The collar was a stone against her hip inside the pocket of her nightdress. She had slept four hours beside her husband, her body still humming, and when she woke at noon the bed beside her was empty and cool. Vikram had left a note on the basin — *gone to the club, back by evening* — and she had read it standing in her own bathroom, the mirror showing her the bruise at her throat that needed a high collar and a lie about a hot iron.

She chose the green saree. It was the one Arshad had given her, the silk he had promised she would walk out in, and she wound it around herself slowly, her fingers remembering the way he had torn the last one from her shoulder. Beneath it she wore the red lace — the balconette bra that pushed her breasts up, the matching panties that were barely more than a triangle of fabric and a string. She did not ask herself why she put them on. She knew why. The same reason she had drawn the brocade drapes against the afternoon sun and stood at the window, watching the garden.

The latch clicked.

Her hand flew to her mouth. The window frame slid up with a soft rasp of wood on wood, and then he was inside the room — not climbing through like a man, but dropping into it like something that had simply decided to be there. The breath left her. He was broader than she remembered, darker, his shoulders filling the frame of his thin vest, his arms thicker, the muscles of his chest moving under his skin like something alive. His head was shaved clean, and his eyes — his eyes were the same black depthless things that had watched her from the doorway of her own bedroom, that had promised her she would understand everything.

"You're dead," she whispered, backing away, her bare feet slipping on the polished floor. "You're — Vikram is home, he's — you can't be here, the old woman —"

He crossed the room in two strides. There was no space between the window and her; she had thought there was, but his legs ate the distance like it was nothing, and his hand closed around her wrist before she could finish the thought. His grip was iron. She felt the bones of her forearm press together under his fingers.

"I'm reborn," he said.

His voice was deeper. Rougher. It scraped against her skin like a file, and she felt the sound of it move through her chest, through her belly, down into the place between her thighs that had been aching all day without her permission. She shook her head. "No. No, you don't understand — he's home, he's in the club but he'll be back, the old woman is —"

He did not tear the saree from her. Not yet. He let go of her wrist and stepped back, and his black eyes went down her body slowly, deliberately, and she felt the silk grow hot against her skin under that gaze. "You dressed for me," he said. "The green. The lace underneath. You stood at that window waiting." She opened her mouth to deny it and nothing came out. He reached out and drew one pleat of the saree from her shoulder, slow, almost gentle, and the cool air touched her collarbone. "I'm going to destroy you," he said, his voice low and certain. "Every way a woman can be taken. Every position you've never seen, never heard of. And you'll say my name while I do it."

The silk ripped like paper. The sound of it was obscene in the quiet room, and she felt the cool air hit her skin, felt the red lace suddenly bare, the balconette bra cups holding her breasts up, the thin strap of the panties visible at her hip. His eyes went down her body slowly, deliberately, and she saw something move in them — not hunger, not want, something older and darker, something that had already decided what it was going to do.

"No," she said, her palms flat against his chest, pushing. His pectorals were hard as stone under her hands, immovable. "I'm not — I won't —"

He lifted her by the waist.

One hand around her hip, one hand at the small of her back, and she was off her feet, her legs kicking uselessly, her saree falling away from her in a heap of green silk on the floor. He carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, and then he threw her. The silk sheets were cool and slick under her back, smelling faintly of Vikram's cologne, and she bounced once on the mattress, her breath leaving her in a gasp, her red lace riding up her thighs.

He was on her before she could roll away. His weight came down on her like a landslide, pinning her to the marriage bed, his chest against her breasts, his thighs forcing hers apart. She felt his cock against her hip — hard, thick, longer than she remembered, pressing against the thin fabric of her panties like it was already trying to find its way in. She pushed at his shoulders. "Get off me, get off — this is my husband's bed, he's coming home, he's —"

He ripped the lace down her thighs.

The sound of it tearing was louder than the saree. The balconette bra snapped at the front, her breasts spilling out, and the panties came away in his fist like they were nothing, like they were string. She was bare under him, her cunt exposed, the cool air of the room hitting her wet skin, and she knew — she knew she was wet, she had been wet since the window latch clicked, she had been wet since she put the red lace on — and she hated herself for it, and she could not stop it.

"Please," she said, her voice breaking. "Please, Arshad, not here, not in his bed, he'll —"

He forced her legs apart.

His knee drove between her thighs, spreading her wide, and then his hand was at his waist, shoving his trousers down, and his cock sprang free — thicker than before, darker, the head swollen and slick with something that might have been pre-cum, the veins standing out along the shaft like ropes. She stared at it, her mouth open, her heart hammering. It was bigger. It was impossibly bigger than she remembered, and she had taken all of him before, she had gagged on him, she had cried his name with him buried to the hilt — and this was more. This was more than her body knew how to take.

"No," she whispered. "No, it won't fit, you'll tear me, please —"

He drove into her.

There was no warning, no teasing, no slow push to let her adjust. He slammed his hips forward and his cock split her open, and she screamed — or tried to, the sound swallowed by his palm clamping down over her mouth. Her eyes went wide. She felt herself stretch around him, felt the impossible fullness of him filling her in a way she had never been filled before, felt her cunt clench and grip and try to push him out and fail, and the pain of it — the burning stretch of it — blurred into something else, something that was already becoming pleasure, already becoming need.

He began to fuck her.

Not the way he had before. Not the slow claiming, not the brutal rhythm she had learned to brace for. This was something else entirely — his hips pistoning into her with a force that drove her up the bed, his cock hitting places inside her she had never known she had, angles that made her see white at the edges of her vision. His palm stayed clamped over her mouth, muffling her cries, and she bit down on the heel of his hand, tasted salt and sweat and her own spit, and felt her legs wrap around his waist of their own accord, pulling him deeper.

"That's it," he growled, his voice a rumble against her ear. "That's my randi. Taking it. Taking all of it."

She shook her head against his hand, but her hips were moving with him now, meeting his thrusts, and she hated herself for it, hated the way her body was betraying her, hated the wet sounds that were coming from between her thighs, the slick slap of his cock driving into her. She could feel herself coming apart. She could feel the orgasm building at the base of her spine, coiling like a snake, and she didn't want it, she didn't want to come on his cock in her husband's bed with her husband's cologne in her nose and his seed still —

He pulled out.

The emptiness was sudden and cruel. She gasped against his palm, her cunt clenching around nothing, and he flipped her over before she could catch her breath, his hand fisting in her hair and yanking her head back. She was on her knees, her face pressed into the silk, her ass in the air, and she felt his cock press against her from behind, the head teasing her entrance.

"Count," he said.

His hand came down on her ass. The slap was loud in the quiet room, and she cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets. Her skin stung, bloomed red, and she felt his cock push into her again, deeper from this angle, hitting something that made her see stars.

"Count," he repeated, and slapped her again.

"One," she gasped. "Two —"

He spanked her in rhythm with his thrusts. Each slap drove her forward onto his cock, each thrust buried him deeper, and she counted — three, four, five — her voice breaking, her cunt clenching around him, her body trembling. She could feel herself getting close again, the coil tightening, and he knew it, he could feel it, the way her walls gripped him, the way her breath came in ragged gasps.

"Not yet," he said. He pulled out again, and she whimpered at the loss. "Turn over."

She turned over onto her back, her chest heaving, her breasts slick with sweat, and he lifted her legs over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half. He drove into her again, and this time the angle was devastating — his cock hitting her cervix, the head of it pressing against the deepest part of her, and she cried out, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle the sound. He grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the bed beside her head.

"Let them hear," he said. "Let the whole house hear. Let your husband hear, when he walks in the door —"

"No," she sobbed. "No, please, he can't —"

He slapped her.

The crack of his palm against her cheek was sharp, and her head snapped to the side, and she felt the sting of it bloom across her face, felt the tears spring to her eyes. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him, his black eyes boring into hers.

"You are mine," he said. "You are my randi. You will take what I give you, and you will thank me for it. Say it."

"I —"

He slapped her again. The other cheek. Her vision swam.

"Say it."

"I'm yours," she whispered. "I'm your randi."

He kissed her. It was brutal and claiming, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth, and she tasted herself on his lips, tasted the salt of her own tears, and she kissed him back — she hated herself for it, but she kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts. He was fucking her hard and fast now, the slap of his thighs against her ass echoing in the room, and she could feel the coil winding tighter and tighter, the orgasm building like a wave about to break.

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on my cock, randi. Show me you're mine."

She came.

It ripped through her like a storm, her cunt clenching around him in wave after wave, her body arching off the bed, her cry swallowed by his mouth. He kept thrusting through it, driving into her oversensitive flesh, and she sobbed against his lips, her legs shaking, her fingers digging into the silk sheets. She could feel him swelling inside her, could feel the heat building at the base of his cock, and she knew — she knew he was going to come inside her, and she wanted it, she wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything.

"Please," she begged. "Please, Arshad, inside me, please —"

He drove into her one final time, his hips slamming home, and she felt him spill — hot and thick and endless, flooding her, filling her, his cock pulsing inside her as he emptied himself deep in her cunt. She felt it leak out around him, felt it mix with her own wet, felt the mess of it slick between her thighs. His palm was still clamped over her mouth, his weight crushing her into the marriage bed, and he did not pull out. He stayed inside her, his cock still hard, still thick, still filling her, and she lay beneath him trembling, her body spent, her mind spinning, the taste of her own tears on her lips.

His weight was a world on top of her. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, feel his breath hot against her ear, feel the pulse of him still inside her, still not done. The silk sheets were ruined beneath her. The green saree was a heap on the floor. The red lace was torn in his fist somewhere, and the collar was a stone against her hip in the pocket of her nightdress, and she lay there in the wreckage of her own marriage bed, his seed leaking out of her, and she did not know what she had become — only that she was his, and that the night was not over.