The grand dressing room of the Yaaduvanshi palace smelled faintly of sandalwood and old silk. You stood barefoot on the cool marble floor, arms crossed over your chest, glaring at the endless wall of sarees in front of you—pure Kanjeevarams, tissue silks, Banarasis glittering like liquid gold.

“I don’t even know what half of these are,” you muttered, yanking out one bright orange saree and frowning. “Is this a curtain or—?”

“Put that down.” The voice was a low command behind you. You stiffened.

Aashrit Singh Yaaduvanshi leaned against the carved teak doorframe, shirtless, damp hair slicked back from a recent shower. His broad chest gleamed faintly under the dim chandelier lights, scars from old training sessions etched across his skin like forgotten battles.

He took one step in. Then another. You backed up. Slowly.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you snapped. “You clearly need it,” he replied, the door clicking shut behind him.

He came closer, pulling a deep crimson saree with gold zari from a shelf. “This,” he said, voice dangerously soft, “will do.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t know how to drape a damn saree.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.”

In a blink, he was behind you, sliding your worn trackpants down your hips, slow and deliberate. You gasped and swatted at his hands. “I can do it—!”

“You don’t even know what blouse goes with this.” His hand slid up your bare back, unzipping your hoodie. “Let me.”

You froze. His touch wasn’t rushed. It was reverent—possessive. A king undressing his queen for battle.

He reached around, fastening the gold blouse, fingertips grazing your stomach with maddening precision. You shivered. His breath was warm against your ear. “You should wear this color more often. Makes you look... like mine.”

When he draped the saree around your waist, he tugged the fabric snug—too snug—pressing your back flush against his chest. “Perfect,” he murmured, his lips grazing the nape of your neck. “Now for the rest.”

You didn’t even protest when he slipped on the bangles, the heavy gold choker, the nose ring, the anklets. You didn’t trust your voice anymore.

“I don’t do pretty,” you whispered finally.

“No,” he said, turning you to face the mirror. “You do powerful. Wild. But when I dress you—” he tilted your chin up, eyes burning into yours—“you become mine. Every inch. Every glance.”

You stared at your reflection, transformed. Adorned. Hunted. Owned.

His hands slid down your hips, possessive and unrelenting.