep up.

"This..." I hesitated, scrolling through one of the folders. "This isn't what we were assigned to study."

"No." His voice was quiet but carried a finality that left no room for doubt. "But it's what you need to study."

I looked up at him.

He didn't elaborate. Didn't soften it with explanations.

Instead, he stepped closer, bracing one hand on the table beside me, the other adjusting the laptop screen as he pulled up a live parliamentary debate. The sudden proximity sent a jolt of awareness through me—his scent, the lingering heat from his body, the sheer presence of him.

He wasn't touching me.

He didn't need to.

"You won't learn anything from memorizing definitions," he murmured, scrolling through the transcript with a slow, absent flick of his fingers. "You need to understand how these policies are debated. How they evolve."

His thumb tapped against the trackpad, the movement precise, controlled. I followed the shift on the screen, my attention flickering between the highlighted clauses and the subtle flex of his forearm as he moved.

"The doctrine of separation of powers," he continued, his voice slipping into something more methodical, "exists in theory, but in practice—" he glanced at me, "—it's not as absolute as textbooks claim."

I frowned slightly, drawn in despite myself. "How?"

Rudra smirked, as if pleased I had asked.

He tapped the screen, bringing up a detailed breakdown of executive interference in legislative decisions.

"Legislation is passed in Parliament, but executive bodies influence policymaking through ordinances, budget allocations, and bureaucratic interventions." His voice deepened, his accent thickening slightly on certain words, the sharp precision of his speech revealing his training.

"The judiciary, in turn, reviews these actions, but even judicial interpretations are shaped by external pressures—public sentiment, political climate, media narratives."

I swallowed, absorbing his words—the way he stripped the idealism of theoretical constructs and laid bare the reality of how power operated.

"Look at this." He gestured to a highlighted excerpt—a minister's speech justifying an ordinance.

"If you read the bill alone, you'll understand the law. But if you listen to the speech, you'll understand the intent."

I exhaled slowly.

The way he explained things... it made too much sense.

And he knew it.

He turned his head slightly, watching me, waiting for the moment I realized it myself.

I did.

I hadn't touched a textbook, hadn't flipped through my class notes. And yet, everything he was saying was clicking.

The rigidity of academic language had always made me feel like I was missing something, like the gaps between theory and reality were too wide to bridge.

But this—this felt like the missing piece.

I met his gaze, and there it was—that look.

The one that said, You see that?

I pressed my lips together, breaking eye contact first.

His smirk deepened.

He took another sip of whiskey, the movement slow, deliberate, before setting the glass down and leaning even closer.

"Tell me," he murmured, his breath fanning against my temple, "why does the judiciary have the power to strike down executive decisions?"

I hesitated, suddenly aware of how little space remained between us.

My mind fumbled for an answer, still half-distracted by the way he smelled, the way he moved.

But somehow, the words surfaced.

"Because of the principle of judicial review."

Rudra's smirk didn't fade.

He nodded once, satisfied.

"Good."

A quiet warmth unfurled in my chest.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I knew something. Like I wasn't just regurgitating lines from a book but actually understanding them.

Rudra leaned back slightly, watching me with that same calculating intensity.

"Different minds require different approaches," he said simply, closing the laptop. "Textbooks aren't for everyone."

I swallowed. The weight of his words settled deep, something unspoken lingering in the air between us.

It wasn't just about this lesson.

It was about the way he thought. The way he saw things—power, control, governance—not as abstract ideas but as something tangible, something that could be moved.

Molded.

Controlled.

I didn't respond.

Didn't need to.

Because somehow, he already knew.

He truly is a lawyer. His mannerisms, his measured speech—every bit of him. Even the way he pauses before choosing his words feels deliberate, like he's weighing their worth before letting them slip past his lips.

And then there's his accent.

For the most part, it's distinctly Indian, smooth and authoritative. But certain words—certain syllables—hold a faint trace of something else.

A hint of British. Something sharper. Something foreign. I couldn't quite place it, and that only made it more intriguing.

When we finish working, he shuts his laptop, stretching slightly. He doesn't tell me to leave, doesn't dismiss me. Instead, his voice comes, calm and expectant.

"Have dinner before you go."

It wasn't a question.

I tense, my fingers curling against the edge of the chair.

"I'm not hungry."

Rudra doesn't react at first, just leans back slightly, his expression unreadable. "You should eat something."

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

A beat of silence. His gaze lingers, assessing. I don't know what he's looking for, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral.

Then, without any hesitation—

"I'll make something."

I blink, taken aback.

"You—what?"

His gaze doesn't waver. "I'll cook."

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Do you even know how to make Maggi?"

The corner of his jaw twitches, irritation flickering across his face.

"I have cooked before ."

I raise an eyebrow. "And that qualifies your food to be edible because...?"

He exhales sharply, tilting his head. "Because I'm not an idiot."

"That's debatable."

Rudra gives me a flat look before standing up. "You can keep talking or you can follow me."

I hesitate for a second before pushing back my chair, trailing after him.

By the time we reach the kitchen, the air between us is thick with unspoken sarcasm.

He walks to the fridge, pulling it open without looking at me. "What do you want?"

I cross my arms, tilting my head. "Anything that won't give me food poisoning."

Rudra exhales through his nose, the sound short and unimpressed. "You're remarkably ungrateful for someone who isn't cooking."

"That's why I outsource."

He gives me an unimpressed look before turning back to the fridge.

Then, suddenly, his voice shifts.

Gone is the dry sarcasm. What replaces it is something deeper. Sharper.

"What do you actually want?"

The words should feel casual. But they don't.

Because even though he's asking, it doesn't feel like a choice.

The sudden change catches me off guard. My stomach twists—not unpleasantly, just... confusingly.

I lower my gaze, suddenly shy. "Anything is okay."

Silence.

I feel his eyes on me. Unwavering.

Then, finally—

"Rice bowl salad."

I nod. He rolls up his sleeves, moving toward the counter with practiced ease. There's no hesitation in his movements, no wasted steps. It's strange watching him like this—still meticulous, still controlled, but in an entirely different setting.

I shift on my feet, glancing toward the kitchen island. Just as I move to sit—

A firm hand wraps around my wrist.

Before I can react, he pulls me forward.

In one smooth motion, I'm lifted onto the cold marble of his workstation.

I let out a small, startled breath, my palms pressing against the surface for balance.

He doesn't step away. If anything, he's closer now, his presence surrounding me in ways I don't fully understand.

My breath stutters. "What are you—"

He reaches for the knife beside me, his voice smooth, unaffected.

"Sit still."