Demon's Physco obsession

Darkened Devotion

The pile of discarded shirts on the floor grew into a small mountain. Two days. It had been two days since they returned from what should have been a blissful honeymoon and two days since Adhiraaj had meticulously, ruthlessly erased Rossi and his entire family from existence in that Milanese vacation home, paying them back in full for the vile act against Ankita – the spiking of her drink. He'd watched the flames dance, a depraved satisfaction blooming in his chest, a twisted lullaby for his rage.

Today, he had a crucial business meeting. Multi-million dollar deals hung in the balance, but he couldn't focus. Something was profoundly, unsettlingly wrong. He'd tried on at least a dozen shirts, each feeling woven with thorns and suffocating creepers. His skin prickled, his muscles coiled with a restless tension disregarding logic.

He raked his fingers through his dark hair, the perfectly styled strands falling into disarray. Frustration, a biting, sarcastic thing, churned within him. He clenched his fists at his sides, squeezing his eyes shut. He took a ragged, uneven breath, trying to find the anchor of his control in the storm of his emotions.

Then, the frustration cracked, burst, and something else bloomed from the crevices: a lopsided, almost manic grin. All the tension seemed to drain away, replaced by a chilling serenity. He heard it. The delicate chime of anklets. He knew those anklets. They belonged to his 'little dove', his Ankita.

Two days ago, she had approached him, her eyes wide and pleading, requesting permission to perform a puja at the Ganesh mandir within their sprawling mansion. He loathed the idea, the very notion of her seeking solace in such a traditional ritual rubbed against his controlled, dominant nature. He hadn't liked the way she begged, either, that delicate obedience a stark reminder of her vulnerability. But it was the first time she had ever truly asked him for anything, and he found himself unable to deny her.

He'd admitted, but on one condition: she had to return to his side immediately after the puja. Now, the reason for his unaccountable turmoil slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. His little dove was not where she should be. She was missing from his hold. His possession was incomplete.

"Dove," he commanded, his voice a low, resonant growl that allowed no argument, "Come in here."

Ankita froze just outside the walk-in closet. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She'd heard the raw edge in his voice, the barely contained power that always preceded a storm. She gulped, the familiar fear tightening her throat. She was grateful that he had at least granted her wish. The puja had provided a brief solace from Adhiraaj's constant, suffocating presence.

She was still haunted by confusion regarding the events of that night in Milan. She remembered the vibrant energy of the party, the laughter, and then...nothing. She had woken the next morning with a throbbing headache and a disorienting sense of unease. Adhiraaj had offered a flimsy explanation, blaming a bad batch of fruit punch and a mild case of food poisoning. She hadn't believed him, not for a second. He wasn't a liar, not in the petty sense, but he was a master of omission, of twisting the truth to suit his narrative. But she hadn't dared to question him directly. The fear lingered a cold dread that settled deep within her bones.

With slow, hesitant steps, she entered the closet. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and a barely noticeable undertone of something darker, something primal that made her skin crawl. Adhiraaj stood amidst the chaos of discarded shirts, his chest bare, his muscles rippling with barely suppressed intensity. He was a god carved from granite and shadow, and she, a mortal trembling before his power.

As she entered the walk-in closet, a shiver snaked down Ankita's spine as Adhiraaj's voice, laced with an unmistakable command, cut through the air: "Strip."