The floorboard creaked before the door opened. Maya's eyes came open in the dark, her hand still on her belly, her body still loose with the sleep she'd barely found. She knew the sound — the third board from the hinge, the one that complained no matter how careful the foot. She'd learned its voice in two years of listening for her father's tread.

The door swung inward. Rohan stood in the frame, backlit by the dim light from the front room, his silhouette broad and slumped. He'd been drinking — she could smell it from the bed, the sharp bite of whiskey riding on the air that moved with him. His shirt was half untucked, his hair mussed, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadow of his face.

"Papa?" She said it soft, sitting up, the sheet pooling in her lap. "Are you—"

He crossed the room before she finished. The floorboards complained under his bare feet — the third one, then the fifth, then the one by the bed that always sang sharp. His weight hit the mattress and the frame groaned, the old wood complaining like it knew what was coming. His hands found her shoulders, pushed her back down onto the pillow, and she let him, her breath catching in her throat.

"Papa—"

"Don't." His voice was thick, slurred with whiskey and something else, something that made the word come out cracked. "Don't say my name like that. Not tonight."

His hands moved from her shoulders to the straps of her bra. She was wearing the black lace one, the one she'd bought at the mall, the one that made her breasts sit high and round. His thumbs hooked under the straps and pulled, and the fabric gave way, sliding down her arms, and the air touched her skin and she shivered. He didn't stop. His fingers found the waistband of her panties — the red g-string, the one she'd worn for him before — and he pulled them down her hips, over her thighs, off her ankles, and dropped them on the old carpet beside the bed.

She lay bare under him, her hair spread across the pillow, her breasts heavy and soft, her hips wide, her small cock already softening between her thighs. She watched his face as he looked at her — the way his eyes moved over her body, the way his jaw tightened, the way something in his gaze went from dull to hungry to something else. Something that looked like hurt.

"You've been with others." It wasn't a question. His voice was flat, the words coming out like stones dropped into still water. "You think I don't know? You think I don't smell it on you?"

Her heart stuttered. "Papa—"

"Don't lie to me." His hand came down on her hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "I'm not stupid. I know what you do at night. I know where you go."

She opened her mouth to answer, but he didn't wait. He shifted his weight, his knee pushing her thighs apart, and she felt his cock against her — hard, thick, pressing against her hairless mound. He was already bare, his pajama bottoms gone somewhere between the door and the bed, and she felt the heat of him, the weight of him, the angry press of his want.

"You give it to them," he said, his voice breaking on the words. "You give them your body, your mouth, your everything. But you come home to me. You come home and you lie beside me and you don't touch me—"

"Papa, that's not—"

"I see you," he said, and his voice cracked. "I see you in her clothes, with her hair, with her eyes. I see her in you. And you go out and you spread your legs for strangers, but you won't—" He stopped, his breath ragged. "You're mine. You've always been mine. She left, but you stayed. You stayed and you became her, and you're mine."

"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "I never meant to become her."

"But you did." His thumb traced her cheekbone, and for a moment his touch was almost tender. "You put on her bangles. You wore her saris. You learned to cook her food — I tasted it, I know. You did it because you wanted to be wanted. You wanted to be loved. And I—" He swallowed. "I wanted it too. I wanted you to be her, because I couldn't have her anymore."

She should have said something. She should have stopped him, pushed him away, reminded him who she was, what she was. But his weight was on her, his cock pressing against her, and the truth of what he'd said sat in her chest like a stone. She had become her mother. She had taken her mother's clothes, her mother's jewelry, her mother's place in this house. And he had seen it. He had seen it and he had wanted it, and she had let him.

"Papa," she said, her voice small, "this is wrong."

"I know." His eyes were dark, wet. "I've known it was wrong since the first night I saw you in her nightgown. But I couldn't stop myself. I can't stop myself now."

His hand moved between her legs. His fingers found her small cock, soft and shrinking against her thigh, and he wrapped his hand around it, squeezing once, not gentle. She gasped, her hips jerking, and he made a sound low in his throat — something between disgust and satisfaction.

"This," he said, his thumb running along the soft shaft. "This is what you want me to forget? This is what you want me to pretend isn't there?" He squeezed harder and she whimpered, her hands gripping the sheet. "You're not a man. You never were. You're my wife. You're her. And I'm going to take what's mine."

"I'm not her," she gasped. "I'm not—"

"You are." His voice was raw. "You have her face. Her hair. Her hips. You even smell like her — the jasmine oil she used to put behind her ears. You think I don't remember? You think I don't dream about it?"

He shifted his weight, his knees pushing her thighs wider apart. His cock — thick, hard, angry — pressed against her, and she felt the head of it nudge against her small hole, slick with the wetness that had gathered there despite everything. She was wet. She hated herself for it, but she was wet, her body responding to his weight, his heat, his claim, the way it always did.

"Papa—"

"Shut up."

He pushed. She felt the stretch, the burn, the slow, thick invasion of him sinking into her. She cried out, her back arching, her nails digging into the sheet, and he kept pushing, deeper, harder, until he was fully inside her, his hips pressed against hers, his breath ragged in her ear.

"You feel that?" His voice was a growl, thick with whiskey and want. "You feel how deep I am? You think they fuck you like this? You think they fill you like this?"

She couldn't answer. Her mouth was open, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her small cock trapped between their bodies, soft and forgotten. He was so deep. He was so thick. She could feel every inch of him, the way he stretched her, the way he filled her, the way his weight pressed her into the mattress.

"Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me they don't make you feel this."

"They don't," she sobbed. "Papa, they don't—"

He pulled out, slow, almost all the way, and then he thrust back in, hard, and she cried out again, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails finding the skin there. He grunted, his hips settling into a rhythm, hard and fast, the bed frame complaining beneath them, the headboard knocking against the wall.

"How many?" .he demanded, his voice ragged. "How many of them have been inside you?"

"Papa—"

"How many?" He thrust harder, and she gasped, her eyes rolling back. "How many cocks have you taken? How many of them have come inside you?"

"I don't know," she wept. "I don't count them. I don't—"

"Do you think of me?" His voice broke. "When they're on top of you, when they're inside you — do you think of me?"

"Yes," she gasped, and it was true, it was so true it hurt. "Yes, Papa, I think of you—"

She couldn't answer. She was drowning in him, in his weight, in his heat, in the thick, hard rhythm of him slamming into her. Her body was responding despite herself, her hips rising to meet him, her cunt clenching around him, the wet sound of their fucking filling the room.

"I know," he said, his voice breaking. "I know you've been with others. I know what you do. I know you spread your legs for money, for strangers, for anyone who pays. And I know—" He thrust deep and held, his hips grinding against hers, his breath hot on her neck. "I know you come home to me. I know you're mine. I know you'll always be mine."

"Always," she breathed. "Papa, always—"

He pulled out and flipped her over, rough, his hands gripping her hips and pulling her up onto her knees. She went willingly, her face pressed into the pillow, her ass raised, her small cock hanging soft between her thighs. He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He pushed into her from behind, thick and hard, and she cried out into the pillow, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"This is what you want," he said, his voice a ragged growl. "This is what you've always wanted. To be taken. To be claimed. To be fucked like a wife."

"Yes," she moaned into the pillow. "Yes, Papa—"

"Like my wife," he repeated, his hips slamming into her. "Like you're her. Like you're the wife who stayed."

He fucked her hard, his hips slapping against her ass, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. She took it, her body rocking with each thrust, her cunt clenching around him, the wet sound of their fucking loud in the quiet room. She was crying — she could feel the tears on her cheeks, wetting the pillow — but she didn't stop him. She didn't want him to stop.

"Yes," she gasped, the word torn from her throat. "Yes, Papa, yes—"

"Say it," he demanded, his voice thick. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she sobbed. "I'm yours, Papa, I'm yours—"

"Say you're hers." His voice cracked. "Say you're her. Say you're my wife."

"I'm your wife," she wept. "I'm her. I'm her, Papa, I'm your wife—"

He thrust harder, deeper, his rhythm losing its shape as his climax built. She felt him swell inside her, felt the thick pulse of him, and she knew he was close. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her body greedy despite herself.

"Come inside me," she begged. "Please, Papa, come inside me—"

"Where do you want it?" His voice was a broken rasp. "Tell me where you want it."

"Inside," she sobbed. "Deep inside me. Fill me up. Make me yours—"

He roared. His hips slammed into her, once, twice, a third time, and then he was coming, his cock pulsing deep inside her, filling her with thick, hot seed. She felt it, felt the flood of him, felt her own body clench around him, and she came with him, a sharp, sudden release that tore through her, her small cock twitching untouched between her thighs, her cunt clamping down on him as he emptied himself into her.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing her into the mattress, his breath ragged in her ear. She lay beneath him, trembling, her body still clenching around his softening cock, his seed leaking out of her around him, wetting her thighs.

"Nisha," he whispered, the name slurred with whiskey and exhaustion. "Nisha, my wife—"

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was quiet except for their breathing — his, heavy and slowing; hers, thin and shaking. The smell of fried onions had gone cold in the air, mixing with the smell of sex and sweat and whiskey.

He pulled out of her, slow, and she felt the loss of him, felt his seed dripping out of her onto the sheet. He rolled off her, onto his back, and lay there, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry, beta. I'm so sorry."

She didn't move. She lay there, face down, her cheek pressed into the pillow, her body aching, her cunt sore and full of him. She could feel him still inside her, the ghost of him, the memory of his thickness.

"Don't be," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Don't be sorry, Papa."

The whiskey bottle stood on the nightstand, half empty. Beside it, a crumple of rupee notes — the money he'd left there, the money he'd earned or taken or saved, the money that would become the argument's evidence.

She pushed herself up, slow, her arms shaking. She looked at him — her father, her husband, the man who had just fucked her like she was his wife, because she was. Because she had become her mother. Because she had let him.

"Papa." Her voice was flat, closed, empty. She didn't look at him. She looked at the whiskey bottle, at the crumpled notes, at the wall. "I am a prostitute. I earn money for you. For your whiskey. For this home."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final. She didn't wait for his answer. She didn't know if he had one.

She lay back down on the bed, her hair spread across the pillow, her hand on her belly, and she listened to the silence.