06 | MINE

Obsession doesn't arrive screaming. 

It doesn't crash into your life like a tidal wave—it creeps in, stealthy as breath.

It arrives in whispers.
In glances that last a heartbeat too long.
In the soft clink of porcelain against marble when he sets down his cup.
In the way he walks barefoot across cold floors like he owns the silence. 

Obsession doesn't shout—it sighs.
It wraps itself around your lungs until you can't breathe without it.

Obsession wraps around you gently—at first.
But its grip tightens slowly.
And by the time you realize it's strangling you, it's already too late.

That first morning, I didn't realize it—or maybe I did.
Maybe I just wasn't brave enough to admit it. 

Because love had already seeped into the marrow of my bones, curling in the spaces between my ribs like a secret.
Every time he exhaled, I held my breath.
Every time he looked at me, I felt something ancient unravel inside my chest.

But you're here now, reader.
And I'll tell you everything.

I'll lay it bare.

Let me tell you how gods aren't born—they're forged.
In the heat of want. In the ache of restraint. In the patience that isn't patience at all, but hunger dressed in silk.

He was the lightning that cracked my sky open. 

And I let him.

Aaryan Veer Rajwansha was my slow undoing. 

And I... I let him.

Aaryan Veer Rajwansha wasn't the storm—I was.
But he was the lightning that cracked my sky open and lit my world on fire.

And I let him. 

I welcomed the burn.

୨ৎ

[Past timeline] 

The house was wrapped in a silence so thick it felt sentient—like it knew what we'd done.
Like it held my moans in its walls.
Like it remembered the bruises blooming on my hips, the imprint of his hands, the sound of the bed slamming against the wall.

I padded into the kitchen, barefoot, wrapped in his black shirt that smelled like secrets.
The sleeves dangled past my fingertips.
The hem brushed my thighs.
His scent—espresso, salt, musk, sin—clung to me like confession. 

It wrapped around me like the night hadn't ended.

I moved on instinct.
No thoughts.
No logic. 

Just breath and heartbeat and the echo of his voice in my skull. I poured two cups of coffee.
One for me.
One for him.
Because somewhere deep in me, I already knew he'd be awake. 

That he'd feel my absence like a wound.

And then—there he was.

Leaning against the doorway, shirtless.
Sleep-mussed hair, eyes heavy and unreadable.
His tattoos inked like sacred vows on sun-kissed skin.
Shadows clung beneath his eyes, but he still looked carved from some ancient myth.

He didn't speak.

He just watched me.

Like I was sunrise and he hadn't slept in centuries.
Like I was the last real thing in the world.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, voice fragile.

His lips curved into something sinful. "Because it's the only time the storm in me feels calm."

And I—
I melted.
I shattered.
I became need.
I became want. 

I became his. 

୨ৎ

We sat on the balcony. 

The sun still shy in the sky.
The wind tangled my hair.
The city stretched around us like a kingdom, and I—queen of nothing—held a god beside me who could destroy it all.

"This can't become something," I whispered.

He leaned back.
Casual. Dangerous. 

Like he didn't care if the world burned as long as I stayed.

"It already is."

It wasn't flirtation.

It was fact.

"You don't understand," I said, pushing the words through clenched teeth. "Men like you—"

"Don't," he cut in. "Don't put me in a category."

I stiffened. 

He continued, voice low and lethal.

"You think I don't know what I am? I've ended dynasties with a breath. Burned down legacies for less. I don't ask. I take. I don't feel guilt. But you—"

He looked at me, and something broke in that stare.

"You ruin me just by existing."

୨ৎ

I tried to leave.

Tried to grab the last shred of control.
Phone clutched tight.
Bag over my shoulder.
Heart breaking with every step.

But he followed.

He didn't shout.
Didn't plead. 

Just walked up and took my wrist.

Not harsh.
Not forceful. 

Just final.

"If you walk," he said, voice husky, "I'll follow. Through hell. Through heaven. Through every damn battlefield you try to escape to."

And I believed him. 

Because he meant it.
And because the sick, aching truth?

I wanted him to follow.

......

He stood near the window, shirt open, morning haloing his form.
Light wrapped around him like divinity. 

Like warning.

I crossed the room.

My heart didn't pound. It roared.

I didn't think.

I acted.

I kissed him.

And everything shifted.

There was no hesitation.
No teasing. 

Just surrender.

Our mouths met in a collision of breath and hunger.
His hands cupped my jaw like I was holy. 

My fingers buried in his hair.
He kissed like he'd die if he stopped.
Like my mouth was salvation and he'd sinned too much to deserve it.

That kiss didn't ignite our story.

It destroyed everything we were before.

......

We didn't speak.

The silence had weight.
Had teeth.

He sat at the edge of the bed, fists clenched.
Muscles taut.
Soul bleeding.

I came to him.

Knelt behind him.

Pressed my cheek to the curve of his spine.
My breath followed the ridges of his back.
My fingers trembled as they brushed the ink on his skin.

He tensed.
But said nothing.

"You kneel for no one," he rasped.

I smiled, lips brushing skin.

"Then why do you shake when I do?"

He turned.
Swift and wild.

And suddenly I was in his lap.

His hands gripped my waist.
Mine cradled his face.

And he spoke like he was breaking.

"I don't need a kingdom," he whispered.
"I need you."

"I'd sell my name for your breath."

"You're not just mine, Meher. You're my undoing."

And I let him fall apart in my arms.

Because his ruin felt like a resurrection.

Night fell like velvet. 

The sky outside burned with stars.
But we were fire, too.

He kissed me like it was the last time.
Like every second was a sacrifice.
His hands mapped every inch of me.
Mouth trailing promises down my neck.

"Say it," he murmured against my skin.

"I'm yours," I breathed.

"Again."

"I'm yours, Aaryan. Always. Every breath."

He moved inside me like prayer.
Like vengeance.
Like worship.

There was no pain.

Only the ache of being known.

He didn't take me.

He consumed me.

Branded me with praise:
"My miracle." "My madness." "My fucking forever."

We shattered—sweat and sound and skin.

We shattered, and the world came back changed.

୨ৎ

[Present]

I woke alone, with the bedsheets wrapped tightly around my legs like the aftermath of a storm.

The space beside me was empty, but not cold—still faintly warm from where his body had been just moments before.
My muscles ached deliciously, thighs sore from the way he had held me, taken me, owned me the night before.

The memory of his breath against my neck, his voice rasping against my skin, still clung to me like perfume.

My fingers brushed the hollow where his throat had rested above mine. I sighed, not in longing—but in recognition. Because I already knew where he was. 

I could feel the pull of him even through walls.

I sat up, running a hand through tangled hair, letting the sheet fall.
The entire room smelled like us—like sex and sweat and sin. 

I slipped out of bed, still wearing nothing but the oversized black shirt he had tugged over my head last night when he whispered, "You're too sacred to be left bare in this world."

The house was silent, but I heard it faintly: a low, rhythmic thud, steady and sharp. Leather striking leather. 

A grunt that sounded like pain tangled in release.

I padded barefoot through the hall, heart beating louder with every step, drawn like a magnet to heat.

Where was he?

Then I heard it.

The rhythmic sound of fists meeting leather. Thuds echoing down the corridor. That sharp exhale of control unraveled. 

He was in the gym. 

Of course he was.

And he was beautiful—violent and beautiful in that way only a man trying to outrun his demons could be.

The bedsheets were tangled around my legs, cool from his absence. The scent of him lingered—citrus, cedar, heat. 

I blinked into morning light, pulse stirring before my thoughts caught up.

I slipped from bed, skin bare beneath his shirt.
I didn't bother with modesty.
Not with him. 

He had already seen everything.
Taken everything.

The gym door was ajar.

And there he was.

Aaryan Veer Rajwansha.

Topless.
Black joggers slung low.
Veins prominent on his forearms.
His body was a canvas of shadow and ink—sweat gleaming on muscle like a second skin.
Every strike to the punching bag was precise.
Brutal. 

Like he was exorcising demons with his fists.

I stood frozen.

He looked up.

Saw me in his shirt, oversized and barely covering my thighs.

Predator.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice gravel-dark.

I stepped into the room.

"Bed's colder without you."

He smirked.
A wicked, wolfish thing. 

He didn't say a word—just dropped the gloves, crossed the space like a storm.

And his eyes—those impossible, obsidian eyes—went molten.

"Come here."

I did.

He backed me into the mirrored wall, the heat of his body pressing into mine.

Cold glass on my spine.
Hot fury in his eyes.

"You wake up looking like sin, come in here wearing my shirt, and expect me to finish my set?" he murmured, voice hot at my neck.

"And I thought you had control," I whispered.

"And I lose it with you," he growled. "Every. Fucking. Time."

"You look like you want to be punished," he growled, fingers sliding between my thighs, slick already. "Fucking soaked." 

And then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was violent.
Beautiful. 

He tore the shirt off me in one motion, lifting me onto the bench like I weighed nothing.
His tongue claimed.
His hands bruised.

"You're mine," he hissed against my lips.

"I've always been yours."

His breath came hard against my ear.

The mirror behind us trembled. 

Then he bent me over the bench, yanked the shirt over my head.

My reflection in the mirror was debauched—hair messy, lips parted, eyes glazed. His form behind me—towering, dominant.

He slapped my ass once—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make me arch into him.

"Count," he said darkly.

"One," I gasped.

Another slap.

"Two."

"Good girl," he murmured, unzipping his joggers. "Now take what's mine."

He entered me in one brutal thrust, hand fisted in my hair. I cried out, nails clawing the bench. His other hand gripped my waist, holding me still as he pounded into me mercilessly.

"Say it," he snarled.

"I'm yours," I gasped. "Fuck—Aaryan—I'm yours."

He growled, dragging his tongue along my spine. "Say what you are."

"I'm yours. Whatever you want."

"That's right."

He pulled out, turned me around, lifted me by the thighs and thrust back in, holding me up against the mirror.
Our bodies slick.
His cock hitting deep. 

My breath fogging the glass.

"Mirror's watching you fall apart on my cock," he rasped.

He bit my shoulder.
Sucked a bruise under my jaw.

His thumb found my clit, rubbed fast, ruthless circles until I shattered around him.

He came with a groan that sounded like worship, hips jerking, forehead pressed to mine.

"Mine," he whispered. "Every broken fucking piece of you."

And I—
I had never felt more whole.

"You want to know what I think about when you're not around?" he rasped. 

"Tell me," I moaned.

"Ruining you. Again. And again. Until the only name you remember is mine."

His rhythm was merciless.
Sweat and skin.
Moans and growls.

I shattered in his arms.

And when he followed, he bit down on my shoulder like a mark.
Like a brand.

We didn't just break rules in that gym.

We wrote new commandments.

You must think I'm mad.

To love him.

To let him do this to me.
To let him crawl under my skin and stitch himself into every nerve ending.

But madness is only love with its mask off.

And with him, I don't want sanity. I want ruin.

Aaryan doesn't love softly.
He doesn't offer flowers or promises wrapped in silk. 

He offers thunder.
Chaos.
Brutality dressed as devotion.

He is a man who will burn cities for me—and make me watch.

And I—I would pour the gasoline.

You don't survive love like this.
You surrender to it.

You don't walk away from a god.
You fall on your knees.

And I have.

Over and over again.

And the truth?

I don't want to get back up.

୨ৎ

[Aaryan's Pov] 

Let me tell you something people rarely admit out loud—
Some men don't believe in God.
But they kneel anyway.

Not to some holy altar.

But to her.

To the woman who doesn't ask them to be anything but theirs. To the one who doesn't try to fix what's broken—but wraps her warmth around the cracks like golden thread through shattered glass.

I never believed in divinity.
Until I met Meher Shaan Rathore.

And somewhere between my silence and her sigh,
I built a temple for her in my chest.

୨ৎ

I hadn't come back here in years.

The Rajwansha Estate—ancestral, haunted, hollow. A monument of granite and ghosts, of bloodlines and betrayals. The place where power was currency, and affection was weakness. Every inch of that estate was lined with mirrors—some real, some metaphorical. And all of them reflected the same image:

A boy with too many expectations on his back and no softness to lean against.

I walked down the gravel path, the stones crunching like old bones beneath my shoes. The staff had long changed, but the fear remained. Fear of my surname. Fear of what I became after my father left without a word. After my mother began speaking only in silence.

You want the truth?

I became this version of Aaryan Veer Rajwansha—calculating, cold, composed—not by choice. But by necessity.

You don't survive a house like that with softness.

You sharpen your smile.
You armor your voice.
You weaponize your silence.

But even the sharpest blades dull eventually.

And I...
I had been bleeding for years before she ever touched me.

I stood in the room where my father used to bark orders and my mother used to sip wine like it was a sedative. I saw the fireplace where I used to burn my drawings because "artists don't build empires." I saw the cracked corner of the marble wall where I'd once punched in rage at age thirteen—and the scar was still there. So was mine.

"You'll never be enough," my father's voice still echoed.

Funny. I became too much instead.

And still—still—I stood there, a grown man, a billionaire, a feared name...
Empty.

Until I heard her laugh in my mind. The memory of it. Soft, sarcastic, divine.

And I whispered to the walls that raised me,
"I don't believe in gods. Just her."

୨ৎ

I hadn't told her I was coming back here.

But she found me anyway.

Of course she did.

It was twilight when she arrived—wearing no makeup, in a plain black kurta, barefoot. She didn't say a word as she crossed the stone garden that once hosted political giants and corrupted kings. She didn't look at the estate like the others did—awed, intimidated.

She looked at it like it owed her answers.

And maybe it did.

Maybe all the men like me—broken, bruised, burned—owed their women explanations that had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with survival.

She found me seated by the old fountain. The water had long dried up, like the affection in this house. I was clenching my fists, jaw tight, breathing uneven.

She didn't speak.

She just took my hand.

Her fingers laced through mine—slow, sure, sacred. As if she didn't need me to explain. As if she already knew.

She led me to the ground, on the grass. No royal throne. No hardened bench.

Just earth.

Just us.

Just silence.

And it healed more than any apology ever could.

I didn't cry.

Not really.

Not like the world cries—loud, leaking, sobbing.

I broke.

I cracked in half like porcelain dropped too hard.
I told myself I wouldn't.
I told myself I couldn't.

Not in front of her.

But she just pulled me into her arms. Not coddling. Not "shh"-ing.

Just holding.

Anchoring.

Her presence felt like breath after suffocation.

I let it pour out then. The pain. The pressure. The poison I'd swallowed for too long. I told her about the time I built a miniature city at fourteen, and my mother threw it away because "boys don't play with dreams." I told her how my father told me to stop crying at eight or he'd give me a reason to.

I told her how I grew up chasing power because I didn't know peace.

And she...

God, Meher...

She brushed my temple with her lips and whispered:

"You were never weak.
They were just too blind to see your strength."

And for the first time in my life, I believed it.

Not because she convinced me with arguments.
But because she never looked away.

୨ৎ

I've touched a hundred women in my life.

But when I touch her, I swear, my soul leaves my body.

That night, under the moonlight near the estate ruins, I held her hand and kissed each knuckle. Not out of romance. Not even out of lust.

But because each part of her deserved reverence.
Because she didn't rescue me—she resurrected me.

I pressed her fingers to my lips.

"This body is yours," I whispered.
"This soul is yours.
Everything I am... is built for you."

I wasn't saying vows.

I was giving her blueprints to the man she rebuilt.

I laid my head on her lap. Closed my eyes. Felt her fingers in my hair.

And that's when I knew—
I didn't fall in love with Meher.
I rose into love with her.

She didn't just heal me.

She hallowed me.

She didn't ask for a temple.
But I built one anyway.

Right here.
In my ribcage.
Where only she can pray.

"Some men worship gods.
I worship the woman who made my chaos sacred."