Anya's ancient antics: a mahabharat tale

chapter 43

⚠️ Warning to Readers ⚠️
This chapter is a bit spicy 🌶️ and a little mature .If you're feeling comfortable, go ahead and dive in!
But if you're not ready for the heat, you might wanna grab some ice water first! 😅🥵

Enjoy! 😏🔥

As the first light of dawn filtered into the chamber, casting a soft, golden glow across the room, Anya stirred in her sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked a few times to adjust to the gentle morning light. To her surprise, she found herself waking up early, something that was rare for her. She turned slightly, only to notice Duryodhan sleeping peacefully beside her, his strong arm draped possessively over her waist.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she watched him. *He looks so different when he’s asleep,* she thought to herself, her heart warming at the sight. His usual fierce expression was softened, his face relaxed in the quiet of sleep. For a moment, she simply admired him—his broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath, the warmth of his body close to hers.

Carefully, she loosened his hold on her waist, giggling quietly to herself when he mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and tightened his grip before finally releasing her. She slipped out of bed quietly and made her way to freshen up, her steps light so as not to wake him.

After a refreshing bath, Anya stood in front of the mirror, fumbling with the edges of her blue saree. The fabric was stunning, a rich shade of blue that seemed to glow against her fair complexion and blonde hair. Yet, despite the beauty of the saree, she couldn’t help but grumble as she tried to get the pleats right.

“Ugh, how do people do this every day?” she muttered under her breath. Before her marriage, she had been used to wearing dresses—modern, easy-to-manage outfits from her own time. And now, though she loved the elegance of sarees, she hadn’t quite mastered the art of draping them.

Normally, her maid Tara helped her with this task, but today she wanted to try it herself. Unfortunately, her attempts were less than successful. The pallu kept slipping from her shoulder, and her pleats were a mess. She huffed in frustration, struggling to pin it properly.

Just as she was about to give up, she felt a warm hand on her back, gently adjusting the fabric. Startled, she glanced up into the mirror and saw Duryodhan standing behind her. He had just bathed as well, and his damp hair clung to his forehead. He was wearing only a dhoti, the soft cotton fabric hanging low on his waist, revealing the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. His usual uttariya was absent, leaving his upper body bare. Anya couldn't help but catch a whiff of the sandalwood soap he always used—it was intoxicating.

“Struggling, are we?” he teased, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. His fingers brushed against her skin as he adjusted the pallu, his touch deliberate and slow, sending warmth spreading through her body.

“I... I was doing fine until you showed up,” she replied, her voice light but playful as she tilted her head, watching him in the mirror. “You’re just here to make me feel incompetent, aren’t you?”

Duryodhan chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Not at all, my little rabbit. Just lending a hand,” he said, his fingers now deftly arranging the pleats of her saree. His hands moved with confidence, securing the fabric at her waist, his touch lingering longer than necessary.

Anya felt her cheeks heat up, her breath catching slightly as his fingers brushed over her waist, drawing the saree tighter around her. The physical closeness between them was both intimate and comforting. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, the scent of sandalwood filling the space around her. She glanced up at him in the mirror, her eyes meeting his as he concentrated on the task at hand.