𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 : 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

{22}•ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ•

ANIRUDH

She steps closer, her fingers curling around my shoulder, almost tentative at first, like she’s testing the waters between us. We’re dancing, though I don’t even remember how we got here—her body pressed so close, my hands resting at her waist, her warmth sinking into my skin. The room feels too small, the air too thick. I want to pull away. I should pull away.

But I can’t.

I’m holding her so tightly, so possessively, like she’s the only anchor keeping me grounded in a world that doesn’t make sense anymore. Every instinct in me says to let go. But then there’s that voice—quiet, soft, the one that tells me to keep her close, to hold on for just a little longer. My fingers dig into her waist, gripping her as though I’m afraid she’ll slip away if I loosen my hold. I want to keep her, to protect her.

For fucking forever.

But I know this is wrong. Everything about this—her body against mine, her head resting on my chest, the way she’s looking up at me—is wrong. But God, it feels so damn right. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop my eyes from trailing over her—the way her lips part slightly, her breaths shallow, the dazed expression in her eyes that says she’s here but not really.

Her eyes catch mine, and for a second, I’m lost. Her gaze is deep, filled with something unspoken, something that pulls me under. She whispers, her voice like a soft hum against the quiet, “Mr. Kidnapper...”

That nickname—how many times has she called me that tonight? Each time, it’s like a trigger, a tiny flame igniting something in me. It’s so innocent, so fucking sweet, and it’s messing with my head. “Yes?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended, barely a whisper, as if I’m afraid to disturb the fragile moment between us.

She lifts her hand from my shoulder, her fingers tracing a path down to my chest. It’s a slow, deliberate movement, but her touch is light, like she’s testing me, testing herself. Her brows knit together slightly as she tilts her head, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. “Why are you shaking?” Her words are filled with genuine confusion, so tender, so innocent, that it makes my heart stutter.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to steady myself. “I’m not,”, knowing damn well that she’s right. “You’re drunk.” The words come out in a rush, as if they can excuse the mess we’re both in.

Before she can ask anything else, I scoop her up into my arms. She gasps, her hands instinctively wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer. Her grip is tight, almost desperate, like she’s afraid of falling. She buries her face in the crook of my neck, her breath warm against my skin. “You promised you wouldn’t kidnap me again,” she murmurs, her voice trembling, half-scared, half-playful. There’s something in the way she says it that makes me want to protect her, even though I know I’m the one she should be afraid of.

I carry her over to the bed, her weight feeling lighter than it should, as if I could hold her forever and not get tired. Gently, I lay her down on the soft mattress, her body sinking into the plush surface. Her hair is a wild mess, splayed across the pillow, strands sticking to her flushed face. The sight of her like this—vulnerable, messy, beautiful—does something to me. I can’t explain it.

I lean down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. My fingers barely graze her skin, but she jolts at the touch, her breath hitching. Her face is so soft under my hand, her skin warm, and I can’t help the urge that rises in me. I want to kiss her, to taste her, to m
Dark her as mine. But I push the thought away.

This is wrong.

I know it’s wrong.

But the temptation to sink my teeth into her skin, to hear her gasp, to feel her squirm under my touch—it’s almost unbearable.