Demon's Physco obsession

No Safe Corner

The sleek black Rolls-Royce, having smoothly navigated the Pune streets, finally glided to a halt before the imposing gates of the estate. Adhiraaj was the first to step out, the crisp night air prompting a low, satisfied exhale from his lips—a sign of relief to be away from the suffocating formalities of the party.

He moved with his characteristic economy of effort, rounding the rear of the car to open Ankita's door. She was already beginning to gather the heavy, emerald-green fabric of her lehenga, preparing to step out.

But before her feet could touch the marble drive, Adhiraaj leaned in. His eyes, dark and warm in the golden lamplight, held hers for a long moment. He reached down, not to assist her, but to lift her.

"No, don't worry about the stairs," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. With effortless strength, he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her bridal-style in one swift, fluid motion. The surprise was evident in Ankita's wide eyes, but she instinctively wrapped an arm around his neck as he shifted her weight.

The heavy, embroidered lehenga, which had felt like a confining burden moments earlier, now draped elegantly over his arm as if it were a delicate shawl.

He began to walk toward the mansion entrance, his steps steady and unhurried. "That heavy thing has made you tired enough for one night," he explained softly, his breath stirring the fine hairs near her temple. His expression held a possessive tenderness as he added, his tone deepening with unmistakable intent, "And I need you rested. We have the rest of the night ahead of us, dove."

The implication was clear and direct, sending a familiar shiver of heat and anticipation through Ankita. She didn't argue. Resting her head lightly against his shoulder, she allowed him to carry her into the quiet, awaiting embrace of their private world. The silence of the night settled around them, heavy with unspoken promises.

Adhiraaj carried Ankita across the threshold of the mansion. The massive entrance hall, which had been a hive of activity earlier, was now hushed and still. A few house staff were visible, their heads bowed low and their movements muted; they vanished with an almost supernatural speed, recognising the moment of private intimacy.

The faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood from the outside was replaced by the familiar, expensive aroma of their home. The Emerald Green lehenga, a symbol of her recent public duty, felt heavy against his arm, and she was acutely aware of his strength holding her.

He didn't take the main staircase. Instead, he made for a secluded, carved door near the library, leading to a private elevator that ascended directly to their suite.

As the elevator doors closed, cutting them off completely from the rest of the world, Adhiraaj looked down at her. His gaze, often sharp and commanding in public, softened now, tinged with a look of possessive satisfaction

The suite was dimly lit, the sheer curtains drawn over the large windows, filtering the moonlight. He carried her through the sitting area and finally lowered her gently onto the cushioned chaise lounge in front of a grand, antique mirror.

Adhiraaj continued to look at her through the mirror's reflection, his face an unreadable mask of intense concentration. The gold-framed glass seemed to hold their private world captive, making Ankita acutely aware of the weight of his gaze.

The silence in the room stretched, thick and warm. Finally, a low, husky sound escaped him. "Ved was indeed right," he murmured, his voice a deep velvet sound that resonated in the quiet suite. "You look like a goddess." His eyes finally left the mirror, meeting hers in a quick, possessive flash, before returning to her reflection. He leaned in close, his lips near her ear, and his voice deepened with an unmistakable finality: "But you are my goddess."