By 11:00 PM, the apartment was hazy with the smell of cheap gin and Myra's tears. Myra was sat on the floor, her back against the sofa, holding a half-empty bottle.
"He bought me a bear, Anjali," Myra giggled hysterically, though her eyes were red-rimmed. "A 'functional cushion.' That's what the monster called it. And now... now the whole world thinks he bought it for her. I'm just the shadow. The secret. The body in the bed."
"He's a prick, Myra," Anjali said, trying to take the bottle away. "You need to leave that job. That contract is a death sentence."
"I can't leave! He owns the air I breathe!" Myra screamed, then dissolved into fresh sobs. "He's so cold... but then he holds me... and I hate that I don't hate it."
Suddenly, a thunderous, rhythmic pounding echoed at the front door. It wasn't a knock; it was the sound of someone who intended to kick the door down.
Anjali jumped. "Who the hell is that?"
Myra's heart went cold. She knew that rhythm. She knew that authority.
"He found me," Myra whispered, her head spinning from the gin. "The monster found his property."
The door flew open. Reyansh stood there, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his eyes burning with a rage so intense that Anjali backed into the kitchen. He looked at the empty bottles, then at Myra slumped on the floor, disheveled and drunk.
"Get up," Reyansh growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury.
"No," Myra slurred, pointing the bottle at him. "Go back to Shanaya. Go tell her how 'caring' you are. I'm just a stranger, remember? You don't know me out here!"
Reyansh didn't argue. He strode across the room, ignored Anjali's protests, and hauled Myra off the floor. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Put me down! I hate you!" she screamed, hitting his back with her fists.
"You're drunk, you're reckless, and you're coming home," Reyansh hissed, his grip on her legs tightening. He looked at Anjali with a look that promised death if she spoke. "She's staying with me. Don't call the police. You won't like the result."
He walked out of the apartment and into the rain, Myra's drunken protests fading into the night as he shoved her into the back of the Rolls Royce
The interior of the Rolls-Royce was a cocoon of leather and the sharp, clinical scent of Reyansh's anger. Outside, the Mumbai rain lashed against the windows in sheets, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon. Reyansh gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white as bone. He had sent his driver away; he was too enraged to have anyone else witness his "property" in this state.
"You're a fool, Myra," he growled, his eyes fixed on the road. "Drinking yourself into a stupor in a dive apartment? Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?"
Myra didn't answer with words. The gin had stripped away her fear, leaving only a raw, burning need to hurt him the way he had hurt her at the office. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a clumsy click.
"I'm a stranger, remember?" she giggled, her voice thick and melodic with intoxication. "Strangers don't have to listen to you."
Before he could react, she lunged across the center console. She scrambled over the gear shift, her silk skirt riding up, and forced herself onto his lap.
"Myra! What the hell are you doing? I'm driving!" Reyansh barked, his heart hammering against his ribs as her warmth collided with his cold exterior. He swerved slightly, the tires screeching on the wet asphalt before he regained control, slowing the car to a crawl on the deserted coastal road.
"You like to watch me, don't you?" Myra whispered into his ear, her breath smelling of juniper and honey. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her body molding perfectly to his. "You like the 'distraction.' Well, look at me now."
She buried her face in the crook of his neck—the spot where his pulse was thrumming like a trapped bird. She didn't just kiss him; she used her teeth. She nipped at the sensitive skin of his jugular, then licked the spot, her tongue hot and slow.
Reyansh let out a low, jagged sound—half-groan, half-snarl. A violent shiver raced down his spine, settling deep in his gut. His grip on the steering wheel faltered. The sensation of her lips on his skin while she was so soft and vulnerable in his lap was more intoxicating than any alcohol.
"Stop it," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Myra, stop. You're drunk."
"Does that matter?" she challenged, her hand sliding down his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. She sucked a bruise into his collarbone, marking him in the dark. "You said I was just a body. Use the body, Reyansh. Or is the Ice King scared of a little gin?"
Reyansh's self-control was snapping like a dry branch. He pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and slammed it into park. He grabbed her waist, his large hands sinking into her flesh, intending to throw her back into the passenger seat.
But she wouldn't budge. She pressed her chest against his, her eyes glassy and defiant. "Kiss me. Kiss me like you did when you thought the Doctor touched me. Or do you only care when you think someone else has had a turn?"
Reyansh looked at her—her smudged eyeliner, her flushed cheeks, her trembling lips. He wanted her. He wanted her more than his next breath. But as he looked at her, he realized she didn't even know where she was. She was hurting, and she was trying to use her body to numb the pain he had caused her.
"No," he growled, his voice thick with a mix of lust and iron-clad resolve.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and firmly pushed her away, creating space between them. "Not like this."
"Why?" she sobbed, the anger suddenly turning into tears. "Why not? You take everything else! Take this too!"
"Because I want your eyes clear when I break you, Myra," he hissed, his gaze burning through her. "I want you to remember every second of it. I won't have you waking up tomorrow wondering why you're in my bed. I am a lot of things, but I am not a man who takes advantage of a woman who can't even stand up."
He lifted her—despite her kicking and screaming—and deposited her back into the passenger seat, clicking the seatbelt shut with a finality that brooked no argument.
"Stay there," he commanded, his chest heaving as he stared at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. His neck was flushed, and the bite marks she'd left were already turning purple.
He restarted the engine and sped toward the penthouse.
He had won the battle of self-control, but the war for her soul was just beginning.
Author's Thought
THE RESTRAINT! 😱🔥 Reyansh actually showed a moral compass! He refused to touch her because she was drunk, which somehow makes him even more dangerous. He wants her consensual and aware when he dominates her. 🚩⚖️