Book 1 in (Unholy series) "You're behaving like a madman, Daksh," Ved's voice cut through the silence, filled with concern and disbelief. "Where do you think you'll find her? You don't even know her name, haven't seen her face. How can you be so sure about someone just by their touch and scent?" Daksh turned to face Ved, his eyes betraying a turmoil that ran deeper than any rational explanation could appease. "I can't explain it, Ved," he began, his voice laced with urgency. "The moment I felt her touch, breathed in her scent, it was like waking up from a dream I didn't know I was in. She's real, I know it." Ved shook his head slowly, as if struggling to comprehend. "No sane person would chase after someone based solely on touch and scent. There are plenty of other girl-" "But none of them are her," Daksh interjected, his tone firm, resolute. "I've never felt this way before. It's like she's imprinted on my soul. I crave her touch like a drowning man craves air." "I don't care what any sane person would say, because my sanity ended the moment I smelled her and touched her lips with mine." "I crave her intensely. I don't even know her name or how she looks, but her scent and touch intoxicate me, driving me to madness". "I can't say exactly when or how I got hooked on her, but one thing's for sure, she's the only thing I crave more than anything else in my life," "She has to come to me. It's not a choice; it's the only option. Whether she comes willingly or not, I know how to make her mine, even if I have to take her against her will," Daksh's eyes darkened with each word, his voice laced with an unsettling intensity. Let's see what fate has planned for Daksh and krina.

A little girl in a pink, cloud-soft frock once wandered into a world that should have warned her away. She found them at the edge of a dying playground. Two identical boys, caked in mud, standing too still for children their age. Their eyes followed her long before she spoke. "Why are you both sad?" she asked, her voice light and untouched by caution. They smiled. "Because we are dirty," one said. "And no one wants to play with us," the other added. It should have been a simple answer. It wasn't. She frowned, as if the world had made a small, correctable mistake, and took their hands without hesitation. That was the first choice. The smallest one. The one that mattered most. By the time they reached the park, the air felt different. It was quiet and heavier than anything, as though something unseen had drawn closer just to listen. "Let's play," she said brightly, tossing a ball into the space between them. But there were only three of them. And she refused to leave either side. So she ran back and forth, laughter breaking into breathless gasps, small shoes scuffing against the dirt as she tried to belong everywhere at once. With him. With him. Never choosing. Never stopping. Until the boys stopped smiling. Until they simply watched. "You'll get tired," one of them said softly. "You can't play both sides forever," the other murmured. But she only grinned, flushed and stubborn, her voice trembling with a promise she did not understand. "I can. And I will play with both of you." That was the second choice. Years later, when the bodies began to surface, when whispers of manipulation, obsession, and something far darker crept into every room she entered, no one thought to trace it back to a sunlit afternoon and a game that never really ended. But some games don't stop. They wait. And the most dangerous players are the ones who were never taught to choose.