Chapter 7
The warehouse in Navi Mumbai reeked of blood and fear.
Raghav stood in the center of the empty space, his white shirt already stained crimson, his knuckles split and bleeding.
Before him, tied to a chair, was Mahesh Kapoor's informant—one of his own men who'd been feeding information about shipments to the enemy.
The man's face was unrecognizable now. Pulped. Broken. A testament to what happened when someone betrayed the Singhania empire.
"Please," the man gurgled through broken teeth. "Please, I have a family—"
"So did Mohan." Raghav's voice was utterly calm, which made it more terrifying. "The driver who died in the explosion meant for me. He had a wife. Three children. A grandson on the way."
"I didn't know about the bomb—"
"You gave them my schedule. My routes. My vehicles." Raghav crouched down, his dark eyes empty of mercy. "You gave them everything they needed to plant that bomb. My wife nearly died because of you."
"I swear, I didn't know they'd—"
Raghav's fist connected with the man's jaw, snapping his head back. Blood sprayed across the concrete floor.
"Don't insult me with lies." He stood, wiping his knuckles on a handkerchief Vikram handed him. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You sold us out for what? Money? Fear? It doesn't matter."
He nodded to the two armed men standing in the shadows. "Make it slow. I want the Kapoors to find him and understand what happens to traitors."
"Sir—" the informant sobbed. "Sir, please—"
But Raghav was already walking away, his expensive shoes clicking against concrete slick with blood. Behind him, screams began—high, desperate, inhuman.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look back.
This was his world. Dark. Brutal. Unforgiving.
And Akriti was healing in his bedroom, soft and gentle and utterly removed from this violence.
The dichotomy should have troubled him.
It didn't.
She was his light. This—the blood, the violence, the ruthless protection of his empire—was how he ensured that light stayed safe.
"The Kapoors will retaliate," Vikram observed as they reached the car.
"Let them try." Raghav's voice was cold stone. "I want them to try. I'm in the mood for war."
*
Later that night, Raghav scrubbed the blood from his hands in the master bathroom, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. The violence sat on his skin like a second layer, familiar and necessary.
He'd had to do this—eliminate the threat, send a message. The Singhanias didn't tolerate betrayal. Weakness was death in their world.
But as he dried his hands and emerged into the bedroom, finding Akriti asleep in his bed, her dark hair spread across his pillows, something in his chest tightened.
She didn't belong in that world. The violence. The blood. The darkness.
She belonged here. Safe. Protected. His.
He'd visited Mohan's widow earlier that week, before the execution. Had handed her an envelope containing enough money to ensure she and her children would never want for anything. Education for the kids. A house. Investments that would generate income for generations.
It wouldn't bring Mohan back. Wouldn't erase the loss.
But it was what he could give.
"I'm sorry," he'd told the grieving woman. "Your husband was a good man. He died protecting my wife. I won't forget that."
She'd wept, clutching the envelope, and he'd left feeling hollow.
So much death in his world. So much blood.
And yet, watching Akriti sleep, he felt something else. Something clean and bright and worth protecting.
Worth killing for.
He slipped into bed beside her, careful not to wake her, and pulled her into his arms.
She murmured something in her sleep, pressing closer to his warmth.
Mine, he thought. Whatever darkness lives in me, whatever blood stains my hands—she's mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to claim.
Soon.
Very soon.
Eleven weeks post-accident
"I should move back to my old room."
Akriti made the announcement over breakfast, her tone carefully neutral. She was fully healed now—walking without pain, her scars faded to pink lines, her strength returned.
The physiotherapist had cleared her last week. The doctors had declared her recovery complete.
She was healthy. Whole. No longer needed constant care.
Which meant, logically, she should return to her own space. Give Raghav his bedroom back. Restore the boundaries that had kept them safe for three years.
Except she didn't want to.
God help her, she wanted to stay.
Raghav set down his coffee cup with deliberate care. "No."
"I'm healed. I don't need—"
"I said no." His voice was calm, but there was steel underneath.
"You can't just—"
"I can. I am." He stood, moving around the table with predatory grace. "You're not going anywhere."
"This is your room—"
"Our room." He gripped the arms of her chair, caging her in, his face inches from hers. "You sleep here now. With me. That's not changing."
Her heart raced. "You don't get to decide—"
"I'm deciding. Fight me if you want." His eyes were dark, intense, utterly certain. "But you're not leaving this room. Not now. Not ever."
The possessiveness should have alarmed her. Should have triggered every self-preservation instinct.
Instead, it sent heat flooding through her body.
"Why?" she challenged, lifting her chin. "Why do you want me here?"
"Because I'm done sleeping alone. Done waking up wondering if you're safe. Done pretending this marriage is anything less than real." His hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her lower lip. "You're mine, Akriti. You've been mine since the day we married. I was just too stupid to claim you."
"And now?"
"Now I'm claiming you." His voice dropped to something dark and promising. "Publicly. Privately. Every way that matters."
The air between them crackled with tension. She could smell him—sandalwood and smoke and something purely masculine that made her dizzy.
"I haven't agreed—"
"You will." His thumb pressed against her lip, and she barely resisted the urge to taste it. "Because you want this as much as I do. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
"Arrogant—"
He kissed her, swallowing the insult. His mouth claimed hers with devastating thoroughness, his tongue sweeping past her lips, tasting, possessing.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"Your things stay here," he said, his voice rough. "You stay here. With me. End of discussion."
Then he walked out, leaving her trembling and furious and achingly aroused.
Bastard.
Beautiful, infuriating, possessive bastard.
She should fight this. Should insist on boundaries.
Instead, she found herself staring at the bedroom—at the closet where her clothes now hung beside his, at the bathroom where her toiletries sat next to his razor, at the bed where she'd slept in his arms for eleven weeks.
This was dangerous. Terrifying. Inevitable.
She was falling.
No—she'd already fallen.
Now she was just waiting for him to catch her.
*
A few days later,
The charity gala was their first public appearance since the accident.
Akriti wore emerald green—a silk saree that hugged her curves and brought out the gold in her skin.
The Singhania diamonds glittered at her throat and wrists.
Her hair was styled in an elegant bun, jasmine flowers woven through the dark strands.
She looked like a queen.
Raghav couldn't take his eyes off her.
"You're staring," she murmured as they entered the ballroom.
"I'm appreciating." His hand settled possessively on her lower back, the touch burning through silk. "You're stunning."
Heat crept up her neck. "Thank you."
The room was full of society's elite—business magnates, politicians, old money families. Everyone who mattered in Mumbai's upper echelons.
They'd come to see the Singhanias. To gauge Raghav's strength after the attack. To whisper about his marriage.
Let them whisper, Raghav thought darkly. Let them see exactly who she belongs to.
They made the rounds together, his hand never leaving her body. On her back. On her waist. Claiming her with every touch.
"Is that—"
"Raghav Singhania's wife, yes."
"She survived the bombing—"
"Looks fully recovered—"
"They seem... close."
The whispers followed them, but Akriti held her head high, her smile gracious, her conversation polished.
She was magnificent.
Then some fool made the mistake of not recognizing her.
"Good evening," the man said, approaching Akriti while Raghav was momentarily pulled away by a business associate. He was young, handsome, clearly wealthy. "I don't believe we've met. Arjun Malhotra."
"Akriti Singhania," she replied politely.
"Singhania?" His eyes widened slightly. "Are you related to—"
"She's my wife."
Raghav's voice cut through the conversation like a blade. He appeared at Akriti's side, his arm sliding possessively around her waist, pulling her firmly against him.
"Your—oh, I apologize, I didn't realize—" Arjun stammered.
"Now you do." Raghav's smile was cold. "My wife. Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice was unmistakable. Primal. A warning.
"Of course. My apologies." Arjun fled.
Akriti looked up at Raghav. "That was—"
"Necessary." His hand flexed on her waist. "He was looking at you like—" He bit off the words, jaw tight.
"Like what?"
"Like he wanted you. Like you were available." His eyes burned into hers. "You're not. You're mine."
Before she could respond, he was guiding her out of the ballroom, down a corridor, into a quiet alcove away from prying eyes.
"Raghav, what—"
He pinned her against the wall, his body a solid wall of heat pressing against hers. "Do you know what it does to me? Watching other men look at you?"
Her breath caught. "They were just—"
"Wanting what's mine." His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back. "What's always been mine."
"I'm not property—"
"No. You're my wife. My woman. Mine." Each word was punctuated by his hips pressing harder against hers. "And I'm done pretending otherwise."
Then his mouth crashed onto hers.