You were brushing your hair in front of the mirror when Aarav stepped into the room, silent as always, his presence like a low-pressure storm—thick, heavy, electric. You didn’t need to look to know he was watching you. You felt it in your spine, in the sudden weight of the air, in the shift of something primal and unseen.

“Aarav?” you asked softly, not turning around. “You’re back early.”

There was no reply.

Instead, you heard the soft click of the door locking behind him.

Your hand stilled mid-stroke.

In the mirror, you caught the first flicker of his reflection—his uniform jacket already discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up, collar open, his gaze molten with something unreadable. Something dangerous. Something possessive.

“You wore that to work?” His voice was low, smooth, terrifying in its softness.

You looked down at the kurti you had on—plain, cotton, fitted just enough to be flattering. “It’s just—”

“I saw the photos,” he said, stepping closer. “Your colleague standing a little too near. You laughing a little too freely.”

You blinked. “It was harmless.”

“Nothing about you is harmless,” he murmured, now behind you, his hand brushing your exposed neck, fingertips feather-light. “You don’t even know what you do to people, do you?”

His lips pressed against the curve of your throat, slow and firm, and you gasped.

“I behave,” he whispered, voice like smoke. “I wear the mask. But you… you make it slip. Every damn time.”

Your breath hitched as his hands slid around your waist—strong, calloused palms gripping your hips with reverent aggression. He pulled you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of everything he wasn’t saying, hard and insistent against your lower back.

“Aarav…” you whispered, half-plea, half-warning.

He didn’t respond. He bit.

A slow, claiming drag of teeth along your pulse point, followed by a kiss so bruising it made you whimper.

“I’ve let you roam free,” he growled. “Let you smile, speak, shine for everyone else.”

His hand slipped beneath your kurti, gliding over the softness of your belly before gripping your thigh.

“No more.”

He spun you to face him, eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide.

“You’re mine.”

And when his mouth finally crashed down on yours—hungry, demanding, all-consuming—you understood.

This wasn’t desire. It was a wildfire.

And you were already burning.