The choker around Meher’s neck was soft as a whisper, black as Kabir’s soul.
She stared at herself in the mirror—dark kajal, blood-red lipstick, neck wrapped in velvet. A symbol of his control, disguised as luxury.
“You like it?” Kabir asked, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“No,” she said quietly. “But I wear it. Isn’t that what you want?”
He walked to her, slow and dangerous. “Obedience dressed in silk. That’s what every king wants.”
She turned to face him, her gaze fierce. “I’m not yours, Kabir.”
His fingers brushed her throat, over the velvet. “Then why haven’t you taken it off?”
She froze.
Because she didn’t know the answer. Because a part of her—dark and ashamed—liked the feeling of being claimed.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
His thumb dragged across her lower lip, eyes burning into hers. “Good. Hate keeps the blood warm.”
He walked away, leaving her alone in the room with her thoughts and the mirror.
Meher touched the choker again. It didn’t feel like just velvet anymore. It felt like a promise.
A warning.
A chain she was no longer sure she wanted to break.
Because somewhere between fear and fire…
She had started to feel.
And feelings, in Kabir’s world, were more dangerous than bullets.
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