Warning: I honestly don't know what warning to give this, but read at your own risk. It might not feel sensitive to me, but it could be for some readers, so yeah.

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"Don't you dare say her name with that filthy mouth of yours—"

Her words were sliced in half by the sharp crack of his palm against her cheek. The sound echoed through the room a heartbeat before the pain truly landed. The half–healed slit on her lower lip split open again, hot blood spilling out and smearing along the corner of her mouth as her head snapped to the side. She fell back onto the bed, her face burying into the pillow, the fabric catching the first silent tear that slipped from her eye. It wasn't just fear burning in her chest—though fear thrummed there, wild and frantic—it was the raw, throbbing ache that made it impossible to breathe properly, impossible to even swallow without pain.

He walked toward her with a slow, steady stride, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. His face was calm, relaxed even, the ghost of a small smile resting on his lips. But his eyes—those were a different story. His eyes were a warning, cold and unblinking, telling her to stay quiet, to stay still, because if she pushed him even a little more, he would not take the blame for whatever happened next.

He climbed onto the bed with practiced ease, fingers moving to his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle sent a cold shiver down her spine. He pulled the belt free, then shoved his pants and boxers down, baring himself without a hint of hesitation. His length stood tall, thick, and unapologetically proud, a brutal reminder of how powerless she was in that moment.

He moved over her, caging her body with his, and used his knees to shove her thighs wide open against the mattress. The pressure he applied was deliberate, cruel even, forcing her legs further apart than they wanted to go until a hiss of pain escaped her. Ishita tried to push him away, panic forcing strength into her trembling arms, but he was faster. His hands shot out, capturing her wrists with ease.

Their fingers tangled for a second before he harshly intertwined his with hers, pinning both her hands above her head against the bed. He pressed his weight down over her, chest to chest, body to body, until she could barely move, until any struggle felt useless. Trapped beneath him, her lungs fighting for air and her heart pounding painfully against her ribs, she realized just how helpless she really was.

Ishita tried her best to move, to twist away from him, but her body refused to obey. It was like the weight of him had pinned every muscle in place, leaving her unable to shift even an inch beneath him. Her breathing turned shallow, uneven, her chest rising and falling too quickly as panic clawed at her ribs.

Before she could force words past her bruised lips, his face dipped down, burying itself in the curve of her nape. The sudden warmth of his breath against her skin made her go completely still for a few seconds, shock freezing her in place. She hadn't expected this—not after the slap, not after the way he'd forced her open. Her spine went rigid, every nerve in her body on edge.

His nose brushed slowly along the length of her nape, dragging over her skin in an unhurried path up to her ear. She could feel him breathing her in, feel the way his chest expanded against her back as he took her scent as it belonged to him. The sensation made her eyes slide shut, not in pleasure, but in a twisted mix of disgust and something else—something she hated, something she refused to name.

"You're still the same, Ishita," he whispered against her ear, his voice low and rough, the words seeping under her skin. His teeth caught her earlobe a second later, a sharp nibble that sent a jolt through her body and tore a soft, unwilling gasp from her throat.

She hated it. She hated the way his mouth felt on her, the way his presence swallowed up every inch of space around her. She hated that her body reacted at all when all she wanted was to disappear. Because deep inside, buried under layers of anger and fear, she knew a part of her old self still remembered this. Still craved the familiarity of his touch, no matter how much she despised it now.

"Same face. Same smell. Same sweet voice. Everything is the same," he murmured, each word punctuated with another touch of his lips. He trailed open-mouthed, wet kisses from just below her ear down along the line of her jaw, leaving a slick, burning path in their wake. Her skin shivered where his mouth had been, betraying her even as her mind screamed at her to fight.

He shifted his grip, gathering both of her wrists easily in one large hand and holding them above her head as if they weighed nothing. With her hands trapped in just one of his, his other hand was free, his control over her absolute. Ishita, lost for a moment in the overwhelming swirl of sensations—pain, heat, humiliation, and that unwanted flicker of something more—almost forgot that she needed to push him away, to resist, to do anything but lie there and feel.

His free hand slid down, cupping her breast over the thin fabric of her blouse, his thumb pressing in slow, deliberate circles that made her chest tighten for all the wrong reasons. Before she could even process the sensation, he fisted the fabric and ripped it open, the sound of tearing cloth slicing through the air. He shoved the pallu of her saree off her shoulder, pushing it out of his way like it was nothing more than an annoying obstacle.

The sudden brush of cold air against her bare skin made her eyes snap open. Her nipples tightened instantly, hardening in the chill and under the intensity of his gaze. Heat rushed to her cheeks, humiliation burning through her as she realized just how exposed she was. She tried to gather the scattered pieces of her voice, tried to build a threat out of her trembling words.

"I swear, let go of me or else—"

Her warning was cut short as his mouth crashed down on hers. He bit harshly at the exact spot on her lip that was already torn and bleeding, sending a sharp sting of pain lancing through her. She hissed, more tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, tracking hot and helplessly down her temples.

"Shh, don't," he murmured against her bruised mouth, his tone almost mockingly gentle. "Let me finish first, baby."

While his fingers remained locked around her wrists, his free hand slipped lower, bunching up the soft fabric of her saree. His movements were unhurried, almost intimate, as if he was savoring every second, as if he was testing just how much she could take before she broke. He dragged the saree up and up, the material sliding over her thighs, her hips, baring more of her skin to the cold air and his heated stare.

He didn't stop until the saree was gathered in messy folds around her waist, leaving her completely exposed from below. Vulnerability washed over her in a fresh wave, her body tense and rigid beneath him, every instinct screaming at her to escape.

He leaned down again, capturing her lips once more. This time, the kiss started slow, almost deceptively soft, but there was nothing gentle about the way his mouth claimed hers. It was possessive, consuming, like he was staking his claim with every press of his lips. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing—that the way he angled his mouth, the way he pressed down, left her with no space, no air.

Her lungs began to ache. She tried to turn her head, tried to move her body, but his weight and grip held her in place. Desperation clawed at her insides as she struggled, her chest burning, her mind scattering in a haze of panic. She fought for even the smallest breath, her body twisting uselessly beneath him.

Just when black spots started to dance at the edges of her vision, when dizziness swirled in her skull, and she felt herself slipping toward unconsciousness, he finally pulled back. She dragged in a harsh gasp, gulping at the air like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Her breaths came out ragged and heavy, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself, tried to stop the shaking.

He didn't give her time.

His mouth descended again, but this time not on her lips. He lowered his head and closed his mouth around one hardened nipple, his teeth scraping before he bit down with cruel pressure. A strangled sound tore from her throat as fresh pain flooded her, her back arching involuntarily at the sharp, relentless assault on her sensitive skin.

She cried out, the sound raw and broken. "Let go of me..." Her voice cracked halfway through, the words dissolving into a choked sob as pain shot through her. Her body went still, her struggles slowing, not because the hurt had lessened, but because somewhere inside her she didn't truly expect him to stop. Not him. Not anymore.

She forced her eyes open, forced herself to look at him, to meet the face of the man doing this to her. His gaze was already locked on hers, unflinching. There was no warmth there, no softness, no trace of the man she might have once known. All she saw was hate. Dark, burning, consuming hate. Hate that had settled into his eyes as it belonged there, as it fed him.

Still pinning both her wrists in one hand, he leaned over her, his body shifting just enough so he could reach the bedside drawer. She heard it slide open, the faint rasp of wood against wood, and her stomach dropped. He didn't even need to look; his fingers closed around something inside like he already knew exactly where it was.

Cold metal brushed her skin a second later.

Her right hand was yanked up toward the headboard, and before she could process what was happening, she felt the firm click of a cuff closing around her wrist and the bedpost. Panic surged through her veins, sharp and suffocating. She tugged instinctively, but the cuff held tight, unforgiving against her skin. He intertwined his fingers with her left hand again, his grip tight, controlling, making sure she understood—even with one hand tied, she still wasn't free.

Her body began to shake.

She had been on dangerous missions before, had stared death in the face more times than she could count. She had walked into gunfire, dealt with knives, blood, and threats that would make most people crumble. She knew how to be fearless when the world demanded it from her. But this... this was different. This wasn't a mission. This wasn't survival in the field.

This was personal.

Every instinct inside her screamed that this was the most dangerous, the most terrifying situation she had ever been in. Her muscles trembled, her breath coming in shallow bursts as fear took over, sinking its claws into her spine. She hated it. She hated the weakness, hated the way her body betrayed her with every visible shake. She didn't want him to see her like this, didn't want him to know how badly she was breaking. But she also knew exactly what he was capable of. She knew there was no line he wouldn't cross when it came to hurting her.

His hand moved down between them, steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to destroy her. He positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt, intrusive pressure making her entire body tense. Her breath hitched, her throat tight with dread.

And then he thrust into her.

There was nothing gentle about it. He tore into her brutally, forcing himself inside in one harsh, merciless stroke that ripped a strangled cry from her lips. Pain exploded through her, white-hot and consuming, stealing the air from her lungs. Her tied wrist jerked and twisted against the cuff, metal digging into her skin as she fought instinctively, desperately trying to free herself. She pulled so hard it burned, the edge of the restraint cutting into her flesh, but it didn't give. It held firm, mocking her efforts.

She tried to move away from him, but there was nowhere to go. Her body was pinned under his weight, trapped by his strength, her freedom reduced to the futile clench and tremble of muscles he refused to let her use. Tears blurred her vision, spilling sideways into her hair as she bit down on another cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

He didn't move.

He stayed buried deep inside her, filling her, stretching her around him, holding himself there like he was staking his claim from the inside. The stillness was its own kind of torture. Every beat of her heart pounded around the intrusion, every tiny shift of her body sending another pulse of pain through her. He adjusted his position, wrapping her legs around his hips with cold precision, forcing her to lock around him. It made the invasion worse, made her feel trapped in a way that was suffocating, intimate, and terrifying all at once.

His free hand slid along her side, then shoved her untied left arm further down and behind her back. He pinned it there, pressing her forearm hard into the mattress so it lay trapped beneath the weight of her own body. The position twisted her torso uncomfortably, adding a sharp pull to the already burning ache between her thighs. The more she tried to move, the more it hurt. She was caged from every angle—one wrist cuffed to the bedpost, the other pinned under her, her legs forced open and wrapped around the very man she wanted to push away.

He pressed down, his chest crushing against hers, his weight sinking her deeper into the mattress. The pressure made it hard for her to breathe, her lungs fighting for every shallow inhale. Pain throbbed, relentless. Fear coiled tighter in her stomach. And under it all, like a poison she couldn't purge, was the realization that he wasn't in a hurry.

He had no intention of ending this quickly.

He wanted her to feel every second of it.

He cupped her face with both hands, fingers digging into her cheeks just enough to remind her that even this touch was a form of control. His thumbs pressed into the tender skin beneath her eyes, forcing her to look straight at him, trapping her gaze in his.

"Where was I?" he murmured, almost as if he had genuinely forgotten. "Umm, yeah... You are still the same."

His voice was soft, almost lazy, but she could feel the way it lingered on the edge of something dangerous. Every syllable slid over her skin like the cold side of a blade. His eyes, once merely sharp, now turned fully cold and lethal, that familiar, terrifying darkness swallowing every trace of humanity from them. These were the same eyes that would not think twice before destroying someone a hundred times over in the most brutal way imaginable, only to keep them alive afterward—so that he could keep torturing them. There was no mercy there —Only intent.

"But these eyes..." he went on, his thumbs brushing beneath hers as if he were admiring them. "I don't like them anymore."

Her breath hitched.

"They look rebellious to me," he said, voice dropping lower, the word rebellious tasting like something foul on his tongue. "They don't look like they belong to my submissive Ishita."

His words cut deeper than any slap or bite. They slid into her like ice, lodging themselves somewhere in the center of her chest. Terror surged through her, violent and sudden, dragging a full-body shiver out of her. Her whole body shook, not just from the pain, not just from the helplessness, but from the knowledge that he meant every single word.

She tried to summon her bravest self, tried to drag the fearless Aarohi forward, the version of her who could walk into danger without flinching, who could smile in the face of threats and bleed without making a sound. But right now, it felt like both Ishita and Aarohi were cowering inside her, pressed into some dark corner, terrified of the man hovering above them. The roles blurred, the identities tangled, and all that remained was fear.

He tilted his head to the side, suddenly pulling a mockingly cute pout, as if he were a child trying to solve a harmless little puzzle. "Umm, what should I do..." he hummed, pretending to think, his tone light, almost playful. The contrast made bile rise in her throat. "Umm, yeah. I have an idea."

The smirk that followed was anything but playful.

He glanced down toward the side table, his hands slipping away from her face for a brief moment. Her heart stuttered, beating harder when she saw his fingers curl around the handle of a knife resting there. The metal glinted dully in the dim light as he lifted it, but he didn't bring it straight to her. Instead, he reached for the small green American apple lying beside it.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he stabbed the knife into the apple. The blade sank in with a soft crunch, the fruit giving way easily. The sound, so ordinary under any other circumstance, felt sinister here. He lifted both the apple and the knife together, the fruit skewered neatly on the blade.

Her eyes followed every movement, wide and unblinking. Her breathing turned shallow, her lips trembling despite her attempt to clamp them shut. She didn't know what he was planning—but she knew it wouldn't be anything good.

He brought the knife closer, the cold steel hovering near her mouth, the apple a bright, almost mocking contrast against the harshness of the scene. His other hand returned to her face, fingers clamping down harder than before. He squeezed her jaw and cheeks with cruel precision, forcing her lips apart, forcing her mouth open whether she wanted it or not.

"No," she tried to mumble, the sound barely formed. Her head jerked weakly against his grip, but he didn't loosen his hold. His fingers dug in deeper, nails leaving crescent moons in her skin as he pried her mouth open wider.

And then he shoved the apple in.

He stuffed the whole thing into her mouth at once, ignoring the strain in her jaw, ignoring the way her eyes went glassy with pain. The hard, unyielding fruit stretched her lips to their limit, lodging itself between her teeth and tongue, blocking any sound, any word, any plea. The taste of tart, raw apple flooded her senses as she gagged around it, unable to spit it out, unable to bite through it fast enough to free herself.

He pulled the knife out of the apple in a slow, almost lazy motion, the blade sliding free with a wet squelch of juice. Now the fruit sat wedged in her mouth, her own breath hot and panicked around it, her protests reduced to muffled, desperate sounds he clearly had no intention of listening to.