PRIVATE RESIDENCE — NEW DELHI, 23:47 HOURS The lights are low. The room smells faintly of jasmine tea, ink, and gunmetal.

You’re curled up on the couch in one of his oversized NSG sweatshirts, glasses tilted precariously down your nose, half-asleep with a thick file on “Monetary Supply Adjustments” open on your lap. Your pen’s fallen between the cushions. Your bare legs are folded underneath you, your hair in a haphazard bun, and the glow of your laptop flickers across your face.

That’s how Agatsya Deshpande finds you.

His boots are still muddy from deployment, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, dog tags resting against the deep lines of his collarbone. The moment he steps in, the world tilts. Not for him. For you.

He sees you—soft, clueless, sweet little thing—and his entire body tenses with need.

“Sweet girl,” he says, voice low, deadly quiet.

Your head jerks up. “Agatsya!” You blink, flustered, reaching for your glasses like they’re some kind of defense. “I—I didn’t hear you come in. I was just finishing this liquidity draft for the RBI—I swear, I wasn’t waiting up, I know you hate that—”

He’s already across the room.

You barely manage to push the file aside before his hands are on you—not rough, but urgent. One hand grabs your wrist, the other slides behind your neck and tilts your head back just enough to expose your throat.

“You’ve got ink on your thigh,” he growls.

You blink down. “Oh. I—”

But he doesn’t let you finish.

He leans in—mouth brushing the mark like it offends him. Then lower. The hem of the sweatshirt rides up as he presses his mouth to your skin. Not a kiss. A claim.

“Working late again,” he murmurs. “Missed my call. Didn’t answer my message.”

“I—I must’ve dozed off,” you whisper, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to—”

His eyes flash. “You don’t get to doze off in this house until I’ve had my hands on you.”

You gasp as he lifts you—effortless, one arm under your thighs, the other at your back—dragging you to the wall like you weigh nothing. Your laptop hits the floor with a soft thud.

“Agatsya—!”

He pins you there, body pressed against yours, muscles taut. His thigh forces your legs apart, and he looks down at you like a man ready to commit violence… only it’s lust that tightens his jaw.

“I had blood on my hands three hours ago,” he whispers against your neck. “Now all I want is to feel you fall apart under me.”

Your glasses slip again. He yanks them off and tosses them aside.

“You drive me insane,” he rasps, nipping at your jaw. “With your little sleepy voice. With those damn spreadsheets. Walking around the house in my shirt like I wouldn’t rip it off you the second I came home.”

You tremble.

He lifts the sweatshirt—no bra underneath, just your bare skin and a soft little moan as the cold air hits your flushed chest. He still doesn’t kiss you. No. He stares. Breathes.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, voice dark with reverence. “Clueless little genius. You ran the liquidity reserves for three states today… and forgot to wear underwear.”

“I didn’t mean—”

He groans.

“Don’t explain. You’ll make me lose control.”

And then, he does kiss you—brutal, all teeth and tongue, swallowing the tiny sounds you make. You clutch his biceps, nails digging in as he grinds his hips into yours, the hardness of his arousal unmistakable. His hands roam down—gripping your thighs, lifting you higher. You wrap your legs around his waist.

“Tell me you missed me,” he growls against your lips.

“I—I missed you.”

“Tell me you need me to ruin you tonight.”

You whimper.

“I need you.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He carries you to the kitchen counter—clearing it with one sweep of his arm—and lays you there like a feast. The tile is cold, but his mouth is fire. He slides down your body, tongue worshiping the curve of your stomach, the dip of your hip, the trembling softness between your thighs.

You cry out, legs shaking, fingers tangled in his hair as he groans against you like a starving man. The kind of hunger that no battlefield could satisfy. Only you.

“Mine,” he breathes between lick