Dhwani sat on the edge of her old bed, her knees drawn up, chin resting on them like she used to when she was fifteen and unsure of her future. Except now, the uncertainty didn't come from school exams or heartbreaks-it came from him. From the way Darsh's voice still echoed in her ears like a wicked lullaby. From the way her body still remembered being pinned-pressed between the wall and his heat, with breathless rage simmering through her bones. Her fingers moved on instinct, tugging down her sleeves, trying to hide the fading red marks around her wrists. It wasn't that she was ashamed. It was that she was furious-furious at him for touching her, and even more at herself for remembering the way her skin had thrummed under his fingertips. God, what was wrong with her?

Her parents had welcomed her home with warmth and concern, unaware of the storm that lived inside her chest. Her mother had made her favorite curry. Her father had made a lame joke about hospital politics. But Dhwani couldn't taste food anymore. Not when everything she swallowed turned into fire. Every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was his face-so close, too close-his voice curling like smoke in her ear. She hated him. And still, she couldn't stop reliving it. That moment. The press of his body. The feel of his breath dragging across her neck. She wanted to scrub herself clean, to erase the heat. But it clung to her like a sin she hadn't meant to enjoy. She wasn't supposed to want him. She wasn't supposed to feel anything but hate. But deep inside, under the layers of fury and shame, something darker whispered-what if you don't only hate him?

---

Across the city, Darsh stood in the center of his dark, silent apartment, shirtless, the glass of whiskey untouched in his hand. He didn't need alcohol. He needed her. The taste of her defiance. The burn of her voice in his ears. The way her body arched when he pressed her wrists above her head. It had been days. Days. And he was still hard from the memory. Still throbbing from the image of her pinned between him and that wall, eyes wide with fury, chest heaving in fury-or maybe something else.

He had meant to scare her. Maybe. He had meant to remind her who had the control. But when he leaned in, and breathed her in-vanilla, sweetness, heat-something had snapped inside him. He wanted to break her. But not with pain-with pleasure. Raw, consuming, unstoppable pleasure. He wanted to hear her cry out his name, not in protest, but in surrender. He wanted to see her unravel beneath him, her pride stripped away layer by layer until all that remained was her need. The thought of it made his jaw clench, made him curse low and filthy under his breath. He didn't want her sweet. He didn't want her gentle. He wanted her wild. Ruined. Marked.

He could still feel her wrists under his palms. How she writhed. How her mouth trembled when he whispered filth in her ear. She called him a psycho-and maybe he was. Because even now, even knowing she was gone, tucked away with her family, trying to build distance-he wanted to crawl into her skin. He wanted to press his mouth between her thighs until she broke down and begged him to stop-no, to never stop. His teeth gritted as he stared at her photo again-her hospital ID, stiff and professional. She looked strong. But he'd seen the cracks. He'd felt the tremor in her breath. She wasn't immune to him.

And he wasn't done.

He'd let her go that night.

Too soon.

Too easily.

His phone lay on the table beside him, lit with a message from his assistant: "Found her new shift schedule."

His grin was slow. Dangerous.

She could hide. But not from him. Not from this.

---

In her parents' home, Dhwani lay awake under her childhood quilt, trying to convince herself she wasn't trembling. That it was just the cold. That it wasn't because her skin still burned where he'd touched her. That it wasn't because she had dreamed of him pressing her down, not in rage-but in something darker, rougher, needier. Her legs squeezed together. Shame followed quickly after. She hated him. She hated him.

And yet...

She wasn't sure what terrified her more-the memory of how close he had gotten.

Or how much a part of her wanted him to do it all over again.

---