Myra forced herself to hold Ranvijay's gaze, steady and unwavering. She couldn't let him see the storm raging inside her.
"Nothing?" he repeated, stepping closer.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she gave a small, tired sigh. "I told you, I'm just tired."
Ranvijay studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes searching for something—hesitation, a crack in her lie.
She couldn't let him find it.
Turning away, she walked to the dressing table and picked up her earrings, pretending to remove them with care. "Did you need something?" she asked casually, as if he wasn't standing there, as if she wasn't hiding something dangerous just inches away.
Ranvijay didn't answer immediately. She could feel his gaze lingering, burning into her back.
Finally, he exhaled. "You've been acting strange since the temple."
Her fingers stilled for half a second before she forced them to move again. "I told you, I'm tired." She met his eyes in the mirror, her voice light but firm. "Or do I need your permission for that too?"
His lips twitched slightly, but not in amusement. More like… curiosity. As if he wasn't sure whether to believe her or not.
After a long pause, he took a step back.
"Fine," he said at last. "Rest, then."
He turned toward the door, but before he left, his voice dropped into something quieter. Something unreadable.
"But don't think for a second that I don't notice things, Myra."
Her breath caught.
Then he walked out, leaving her alone.
She waited. Counted her breaths.
One. Two. Three.
Then, moving swiftly, she grabbed the note from where she had hidden it beneath the folds of her dupatta and tucked it inside her jewelry box. Somewhere safe.
Her hands were still shaking.
Someone had lied to her about her mother's death.
And someone else wanted her to know the truth.
But the most terrifying part?
She had a feeling that Ranvijay was somehow connected to it.
And if that was true…
Then she was sleeping beside the most dangerous man of all.
Myra's hands trembled as she locked the jewelry box, concealing the note that had just shaken her entire world. Her heart screamed at her to find out the truth, to dig deeper, but she knew she had to be careful. Right now, she couldn't risk making Ranvijay suspicious.
For now, she would wait.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
One of the royal attendants stood outside, bowing slightly. "Dadi Sa has called for you and Ranvijay, . She has arranged a post-wedding tradition."
Myra's stomach twisted.
Another ritual. Another act of being the perfect new bride.
She turned to find Ranvijay leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed, watching her. His gaze was unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked at her—like he was still trying to figure her out.
"Come, Myra," he said, his voice smooth yet firm. "Dadi Sa doesn't like to wait."
She nodded silently, brushing her fingers over her saree, making sure everything was in place. Whatever was coming, she had to play along.
The palace hall shimmered with golden light, the scent of sandalwood and fresh marigolds filling the air. Dadi Sa sat at the head of the gathering, her piercing gaze fixed on Myra and Ranvijay. Tonight's ritual wasn't just a tradition—it was a test of trust, of submission, of devotion.
"The Agni Paath," Dadi Sa announced, "is an old tradition where the bride must walk across a narrow wooden plank, carrying a lit diya in her hands. It symbolizes a wife's ability to endure hardships with grace."
Myra's heart pounded.
The plank was balanced over a shimmering pool in the courtyard. One misstep, and she would fall.
"But," Dadi Sa continued, her gaze flicking to Ranvijay, "a husband must ensure his wife never stumbles. If she falters, he must steady her."
Silence followed her words.
Then, Myra felt it—the heat of Ranvijay's stare.
She turned toward him.
His dark eyes burned with something dangerous, something raw. Love. Obsession. Possession.
She swallowed hard.
He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're mine, doll," he murmured, his fingers grazing her wrist. "You won't fall. I won't let you."
A shiver ran through her.
She should have pushed his hand away. Should have ignored the way his touch set fire to her skin. But before she could react, the ritual began.
The wooden plank wobbled under Myra's bare feet as she took slow, careful steps, the diya trembling in her hands. She focused on the warm glow of the flame, ignoring the hushed murmurs of the royal family watching her.
One step. Then another.
She could do this.
But then—
A sharp creak.
The plank tilted slightly. Her breath hitched as her balance wavered.
And in an instant—he was there.
Ranvijay's hands gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her skin with a fierce protectiveness. He pulled her against him, his strong arms locking her in place.
"Careful, doll," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "You wouldn't want to fall into anyone else's hands, would you?"
A wave of heat rushed to her face.
"Let go," she whispered breathlessly, even as her body betrayed her, leaning into his warmth.
His grip tightened. His breath was hot against her neck.
"Never."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The diya in her hands flickered, its glow illuminating their entwined shadows on the water below.
"Finish it," he murmured, his voice deep, commanding. "Show them you're strong."
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. With slow, deliberate steps, she reached the end of the plank and placed the diya on the ceremonial plate.
The elders clapped softly. The ritual was complete.
But Myra barely heard them.
Ranvijay still hadn't let her go.
She turned in his arms, her breath uneven. His gaze burned into her, dark and hungry.
"You did well," Dadi Sa declared. "This bond is unshakable."
Unshakable. Inevitable. Inescapable.
Myra had survived the ritual.
But as Ranvijay smirked, brushing his fingers over the silk of her saree before finally releasing her—
She knew she wasn't surviving him.
The night was alive with the sound of laughter, the air thick with the scent of mehendi. The golden lights shimmered around the palace courtyard, creating an almost magical atmosphere. Myra sat stiffly, surrounded by relatives, but her attention was on him.
Ranvijay, with his dark intensity and powerful presence, was standing nearby. His eyes, locked on her, bore a promise that made her breath hitch.
Then, without warning, he was beside her. He took her wrist gently, his fingers warm, and guided her toward him.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice low.
Before she could respond, he made her sit down on his lap, his strong arms wrapping around her waist with ease.
Myra froze, her heart pounding at the unexpected proximity. His touch was all-consuming, a reminder of his dominance, of how much he owned her—body and soul.
She tried to shift uncomfortably, but his grip tightened, and he whispered against her ear, "Stay still." "Unless you want my hands on you longer."
The mehendi artist looked on in surprise but said nothing as Ranvijay took the cone from her hands. His body pressed hers closer as he worked, his fingers tracing the delicate design on her palm.
With every stroke, she felt the weight of his touch, his presence, marking her deeper than the mehendi ever could. His name was written across her skin, bold and deliberate, a claim no one could ignore.
"You're mine," Ranvijay muttered under his breath as he continued, his eyes dark with desire. "And I'll make sure everyone knows it."
The designs took shape—delicate swirls, intricate flowers—but hidden within them, his name emerged in deep, bold strokes.
Ranvijay.
A name that now belonged to her skin.
A name that belonged to her.
Her breath quickened as she watched him, watched the way his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, the way his lips curled at the edges, dark and satisfied.
Then, just as he finished, he did something unexpected.
He lifted her hand—slowly, deliberately—bringing it dangerously close to his lips.
Her pulse skidded.
"Ranvijay—" she started, but the rest of her words died in her throat as his warm breath fanned over her palm.
His lips didn't touch. Not quite. But the heat of them hovered just above the fresh mehendi, teasing, taunting.
"You know what they say, doll," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "The darker the mehendi, the deeper the love."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Let's see how dark yours turns."
With that, he finally released her hand, leaving her breathless, flushed, and completely undone.
As the night went on, Myra couldn't stop staring at her hands.
The mehendi had darkened beautifully, Ranvijay's name carved deep into her skin.
Her fingers curled slightly, her mind still reeling from the way he had held her, touched her.
Possessive. Dark. Desiring.
And the worst part?
She felt it too.
Ranvijay had left his mark on her—not just in mehendi, but in ways far more dangerous.
And as he stood across the courtyard, his gaze locked onto hers, intense and knowing.
She realized she wasn't sure if she wanted to escape it.
Or fall deeper.
With trembling hands, she grabbed a cloth and began to scrub at her palm, hoping to erase his name, to wipe away the feeling of being marked.
But as she rubbed, a pair of firm hands grabbed her wrist.
Her heart stopped.
Ranvijay's eyes glowed with fury, yet his voice was deadly calm. "What do you think you're doing?"
Myra tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron.
"Let me go," she whispered, her voice trembling with defiance.
"Trying to remove my mark?" He tilted her chin, his gaze locking onto hers. "You think you can erase me that easily?"
"I don't want this," she spat, her eyes blazing. "I never asked for it. I never wanted it."
Ranvijay's smirk was dark, almost wicked, as he tightened his grip. "You can try all you want, Myra. But I'm not so easy to get rid of."
His thumb traced the mehendi design on her palm, the boldness of his actions matching the weight of his words.
"This," he whispered, "is my promise to you. And you'll wear it forever."