Demon's Physco obsession

The Demon's Peace

The morning sun didn't ask for permission; it poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, flooding the room with a brilliant, golden haze.

Ankita stirred, her body heavy and aching—a secret soreness tucked deep between her muscles and bones. Instinctively, she reached across the expanse of the mattress, her fingers seeking the solid furnace of warmth she had fallen asleep against.

They met only cool, high-thread-count cotton.
Her eyes fluttered open, panic flaring for a split second before memory washed over her—the rain, the glass, and the absolute, consuming intensity of Adhiraaj. She sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to her chest. The room was empty. His side of the bed was made, the pillow fluffed as if he hadn't just spent hours undoing her completely.

"Adhiraaj Ji?" she rasped. Her voice was barely a whisper, unused and scratchy.

No answer.

She groaned, burying her face back into the pillow. Usually, it was his low voice or the rough brush of his hand that woke her. The absence of his ritual felt stark, yet the morning air felt different. Heavier, perhaps, but settled. She realised, with a sudden clarity that made her heart stumble, that the hesitation was gone. She had finally accepted the tether between them—heart, soul, and body.

With a resigned huff, she pushed herself up, hissing sharply as her muscles protested. Wrapping the sheet toga-style around her frame, she moved tentatively toward the en-suite, limping slightly. As she pushed the heavy door open, the scent of lavender and sandalwood enveloped her.

Of course. She smiled softly. The bath was drawn, steam rising in inviting curls. She was becoming accustomed to his ways, to the silent language of his care and his possessiveness.

Twenty minutes later, feeling significantly more human, Ankita stepped out and wrapped herself in the plush white bathrobe. She towel-dried her hair and walked into the closet. There, draped over the chaise before the mirror, was his dress shirt. Without overthinking it, and purposely avoiding her reflection in the glass, she slipped it on. It swallowed her frame, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips, smelling distinctly of him—crisp cologne and woodsmoke.

She wobbled toward the living room, but the clatter of stainless steel drew her toward the kitchen.

She froze. Adhiraaj was there, sleeves rolled up, focused entirely on the kadhai in front of him. A basket of freshly puffed puris sat on the counter.
Ankita moved timidly, hiding herself partially behind the pillar near the stove. "You... you should not be cooking," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. "It is my duty to cook. As a wife."

Adhiraaj didn't turn, though the corner of his mouth quirked upward. He deftly flipped a puri in the hot oil. "Who said that?"

Ankita hesitated, her gaze dropping to her bare feet. "No one... but Amma used to cook for Baba. It is how things are done."

The sizzling of the oil was the only sound for a long moment. Adhiraaj transferred the final puri to the basket, turned off the burner, and wiped his hands on a towel, deliberately and slowly.
Only then did he turn to face her.

His eyes swept over her, darkening instantly as they took in the sight. She was drowning in his shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing the faint, purple mark he had left on her collarbone. Her hair was damp and wild, her legs bare beneath the hem of the fabric.

He abandoned the towel on the counter and walked toward her. He didn't stop until he was looming over her, invading her space in that way only he could—making the large kitchen feel suddenly intimate and small.

"Look at me, dove," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

She lifted her chin, her breath hitching as her eyes met his. There was no anger there, only an intensity that made her knees weak.