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Blood Ties

by @lazykite
1 chapters
~3 min read

Arjun Singh Rathore shouldn't want his nineteen-year-old step-niece, Myra Kapoor, but every charged glance across the dinner table and slow sway of her hips shreds his restraint. Neelam Rathore watches from behind her perfect silver bun, missing nothing as the forbidden heat between her husband and her niece ignites into a fast-burn collision of possession and lust. In a house that should be a sanctuary, blood ties become chains—and breaking them means claiming what was never meant to be his.

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MEET THE CHARACTERS

AS

Arjun Singh Rathore

A 38-year-old man with a commanding presence that fills every room he enters. His salt-and-pepper beard frames a face carved by years of discipline and quiet hunger, and his broad shoulders strain against the fabric of his tailored kurta. When he watches his step-daughter, there's a flicker in his dark eyes—something possessive he's barely learned to name.

MK

Myra Kapoor

A 19-year-old with skin the color of warm honey and hair like a waterfall of ink that cascades past her waist. She moves with the restless energy of a caged thing—hips swaying just a little too slow, fingers tracing the edge of her dupatta when she knows he's watching. Her lips are perpetually parted, caught between a breath and a confession she hasn't made yet.

NR

Neelam Rathore

A 42-year-old woman whose beauty has softened with time but whose presence still commands attention. Her silver-threaded hair is always pinned in a perfect bun, and her sharp eyes miss nothing—especially the charged silences between her husband and her daughter. She wears her designer sarees like armor, every pleat precise, every fold intentional.

EXPLORE CHAPTERS

1

Ink and Beard

Myra steps into the study barefoot, the marble cool against her soles. Arjun sits in the leather chair, whiskey untouched, his gaze dragging from her ankles to the loose end of her dupatta. She lets the fabric fall as she reaches for a book on the shelf above his head. His fingers close around her wrist before she can pull away. The pad of his thumb presses into her pulse point—not a question, not yet a command. The ceiling fan stirs the hair at her nape.