Before she could finish, Ranvijay's patience snapped entirely.
In one swift motion, he bent down, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hoisted her up onto his shoulder.
A startled gasp tore from Myra's lips. "Ranvijay! Put me down this instant!"
Ignoring her, he turned on his heels and stormed toward their bedroom, his grip on her unwavering.
"Ranvijay, you brute!" She kicked her legs in protest, pounding her fists against his back, but he didn't even flinch. "You can't just carry me away like some—some barbarian!"
"If you won't listen," he muttered, "I'll make you."
His voice was low, rough, sending an involuntary shiver through her.
Rajeshwari called after them, "Ranvijay! Stop this right now!"
But Ranvijay was beyond reasoning.
Myra thrashed against him, furious. "I swear, if you don't put me down—"
"You'll what, sweetheart?" His voice was laced with amusement. "Scratch me? Scream? Try to run? You forget, Myra… I always catch you."
Heat burned through her at his words. She hated how easily he could make her heart race, how his presence overwhelmed her senses.
The grand doors to their bedroom loomed ahead. Without slowing, Ranvijay shoved them open with one hand, stepping inside.
In one swift motion, he tossed her onto the bed, the force making her gasp as she bounced slightly against the plush mattress. Her heart pounded wildly, her saree pooling around her as she tried to push herself up. But before she could escape, before she could even think—Ranvijay was there.
His strong hands gripped either side of her, his body hovering just above hers, caging her in. The warmth of his presence, the sheer dominance in his posture, sent a shiver cascading down her spine.
Her breath hitched. "Ranvijay…"
His name was barely a whisper, lost between them as his dark eyes locked onto hers. A storm brewed in his gaze—anger, frustration, something deeper, something that made her stomach twist with unfamiliar anticipation.
"You never listen," he murmured, his voice rough, edged with restraint. "You keep pushing me, Myra."
Her fingers clutched the bedsheet beneath her as she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Because you keep hiding things from me," she shot back, though her voice trembled slightly.
Ranvijay exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. His hands tightened against the mattress, knuckles turning white. "You think you can handle the truth?"
"Yes."
His lips curled into a dark smirk, though there was no amusement in it—only intensity, only heat. "Brave words, my lady."
One of his hands lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The touch was gentle, but the way his fingers lingered, the way his gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment, made her pulse race.
"You don't understand what you're asking for," he whispered, his voice almost dangerous in its softness.
Myra swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his sherwani. "Then show me. Tell me. Stop treating me like I'll break."
Ranvijay's entire body tensed. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. The air between them was thick—charged with something Myra wasn't sure she had the strength to fight against.
Then, with a low curse under his breath, he closed the distance.
His forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her lips. His voice, when he spoke, was barely audible. "You already have no idea how much control I'm losing with you, Myra."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Because she wasn't sure she had control anymore either.
Myra's heart thundered in her chest as she shoved at Ranvijay's chest with all her might. "Get off me!" she cried, breathless, flushed with a storm of anger, confusion, and something deeper—something she didn't want to name.
He hadn't expected the sudden push. She slipped out from under him, her saree swishing around her legs as she scrambled off the bed. Her feet hit the cold marble floor, and before he could react, she was running—barefoot, her anklets chiming as she fled down the hallway.
"Myra!" Ranvijay's voice thundered behind her, sharp with authority. But she didn't stop.
Tears burned in her eyes, emotions flooding her chest—anger, helplessness, fear… the overwhelming ache of not understanding him, of constantly being pulled into his storm. She just wanted to breathe.
But before she could make it to the next corridor, a strong arm wrapped around her waist.
She let out a startled gasp as Ranvijay pulled her back against him, lifting her off the ground in one swift motion. He carried her without a word, ignoring her kicking legs and frantic hands pounding against his chest.
"Put me down!" she screamed, furious.
He didn't listen.
Instead, he walked into the nearest sitting room, shut the door with a firm kick, and sat her down on the velvet couch with a controlled but unyielding force. Myra tried to get up again, but he knelt down in front of her before she could, grabbing her ankle gently yet firmly.
Her eyes widened. "What are you doing?!"
Ranvijay didn't speak at first. He took a pair of embroidered slippers from the corner—hers, the ones she always left by the door—and slid them over her feet one by one with deliberate care.
"I don't want my lady hurting her feet," he said quietly, voice low but filled with something raw.
Myra blinked, stunned into stillness.
He looked up at her then, his fingers still wrapped around her ankle. His eyes weren't angry anymore—they were burning with something else. Possession. Concern. Love wrapped in fire.
"You may run from me, Myra. But don't run barefoot."
Her chest tightened painfully.
It was such a simple gesture… and yet it shook her more than any kiss, any word. Because it wasn't just about the slippers. It was about how he saw her—as someone to be protected, treasured. Even when he was furious. Even when she hated him.
"Why do you keep doing this to me?" she whispered, eyes brimming.
Her breath caught when, instead of backing away, he moved closer—his tall frame towering over her as he sat beside her on the edge of the couch.
She tried to turn her face away, still angry, still shaken—but his hand came up, slow and deliberate. He cupped the back of her head, his fingers weaving gently through her hair, and tugged her face closer until their foreheads almost touched.
Her breath hitched.
His touch wasn't harsh—but it wasn't soft either. It was possessive. Certain. As if there was no room for doubt.
He looked into her eyes, voice low and rough. "Because you're mine," he said, each word falling like a vow. "And I'll protect every inch of you... even if you hate me for it."
Myra's lips parted, but no words came out. Her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her ears. She could feel his breath against her skin, feel the way his thumb brushed the side of her neck—just once—as if grounding himself with her presence.
She hated the way her body reacted. The way her anger twisted into something hotter, deeper. The way his nearness made her tremble, not with fear, but with something else entirely.
"You don't get to decide that," she whispered, voice barely audible.
His eyes darkened. "I already did, Myra."
And in that moment—between resistance and surrender, fire and silence—they just stared at each other, tangled in emotions too complicated to name.