Demon's Physco obsession

The Night

Happy birthday to you... Happy birthday dear... Wifey...

His voice trailed off, the silence that followed feeling heavier than before. She remained frozen, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird, her eyes wide with terror as she waited, knowing, that her orchestrated nightmare was about to begin.

The silence in the room was thick, punctuated only by the gentle flicker of the single candle on the small cake Adhiraaj held. He approached the bed with a deliberate, almost predatory grace, each step like a silent promise of an unknown outcome. The dim light danced on his skin, throwing the bold, swirling ink of his tattoos into stark relief against his bare chest. They seemed to writhe with his movement, adding to the raw power he exuded.

Ankita was curled on the edge of the bed, a fragile silhouette swallowed by the shadows. Her body trembled a tremor that seemed to vibrate through the very air around her. Adhiraaj settled beside her with a controlled movement, the mattress sighing under his weight. He didn't speak, his presence alone filling the small space with a heavy, suffocating tension.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. With two fingers, calloused and strong, he lifted the veil that hid her face. He didn't break eye contact with her as he did so, his gaze a dark, unwavering intensity that felt like a physical touch. When her face was finally revealed, he spoke, his voice a low, husky rumble that resonated in the silence. "Look at me, wife." It wasn't a request, but a command, laced with an authority she dared not defy.

Ankita, without a word, obeyed. She raised her head, her gaze initially fixed on the faded pattern of the quilt. Her breath hitched in her chest, the fear a palpable thing between them.

Adhiraaj's patience, which was already strained thin, seemed to fray even further. "Look at me, my little wife. Now." The sharpness in his voice made her flinch.

She took a shallow breath and finally, hesitantly, lifted her eyes. They were large and dark, swimming with unshed tears. The single candle flame danced between them, casting a warm glow on her face, drawing attention to every detail. The kohl, usually a subtle accent, was now smudged and dark, framing her eyes, and making them seem even more vulnerable. A delicate Nath, a golden nose ring, hung precariously on her small, almost childlike nose. And her lips– they were trembling, a soft, vulnerable quiver that seemed to draw his gaze like a moth to a flame.

Adhiraaj's breath caught. The predatory edge that had been so sharp just moments ago seemed to soften, replaced by a strange, almost bewildered fascination. He'd expected defiance, perhaps anger, but not this fragile vulnerability, this raw, exposed emotion that resonated deep within him. His eyes were glued to her features, taking in the details with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He was captivated by the delicate beauty laid bare by the flickering candlelight, the fear and sadness that painted her features. It was a beauty that both drew him in and sparked a flicker of something he couldn't quite name within his chest.

The cake, with its single burning candle, sat forgotten in his hand, a symbol of a celebration that felt profoundly out of place in the tense atmosphere. The room was filled with a silence that thrummed with unspoken words, with fear and a strange kind of yearning that suddenly consumed Adhiraaj. He wanted to reach out, to wipe away the tears that threatened to spill, to silence the trembling of her lips, but his hands remained still, caught between a force he couldn't understand and a past he couldn't ignore. The moment hung suspended in time, the flickering candlelight painting the scene in shades of dark and light, its fragile flame illuminating a story yet to unfold.

The flickering candlelight had been a fragile beacon in the otherwise dim room, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock the unease coiled in Ankita's stomach. Adhiraaj, his dark eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion, had just snuffed out the flame with casual cruelty, the smell of extinguished wax mingling with the tense silence. He plucked the candle from the cake, a small, brightly frosted thing that seemed far too innocent for the moment, and tossed it carelessly towards a corner.
He held out a plastic knife, the flimsy plastic a stark contrast to the power he held in his gaze. "Now," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that sent a shiver crawling down her spine, "you will wish for a happy marital life. A life that you will have, and then you will cut the cake."
Ankita hesitated, her hand hovering an inch above the knife. She couldn't articulate the fear that gripped her throat, the feeling that she was playing a part in a script she hadn't written. She had imagined a different kind of birthday, a different kind of marriage.