The creak of the cot woke her — not the sound itself, but the sudden stillness after it. She surfaced from sleep in stages, aware first of the weight around her waist, the solid wall of chest against her back, the slow heat of breath on her neck. Arshad's arm had tightened in his sleep, pulling her flush against him, and she felt him — hard, pressing into the cleft of her thighs through the thin cotton of his lungi.

She didn't move. Didn't dare. The room was grey with early light, the fan above them spinning its slow, creaking circle, and somewhere in the house Auntie Shobha was still asleep, dreaming her dreams of revenge. Neha's body ached — a deep, satisfied soreness between her legs, the raw place on her wrists where the silk had bitten, the tender bruise on her neck where his mouth had marked her. Evidence of everything they'd done. Evidence she would have to hide again.

"You're awake." His voice was rough with sleep, a low rumble against her spine. His arm tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt his cock twitch against her thigh, thick and already half-hard.

"Arshad—"

"You're still mine." Not a question. A statement, like a fact of the morning, like the grey light through the window. His hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing into her hip, and she felt the ache between her legs sharpen into something hungrier.

"The aunty will be up soon," she whispered, but her body betrayed her, pressing back against him, arching into his touch.

"Let her hear."

He rolled her onto her back in one smooth motion, his weight settling over her, his dark eyes already hungry. She should push him away. She should remind him of the risk, of the thin walls, of the woman who slept three rooms away with her camera and her cold, calculating plans. But his knee nudged her thighs apart, and the words died in her throat.

He looked down at her, and she saw herself reflected in his gaze — hair tangled, lips swollen, the bruise on her neck dark against her skin. His randi. His. The thought should have shamed her. Instead it sent a pulse of heat through her belly.

"You were so good last night," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Riding me like you were born for it. Taking me so deep." His hand slid down her throat, over her collarbone, to the curve of her breast. "Do you know what it did to me, watching you move like that?"

She shook her head, breath catching as his fingers found her nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.

"Made me want to fuck you all over again." He leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear. "Made me want to keep you here until you forget you ever had a husband."

She should not want this. She should push him away, get up, go to the kitchen before Auntie Shobha woke and found her missing. But his hand was sliding down her stomach again, lower, and her body was opening for him like a flower to the sun, shameless and aching.

"Arshad," she breathed, and it came out as a plea.

"What, memsahib?" His fingers found her slit, and she gasped at the contact — she was already wet, slick from the night before, from the feel of him against her. "What do you need?"

"You." The word escaped before she could stop it. "I need you."

His smile was slow and dark. "Good girl." He pushed two fingers inside her, and she moaned, her hips rising to meet him. "You're so tight this morning. So ready." He curled his fingers, finding the spot that made her see stars, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

"Let them hear," he said again, his voice low and cruel. "Let the whole world hear how my randi moans for me." He withdrew his fingers and brought them to her lips. "Taste yourself."

She hesitated — such a small thing, but it felt like a line. He was a servant in her house. She was a married woman. And yet she had already crossed so many lines, had knelt for him and begged for him and told him she was his. What was one more?

She opened her mouth and took his fingers inside, tasting herself on his skin — salt and musk and the lingering proof of his possession. His eyes darkened, watching her, and she saw the hunger in them sharpen into something almost dangerous.

"Good," he breathed. "So fucking good." He pulled his fingers free and gripped her hip, positioning himself at her entrance. "Now take me. Take all of me."

He thrust inside her in one smooth motion, and she cried out — a raw, broken sound she couldn't contain. He filled her completely, stretching her, and she felt the ache from the night before bloom into something exquisite. He didn't move, just held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch of him.

"Look at me," he commanded, and she forced her eyes open. "I want you to see who's fucking you. Who owns this cunt."

"You," she whispered. "You do."

"That's right." He began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a deliberate claim. "My randi. My good little whore." His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his power. "You belong to me now. Not to that husband of yours. Not to anyone else. Me."

She should argue. She should remind him that she was Vikram's wife, that this was wrong, that she was betraying everything she'd been raised to believe. But his cock was sliding in and out of her, hitting that spot deep inside that made her see white, and all she could do was moan and arch and take him.

"Say it," he growled, his pace quickening. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she gasped. "Arshad, I'm yours."

"My what?"

She hesitated, and he thrust harder, driving the breath from her lungs. "My randi," she choked out. "I'm your randi."

"Good girl." He leaned down and kissed her, hard and possessive, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his hips kept up their relentless rhythm. She could taste herself on his lips, taste the salt of his skin, and she clung to him, her nails raking down his back.

The cot creaked beneath them, a rhythmic protest that seemed impossibly loud in the grey morning quiet. Neha's mind flickered to Auntie Shobha, sleeping in her room, to the walls that seemed thinner than ever, to the risk of being caught. But then Arshad shifted his angle, and his cock hit that spot inside her, and every thought scattered like startled birds.

"There," she gasped. "Right there—"

"Yeah?" He drove into her harder, his breath hot against her ear. "You like that? You like being fucked like the whore you are?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, Arshad, yes—"

She was close already, the pleasure building like a wave, and he seemed to know it. He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, and she shattered — a sharp, violent climax that tore through her, her cunt clenching around him, her body arching off the cot.

He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his thrusts growing harder, faster, more desperate, and she felt him swell inside her, felt his own release building.

"Where?" he gritted out. "Where do you want it?"

"Inside," she begged, beyond shame, beyond reason. "Please, Arshad, I want to feel you—"

He groaned, a low, animal sound, and thrust deep, spilling inside her with a shudder that seemed to go on forever. She felt him pulse within her, felt the warmth of his release flooding her, and she held him, her legs wrapped around his waist, not wanting to let go.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the creak of the fan above them. Then Arshad shifted, pulling out of her with a wet sound that made her blush, and collapsed beside her on the narrow cot.

She felt his seed leaking from her, warm and wet against her thighs, and she knew she should get up, should clean herself, should go before Auntie Shobha woke. But her body was heavy and satisfied, and his arm was around her again, pulling her close.

"You need to go," he said, but his grip didn't loosen. "Before the aunty wakes."

"I know." She didn't move.

His hand traced lazy patterns on her hip. "Tonight," he said. "My room. Or yours. I don't care." His voice dropped. "But I'm not done with you."

She should say no. She should tell him this had to stop, that they were playing with fire, that Auntie Shobha was already too suspicious. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she heard herself say, "Tonight."

He smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips, and kissed her forehead — a gesture so tender it made her chest ache. "Good girl. Now go."

She slipped out of the cot, wincing at the ache between her legs, and gathered her clothes from the floor. Her saree was crumpled, her blouse torn at the shoulder, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at the state of herself. She looked like exactly what she was — a woman who had been thoroughly and repeatedly fucked.

She dressed quickly, her fingers clumsy with haste, and paused at the door. Arshad was watching her, propped on one elbow on the cot, his dark skin gleaming in the grey light. He looked like a predator at rest, satisfied and dangerous.

"Neha."

She turned.

"You're mine now. You know that, don't you?"

She should deny it. She should remind him of her husband, of her duty, of everything she was risking. But instead, she met his eyes and said, "I know."

His smile widened. "Good. Now go before I decide to keep you here all morning."

She slipped out the door and padded down the corridor, her bare feet cold on the stone floor. The house was still quiet, the grey light of dawn filtering through the windows, and she made it to her room without encountering anyone. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart pounding, her body still humming with the aftermath of his possession.

She crossed to the bathroom and stood under the shower, letting the warm water wash away the evidence of the night. His seed slid down her thighs, and she watched it swirl down the drain, a small, private goodbye. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, but she couldn't wash away the marks he'd left — the bruise on her neck, the tenderness between her legs, the way her body still remembered the shape of him.

When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair was wet and tangled, her lips still swollen, her eyes bright with a hunger she couldn't hide. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly claimed. She looked like his.

She dressed carefully, choosing a deep green saree that covered the bruise on her neck, and pinned her hair up in a neat bun. By the time she heard Auntie Shobha stirring in her room, she was in the kitchen, heating water for tea, the picture of a dutiful housewife.

Auntie Shobha appeared in the doorway, her grey-streaked hair pulled back, her worn saree draped over her thin frame. Her sharp eyes swept over Neha, taking in her flushed cheeks, the careful way she held herself.

"You're up early," the old woman observed, her voice sweet and harmless. "Did you sleep well?"

Neha kept her eyes on the stove. "Yes, Aunty. Very well."

"Good, good." Auntie Shobha settled into a chair, watching Neha with those calculating eyes. "And Arshad? Is he up yet?"

"I haven't seen him," Neha lied, her voice steady. "He's probably still sleeping."

"Mm." The old woman's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "He works hard. He deserves his rest."

Neha poured the tea, her hands steady despite the trembling in her heart. She set the cup before Auntie Shobha and forced herself to meet the old woman's gaze. "Here you are, Aunty. I hope you slept well too."

"Oh, I did," Auntie Shobha said, taking a sip. "I always sleep well when I know things are going according to plan."

Neha's blood ran cold, but she kept her expression neutral. "What plan?"

Auntie Shobha waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing for you to worry about, beta. Just an old woman's ramblings." Her eyes sharpened. "But you look tired. Perhaps you should rest this afternoon."

"I'm fine, Aunty."

"Are you?" The old woman set down her cup, her gaze drilling into Neha. "You seem... different this morning. Changed. Is everything all right?"

Neha's heart hammered in her chest. "Everything is fine, Aunty. I'm just tired."

Auntie Shobha studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Of course. Well, I'll be in my room if you need me. I have some... correspondence to attend to." She rose, her movements slow and deliberate, and paused at the doorway. "Oh, and beta? Tell Arshad I'd like to speak with him when he wakes."

Neha nodded, her throat tight. "I will, Aunty."

The old woman disappeared down the corridor, and Neha sagged against the counter, her legs weak with relief. She didn't know how much longer she could keep up the pretense. Every word, every glance from Auntie Shobha felt like a trap, like the old woman knew exactly what had happened in that back room, knew about the video, knew everything.

She was playing a dangerous game, and she was in far over her head. But when she thought of Arshad — of his hands on her body, his voice in her ear, the way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world — she knew she wouldn't stop. Couldn't stop.

She was his. And she would burn this house down before she let anyone take that from her.