𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟕. Even or Odd

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ikshita pov

the bright, unapologetic sunrays slapped me right across the face, forcing my eyes open.

For a second, my brain lagged. My body felt too comfortable, the sheets too soft, the air too smug.

Then it hit me.

Wait. Where the actual hell am I?

I sat up like a queen rudely woken from her throne and froze. Not my bed. Not my room.
The expensive cologne lingering in the air, the intimidating black furniture, the sharp scent of arrogance practically embedded in the walls—yeah, this wasn't mine.

My gaze dropped to myself and—oh, fabulous. HIS shirt.
Loose, crumpled, sleeves rolled up like some twisted declaration of ownership. My lips curled into a scoff. Of course. Out of all the humiliating scenarios in the universe, I had to wake up in HIS bed.

And then, like the universe really wanted me to choke, I saw it.
A faint lipstick smear, right across the collar. Not mine. Definitely not mine.

For a millisecond, my chest clenched in something close to panic.
But panic wasn't my language. No, I dealt in sharp smirks and sharper claws.

So I leaned back on the pillow like I owned this damn bed, tugged the shirt down my bare legs with deliberate arrogance, and smirked at the lipstick mark.
"Congratulations, darling," I muttered to myself, my voice dripping with venom and pride. "You've officially upgraded his wardrobe into a crime scene."

I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me shocked, confused, or guilty. Not when he hated me enough to burn down my entire existence with a smile.
If this was his game? Perfect. I was already the best player on the board.

Damn foolish man.
As I've always said—men are the most foolish creatures to walk this earth. They strut around like kings, yet can't even control a shirt collar. His shirt—now draped on me—was smudged with lipstick. My fair skin bore the same evidence. His marks. His sins.

And the best part? He had no idea what storm I was about to unleash.
Suspense is my sharpest weapon, and I knew how to play this game. I always act. I always win.

I turned my head, slow, deliberate, and there he was.

Sitting like some dark prince in the far corner of the room, casually sprawled in an armchair, bare-chested.
My eyes betrayed me before my brain caught up—trailing over that chest. Wide. Hard. Unapologetically sculpted like sin itself. The tattoos carved across his skin weren't just ink; they were declarations. Wild, dangerous smirks tattooed onto flesh. They screamed rebellion, power, and arrogance all at once.

The ridges of his abs caught the light, and for a dangerous second, my thoughts went places they shouldn't. That V-line disappearing under his sweatpants? A literal invitation to hell, with him as the gatekeeper.

Ah. Good body. A dangerously good morning view.
But then reality snapped back like a slap.

Bad man. Terrible man.
So technically? Bad morning view.

I let the words play in my mind like a private joke, my lips twitching as I blinked and finally dragged my gaze up—locking straight onto his eyes. Eyes that looked like they already knew I'd been staring too long.

But of course, I smirked.
Because if he thought he was going to make me feel weak in his presence, he clearly hadn't done his homework on me.

"Bonjour, handsome boy," I purred, my voice dripping with mockery as I caught him sitting there—bare chest gleaming, whiskey glass in hand.