❝𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐀𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.❞
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Obsession is a dangerous game, but for him, it's the only game worth playing. Abhiman Singh Rathore, a ruthless underworld king with the face of a savior and the heart of a devil...
I'm jealous of the rain that falls upon your skin. It's closer than my hands have been.
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To crave someone is to hunger, but to obsess is to starve with a desire so fierce it burns through your soul.
And I am obsessed. Obsessed with a five-foot-eight girl who doesn't even know she's mine yet. The woman who has single-handedly turned my world upside down, ripped apart my sanity thread by thread, and left me ravenous for every inch of her soul. She is both my ruination and my salvation -a violent need that shatters and completes me all at once.
Sitara Malhotra.
A name that should be harmless. A name that should not have the power to dismantle a man like me. But fuck, it does. She does. She's a paradox wrapped in a nightmare, wrapped in a goddamn dream. She's become an insatiable hunger I can't seem to quell, a relentless itch under my skin that only grows more maddening with each passing day.
There's no room in this world for softness when it comes to me. No room for weakness or vulnerability. I've carved out my empire with blood and brutality. I am the monster mothers warn their daughters about, the shadow that drags you under and leaves you breathless. And yet, here I am, consumed by the need for this woman who is an angel, a divine goddess, too fucking good for a monster like me.
She's perfection embodied. My perfection. And it infuriates me because she doesn't even realize it. She's unaware of the power she wields over me, the leash she has unknowingly wrapped around my throat. And that drives me insane.
Even her image is a constant distraction-every curve, every inch of her body, taunting me, teasing me. The way her thick thighs curve into that slim waist, the way her hips flare in a way that makes my hands itch to dig into her flesh, to leave bruises of ownership. I want to grip her waist, feel the softness of her skin yielding to my touch as I pull her close, as I make her feel the claim I've already staked on her soul. That waist that would fit perfectly in my hands, just the right size to hold, to squeeze, to control. And those lips. Those fucking lips that drive me to the brink of madness. Full, plush, the kind that beg to be bitten, to be sucked on, to be marked.
Every time I think about her lips, I want to devour them, to kiss her until she's gasping for air, until she's trembling in my arms, knowing that there's no escape from me. Because there isn't. She's trapped, even if she doesn't know it yet. She's caught in my web, and the more she struggles, the tighter it gets.
