𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 : 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

{39}•ᴍʏ ᴡɪғᴇ•

ANIRUDH

As my lips locked with hers, I didn’t just kiss—I devoured. I sucked on her lips, pulling them into my mouth and sucking hard, trying to draw out the confusion, the doubt, anything that wasn’t the overwhelming need to have her submit to my kiss.

She thought I had betrayed her. That I had slept with another woman. My little angel—my Bondita—actually doubted my loyalty when she was the only one I had ever wanted since the day I vowed her as my wife. Since that moment, I hadn’t stepped foot in a fucking club, hadn’t so much as looked at another woman, because she was enough.

And yet, she thought this marriage meant nothing to me.

"Just a promise."

Her words rang in my head like a curse, fueling the anger simmering beneath my skin. Just a promise? No. This marriage wasn’t just a promise. It was a fucking bond. A chain that tied her to me, forever. And the worst part? I couldn’t even tell her the full truth.

Because if she knew… she would try to leave me.

Bondita’s so-called father was an asshole, a manipulative bastard who had tried to use his own daughter to take revenge on me. Before dying, that bastard made sure to weave a trap—this marriage, this relationship, it was all his game. But my innocent angel didn’t know. She thought he was a good man, that he had loved her.

I wouldn’t take that illusion away from her. I wouldn’t let her hate the only father she had ever known.

Because if she hated him, she would start questioning everything. She would start questioning me.

I wouldn’t let that happen. Ever.

I tightened my grip on her waist, pulling her closer, my fingers digging into her soft skin as I deepened the kiss. I claimed her, not just with my lips, but with the way I touched her, the way I held her, the way I made sure she knew—

"You are mine."

Because she was. Because now, I did consider her my wife. Not just in name. Not just as a promise. She was mine.

My legally wedded wife. Mrs. Bondita Anirudh Roy Choudhury.

And if I couldn’t give her love, then so be it. I was a selfish man. But obsession? Fuck. I was obsessed with her. With every single part of her.

The way her soft hair framed her delicate face, the way her lips parted slightly when she was confused, the way her big, innocent eyes widened whenever I touched her—like she couldn’t comprehend the intensity of what I felt for her.

And her pout.

That fucking pout.

When she was angry, she would puff up her cheeks, her lips curling into a childish pout that made my cock twitch with a desire so strong it was almost painful. The way she’d cross her arms, her small fingers gripping the fabric of her dupatta in frustration, thinking she could fight me, thinking she could ever win against me.

She didn’t realize that every little action of hers only made me want her more.

Her innocence. Her stubbornness. Her fire. She was mine. And she could never leave. Because she didn’t even know the truth—the real truth—that if she found out, she would run. And I would never let her go.

She was trapped with me, forever.

As I kissed her, I could feel her resistance melting away, her small hands pushing against my chest weakening. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her closer until she was standing on her tiptoes, her whole body pressed against mine.