.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗 𝕯𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 ‧₊˚ ⋅
The warm glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in a golden hue as Myra sat cross-legged on the bed, a book resting on her lap. The faint sound of the city beyond their window provided a s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
M Y R A
The silence of the night was sacred in my penthouse, draped in shadows that whispered secrets I fought to keep buried. The city of Mumbai sprawled beneath me like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with a chaotic energy that I could never quite escape. Tonight, that energy was different, heavier. It pressed against the glass, wrapping around me like an unseen force.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of red wine cradled in my hand, tracing the patterns of the city lights with my eyes. They blinked in and out, like Morse code messages that only I could hear. The tension in the air was palpable, but I wasn’t sure if it was just my mind, haunted by memories, or something more tangible.
A sharp ring from the doorbell sliced through the silence, jerking me out of my reverie. The suddenness of it made my hand clench involuntarily, and the wine sloshed against the side of the glass. Midnight. No one came to see me at this hour. No one dared.
I placed the glass down on the mahogany table, ignoring the slight tremble in my fingers as I walked toward the door. Each step seemed to echo, amplified by the silence, a drumbeat that matched the thudding in my chest. My mind raced through a list of possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. A cold shiver snaked up my spine, but I masked it with a steadying breath.
With a practiced, steely expression, I opened the door, and the sight before me pulled the air from my lungs.
Ruhaan Sherawat stood there, a specter from my past, drenched in blood and shadows. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes—those piercing, storm-laden eyes—locked onto mine as though they held a question only I could answer. A deep gash marred his left side, where his black shirt had torn, exposing skin that was slick with crimson.
“Treat me,” he said, his voice a rough whisper that felt more like an order than a request.
Instinct took over before reason could catch up. I tried to shut the door, the weight of my decisions over the past few years pressing down on me. But he moved with surprising speed, wedging his injured arm between the door and the frame. I saw the grimace flash across his features, a mere flicker before it was swallowed by his stubborn defiance.
“You’re hurt,” I said, my voice as cold as the steel that lined the doorframe.
“Treat me, sweetheart,” he repeated, his tone softer now, almost coaxing. His mouth curved into a smirk despite the pain I knew he felt. “I won’t repeat it again.”
Before I could react, he leaned in, catching me completely off guard. His lips brushed mine, brief and electric, setting fire to nerves I thought had long since been extinguished. It was a kiss meant not for comfort but for control. And damn it, it worked. For a split second, I stood paralyzed, the world narrowed down to the heat between us, the taste of danger and memories.
