The wedding was a spectacle.
In the heart of the royal family's Aravalli forest estate, beneath a canopy of fairy-lit banyan trees and firefly lanterns, Rajputana's prince married the woman who "healed his soul."
The forest clearing had been transformed into a dream-ivory tents lined with jasmine garlands, marble fountains murmuring beside silk-draped stages, sitarists playing soft ragas as elite aristocrats sipped wine under a crescent moon.
Everyone watched the bride and groom kneel before the Emperor. Everyone cheered as Veer helped Meher to her feet with a smile carved in gold.
Everyone but Anaya Mehra.
Wrapped in crimson silk with gold detailing she embroidered herself, Anaya sat poised under one of the white tents, surrounded by women who once vied for her place. She smiled. She laughed. She toasted.
But inside her, a storm churned.
She didn't even look at Veer anymore. What was the point? She had looked at him all her life, and where had that gotten her?
No. Her gaze sought someone else tonight.
**Major Aryan Rathore.**
And she found him, standing silent beneath a tree at the edge of the celebration, dressed in ceremonial black, bronze medals gleaming against his chest. The shadows clung to his jawline, his eyes unreadable as he watched Meher laugh beside Veer.
He didn't smile. He never did.
But tonight, he looked... devastated.
And somehow, that sight stoked the fire in her veins.
Because this man-this quiet, disciplined, righteous soldier-had once loved Meher too. He'd let her go. Like a fool. And now, like a fool, he watched her belong to another.
Just like Anaya had.
But unlike Anaya... Aryan hadn't fought back.
So she would. In her own way.
---
By the time the firecrackers bloomed into the midnight sky, Aryan was missing. No one noticed. His guards were preoccupied. His drink had been laced.
And now, bound to a silk-canopied bed inside an unused ceremonial tent deeper in the forest, Aryan Rathore slowly regained consciousness.
The ropes were tight-one at each wrist, one at each ankle. His uniform jacket was gone. His boots, discarded. His shirt lay half-buttoned, revealing the sharp lines of his chest, glistening with sweat from the incense-filled heat of the tent.
The air was thick with sandalwood, rose oil, and something else-something more intoxicating.
He opened his eyes.
And found **her**.
Anaya.
Sitting beside him, cool as moonlight, wrapped in crimson silk and a bare-shouldered blouse, her dark hair cascading down her back like a fallen crown.
Her kohl-lined eyes met his with eerie calm. "Good. You're awake."
He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his tongue heavy.
She smiled, leaning closer. "Don't bother. The herbs will wear off... eventually. I didn't want to hurt you. Just... bind you. Control you. That's all."
Aryan's eyes flared with fury.
She ignored it, running her fingers through his hair with unnatural tenderness. "You were always so controlled. So upright. So good. I wanted to see what you'd look like... broken."
She stood then, the silk of her saree whispering around her thighs as she moved across the tent.
She returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured one. Drank it slowly. Then poured another and-like a vengeful lover-placed the liquid in her mouth, leaned down, and let him drink it from her lips.
His eyes widened as he swallowed.
"Drugged," she said sweetly. "Just like the first one. I thought, why stop at control when I could also have surrender?"
His body tensed, heat coursing through his limbs like wildfire. The incense, the wine, the drugs-it was working.
His breaths grew heavier.
His eyes never left hers.
And Anaya, seeing the storm within him, felt the power of it. She unwrapped the drape of her saree with deliberate slowness, revealing toned legs and delicate curves barely hidden by the silk blouse and underskirt that clung to her flushed skin.
"I know what you're thinking," she said, crawling onto the bed like a panther. "That I'm insane. A monster."
She hovered over him, her face inches from his. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"But if I'm going to be your monster... let me do it right."
And she kissed him.
This time, his lips responded. Not willingly. Not entirely. But something in him moved-an instinct. A betrayal. A hunger.
Her hands were everywhere-tracing the lines of his stomach, the curves of his chest, the hard muscles of a man trained in battle. She pulled open his shirt with one fierce tug, buttons scattering across the floor like coins.
He groaned.
And the sound thrilled her.
"Your body speaks even when you won't," she whispered, licking the edge of his jaw.
She took him into her hands then, exploring him with slow strokes, marveling at how he grew harder beneath her touch, how heat radiated from every part of him.
Her own body burned in response-need, fury, vengeance all tangled into one.
"This should've been your wedding night," she murmured into his ear. "Not theirs. And if not that... then let this be your ruin."
She shed the final layers of her own clothing until only the golden-red blouse remained, clinging like sin to her skin. She straddled him, her thighs cradling his hips, her breath ragged as she positioned herself above him.
His eyes met hers. Bloodshot. Desperate. Beautiful.
And in one motion, she took him in.
The pain hit first. Then fullness. Then power.
She gasped-part agony, part triumph-and moved against him, slowly, deliberately, riding the wave of sensation until she forgot her name.
Until he did too.