CHAPTER 9
Samarth stared at the contract in front of him, the words blurring together into meaningless shapes. He'd read the same paragraph four times and still had no idea what it said.
His mind kept drifting back to last night.
To Nimisha's tears.
To the way she'd broken in his arms, then been left alone to shatter completely.
To the anniversary he'd forgotten and then ruined.
It's just a date on a calendar. Nothing more.
The lie tasted like ash.
He'd heard her crying through the walls of his office. Had forced himself to stay away. To maintain the distance. To remember the rules.
Don't romanticize what we are.
But when he'd finally gone back to their bedroom at dawn, she'd been asleep, curled around Bruno like the dog was the only source of comfort in her world.
His dog. Not him.
And the sight had done something to his chest he didn't want to examine.
"Boss?"
Samarth looked up to find Abhay in the doorway. "What?"
"Package came for Mrs. Ranawat. Security intercepted it per protocol."
"And?"
"You should see this yourself."
Something in Abhay's tone made Samarth stand. He followed his right-hand man to the security office where Armaan waited beside a medium-sized box on the inspection table.
"Who's it from?" Samarth asked.
"No return address. No card. Just her name on the label."
Samarth's jaw tightened. After the diamond bracelet incident, he'd instituted protocols for all packages delivered to the estate. Everything got screened.
"Open it."
Armaan cut through the tape and lifted the lid.
The room went very, very still.
Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, were items that made Samarth see red.
Sex toys. Expensive, explicit, varied.
Vibrators. Restraints. Lubricant. Things designed for pleasure and submission.
Things someone imagined using on his wife.
The rage that flooded through him was white-hot, visceral, and barely controlled.
"Get everyone here," he said, his voice deadly calm. "Now."
Twenty Minutes Later
Samarth's inner circle assembled in his office—Abhay, Armaan, and Shaurya, who'd been summoned from a business meeting.
The box sat on Samarth's desk, its contents still visible.
"Someone sent these to Nimisha," Samarth said, his tone flat. "I want to know who."
Shaurya stared at the box, his expression darkening. "Are you sure bhabhi didn't order them? I mean, maybe she—"
"She didn't." Samarth's voice was absolute.
"How can you be certain?"
"Because I know my wife." The words came out sharper than intended. "She can barely kiss me without blushing. She didn't order sex toys to be delivered to a house full of security and family."
Abhay picked up one of the items—leather restraints, expensive and well-made. "These aren't cheap. Whoever sent them has money."
"And a death wish," Armaan added quietly.
"Someone's sending her a message," Abhay said, setting the restraints down. "Question is—what kind of message? Threat? Intimidation? Twisted courtship?"
"Or testing my reaction," Samarth said, his hand curling into a fist on his desk. "Seeing how possessive I am of something I claim doesn't matter."
The three men exchanged glances but said nothing.
"Find out who sent this," Samarth commanded. "I want a name by end of day. Check every sex shop in Mumbai. Someone purchased these recently. Find them."
"What about Mrs. Ranawat?" Armaan asked. "Does she know about the package?"
"Not yet."
"You should tell her," Shaurya said quietly. "She has a right to know someone's targeting her."
Samarth knew he was right. But the thought of showing Nimisha these items, of seeing her mortification and fear—
"I'll handle it," he said.
After they left, he sat alone with the box, staring at its contents.
Someone was thinking about his wife like this. Imagining her bound, pleasured, submissive.
The possessiveness that roared through him was irrational. Violent.
She wasn't truly his. Not in the ways that mattered.
But his body didn't care about logic. Neither did the primal part of his brain that whispered: Mine. Only mine. Anyone who touches her dies.
That Evening - Master Bedroom, 7:45 PM
Nimisha sat at her vanity, removing the simple jewelry she'd worn that day. She'd avoided Samarth all day, eating meals in her room, working in the library when she knew he'd be in his office.
The previous night still felt too raw. Too fresh.
The door opened.
She didn't need to turn to know it was him. She could feel his presence like a physical weight.
"We need to talk," he said.
"I'm tired."
"Nimisha—"
"Whatever you need to say, can it wait until tomorrow?"
"No."
She met his eyes in the mirror. He looked tense, jaw tight, holding something behind his back.
"What is it?"
He moved closer, setting a box on the vanity in front of her.
Her brows furrowed. "What's this?"
"Open it."
Something in his tone made her wary. She lifted the lid, pushed aside the tissue paper, and froze.
Her face drained of color.
"Oh my God." She slammed the lid shut, her hands shaking. "Where did you—I didn't—"
"I know."
She looked up at him, mortification burning in her cheeks. "I would never order something like this. You have to believe me—"
"I know," he repeated, his voice gentler than she'd heard in days. "Someone sent these to you."
"Who?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out." He crouched beside her chair, bringing himself to her eye level. "Someone is targeting you, Nimisha. The bracelet. Now this. Someone's trying to send a message."
"What kind of message?" Her voice was small, frightened.
"I don't know yet. But until I figure it out, you're not going anywhere alone."
"I never have security—"
"You do now." His hand came up, cupping her face with unexpected gentleness. "Non-negotiable."
She stared at him, searching his face for something—anger at her for attracting this attention, maybe, or irritation at the inconvenience.
Instead, she saw something that looked almost like concern.
"Why do you care?" she whispered. "You made it clear last night that I don't matter. That this marriage is just—"
"You matter." The words came out rough, like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep. "Whether I want you to or not, you matter."
Her breath caught.
He stood abruptly, as if he'd revealed too much. "I'm assigning a security detail. They'll be discreet, but they'll be with you whenever you leave the estate."
"Everyone will know you think I'm important now."
His eyes locked on hers. "You are."
Her heart stuttered.
"To the family image," he clarified after a pause, and something in her chest deflated. "We can't afford the scandal if something happens to you."
Of course. The family image. Not her.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He moved toward the door, then paused. "Nimisha."
"Yes?"
"Whoever sent those things... they're imagining things about you that they have no right to imagine." His voice was low, dangerous. "When I find them, they'll regret every thought they've had about my wife."
The possessiveness in his tone should have annoyed her.
Instead, it sent a shiver down her spine.
He left without another word.
Nimisha sat at her vanity, staring at the closed box, her mind racing.
Someone was watching her. Wanting her. Imagining her in ways that made her skin crawl.
And Samarth—her cold, distant husband—was ready to kill for her.
Even if he couldn't love her, he could be possessive.
She wasn't sure if that was better or worse.
Later That Night - 11:34 PM
Nimisha couldn't sleep.
Every sound made her jump. Every shadow looked sinister.
Someone out there was thinking about her. Sending her things. Watching.
She pulled on her robe and padded downstairs, needing water, needing air, needing something to calm the anxiety crawling under her skin.
The kitchen was dark except for the light over the stove. She poured herself water with trembling hands.
"Can't sleep?"
She spun, water sloshing over the rim of her glass.
Samarth stood in the doorway, dressed in sleep pants and nothing else. His chest was bare, muscles defined in the dim light.
"You scared me," she breathed.
"Sorry." He moved closer. "Are you okay?"
"Fine. Just thirsty."
"Liar." He took the glass from her shaking hands and set it on the counter. "You're terrified."
"I'm fine—"
"Stop saying that." His hands gripped her shoulders, firm but not painful. "Stop pretending you're fine when you're not."
"What do you want me to say?" Her voice broke. "That I'm scared? That knowing someone out there is thinking about me like that makes me want to crawl out of my skin? That I feel violated even though they haven't touched me?"
"Yes." His thumbs stroked her shoulders through the thin robe. "Say all of that. Be honest."
"Why? So you can tell me it's my fault? That I shouldn't have been so beautiful, so noticeable—"
"It's not your fault." The words were fierce. "None of this is your fault."
She looked up at him, surprised by the vehemence in his tone.
"Your beauty is yours," he said, his voice rough.
"No one has the right to make you feel ashamed of it.
No one has the right to fantasize about you without permission.
And when I find whoever's doing this—" His grip tightened.
"—they'll learn exactly what happens when someone disrespects what's mine. "
"I'm not yours," she whispered. "You made that clear."
"The fuck you're not." He pulled her against his chest, his heart pounding under her ear. "You're my wife. You wear my name. You sleep in my bed. That makes you mine."
"Just possession, then. Like a car or a house."
"No." His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. "Not like that. Never like that."
"Then what?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he kissed her.
Not rough like usual. Not punishing or claiming.
Gentle. Almost tender. Like she was something precious that might break.
Her hands fisted in his bare skin, her body melting against his despite her brain screaming at her to protect herself.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"Come to bed," he said.
"I can't sleep."
"Then don't sleep." His hand slid down her back. "Let me make you forget about whoever's out there. Let me remind you who you belong to."
It was a terrible idea. She was still hurt from last night, still raw from their fight, still in love with a man who couldn't love her back.
But she was also scared and lonely and desperate to feel something other than violated.
"Okay," she whispered.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs.
Master Bedroom - Midnight
Samarth laid Nimisha on their bed with a gentleness that surprised them both.
He wanted to erase the fear from her eyes. Wanted to make her forget about the sick fuck who'd sent her those things. Wanted to replace violation with worship.
He stripped her robe away, revealing her simple cotton nightgown underneath.
"You're always covered," he murmured, his fingers tracing the modest neckline. "Always hiding this beautiful body."
"I'm not beautiful—"
"Don't." His eyes met hers, something fierce burning in their depths. "Don't say that. Don't let some bastard's perversion make you doubt what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Mine." He pulled the nightgown over her head, leaving her in just her panties. "Exquisite. Perfect. Mine."
He kissed her again, slower this time, savoring. His mouth moved to her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast.
"Samarth—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
He took his time, learning her body like he had all the time in the world. Kissing, tasting, worshipping.
When his mouth closed around her nipple, she arched off the bed, her hands tangling in his hair.
He lavished attention on her breasts until she was writhing, desperate, her fear forgotten in a haze of pleasure.
Then he kissed his way down her stomach, hooking his fingers in her panties and dragging them down her legs.
"I'm going to taste you again," he said, his voice dark with promise. "And this time, I'm not stopping until you come on my tongue at least twice."
"Samarth, you don't have to—"
"I want to." He spread her thighs, settling between them. "I need to. I need to replace every sick thought that bastard had about you with memories of me. Only me."
His mouth found her center, and coherent thought fled.
He worshipped her with his tongue, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her thighs tremble around his head.
When she came the first time, crying his name, he didn't stop. He kept going, kept licking and sucking and driving her higher.
The second orgasm hit her harder, her body bowing off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets.
Only then did he pull back, his mouth glistening with her release.
"Beautiful," he murmured, crawling up her body. "So fucking beautiful when you come apart for me."
He entered her slowly, filling her inch by inch, watching her face as she adjusted to his size.
"Feel that?" he asked, fully seated inside her. "That's me. Only me. No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to see you like this."
"Only you," she breathed.
He made love to her slowly, thoroughly, each thrust deliberate and deep. This wasn't fucking. This was claiming in a different way—tender instead of brutal, worship instead of possession.
When she came again, clenching around him, he followed her over the edge, burying his face in her neck as he spilled inside her.
For long moments, they lay tangled together, both breathing hard.
Then he rolled to his side and pulled her against his chest.
"Sleep," he murmured. "I've got you."
For the first time since their anniversary disaster, Nimisha felt safe.
Even if it was temporary. Even if tomorrow he'd be cold again.
Tonight, he was holding her like she mattered.
And for now, that was enough.