Demon's Physco obsession

The Price of Touching What Is Mine

Adhiraaj stood frozen in the space where Ankita had been moments before, the shattered glass at his feet glistening like scattered rubies under the chandelier light. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles blanched, a fine tremor of pure, unrestrained fury rippling through his frame. He had engineered every detail of this night—anticipated Malik's greed, baited the trap with Volkov's fabricated urgency, even embedded a microscopic tracker in the ruby choker that now rested against Ankita's throat. He had known the kidnapping attempt would come; he had prepared for it, positioned men at every exit, coordinated with Dimitri to intercept once Malik's people made their move.

But this—this involvement of Shyamla, her own blood turning traitor for a handful of promises and cash—ignited something darker than calculation inside him. It was visceral, primal, a beast uncaged. The thought of Ankita's wide, trusting eyes filling with betrayal as her bua's needle found her skin made bile rise in his throat. He had used her as bait, yes, but he had sworn no harm would touch her. And now she was in the hands of wolves who would not hesitate to break her if it served their purpose.

His phone vibrated once. A single message from Raghav:
Tracker active. Moving south toward the docks. ETA 12 minutes.

Adhiraaj's gaze flicked to the screen, the blinking red dot crawling along the coastal road like a heartbeat. He could go now—storm the vehicle, tear through Malik's men with his bare hands, reclaim her in a hail of gunfire and blood. But he didn't move. Not yet.

Another vibration. A video file, forwarded from Dimitri.

He opened it.

The footage was grainy, night-vision green, taken from a concealed body cam. Dimitri—tall, blond, expressionless—moved through the shadowed docks like a ghost. Two of Malik's armed guards rounded a stack of containers, rifles raised. Dimitri's blade flashed once, twice; the first man's throat opened in a silent arc of black. The second barely raised his weapon before Dimitri's hand clamped over his mouth, and the knife drove upward under the jaw. Clean. Merciless. The Russian didn't even break stride as he stepped over the bodies and vanished deeper into the darkness toward the waiting van.

Adhiraaj's lips curved—not in amusement, but in the cold, predatory satisfaction of a plan aligning perfectly. Dimitri was clearing the board before Malik even realised the Collector had turned hunter.

Only then did Adhiraaj move.

He strode through the ballroom with lethal calm, the crowd parting instinctively before the storm written across his face. Ved fell into step beside him without a word, reading the danger in his brother's silence. Raghav met them at the private exit, handing over a keyed fob.

"Black SUV, bulletproof. Two teams are already en route to the docks. Dimitri's holding perimeter until you arrive," Raghav reported in a clipped undertone.

Adhiraaj didn't respond. He slid into the driver's seat himself, the engine snarling to life as Ved took the passenger side and Raghav the back. Tires screamed against marble as they shot out of the hotel's underground garage and into the rain-slick Mumbai night.

The city blurred past—neon signs bleeding into wet asphalt, the sea a black void on their left. Adhiraaj drove like a man possessed, weaving through traffic with impossible precision, every red light ignored. His knuckles were white on the wheel, jaw locked so tight it ached.

Ved glanced at him. "She'll be fine, Adhi. You planned for this."

Adhiraaj's voice, when it came, was low and lethal. "I planned for Malik. I didn't plan for her own aunt to drug her like a sacrificial lamb."
Ved fell silent.

The tracker showed the van slowing near the old Sassoon Docks—disused warehouses, rusted cranes, perfect for a quiet exchange or a quieter execution. Adhiraaj killed the headlights two streets early and coasted into the shadows, parking behind a stack of containers. He was out of the vehicle before the engine fully died, gun already in hand—a custom .45 with suppressor, checked and loaded.