She rode him with the rage of a woman scorned.
Slow at first, then desperate. Her hips moved with erratic rhythm, searching for something she didn't understand-release, perhaps, or absolution. Each time his body responded, each groan forced from his throat, it felt like reclamation.
The incense-laced air was thick, humid with arousal. Their sweat mingled with rosewater and sandalwood, their bodies a contradiction of dominance and surrender.
Anaya leaned forward, letting her nails rake softly over his chest. He was so hard beneath her, muscles trembling, jaw clenched as if to bite back the sounds he couldn't contain.
But he moaned.
Oh, he moaned-low, guttural, restrained. And it fed her.
She kissed him again, rougher this time, her teeth tugging at his lip, tasting blood and heat and resistance. She wanted him to remember this. Every moment. Every thrust. Every tremble of his body under hers.
"You hate me, don't you?" she whispered into his throat. "Good. Let that hatred burn. Let it stay with you... while I brand your skin with my memory."
He didn't speak. He couldn't. Whether from the drugs or her relentless movement, he was wrecked-his mind torn between fury and something far more primal.
And when she felt him pulse inside her, when his back arched off the mattress and his breath caught in his throat-she cried out. Not in pleasure. Not quite. But in power.
He spilled into her, his release a shockwave through them both.
And for a moment... all was still.
Her body collapsed onto his, chest heaving.
His eyes were closed now. Not from sleep-but something quieter. Shame, maybe. Or numbness.
She didn't care.
She had what she came for.
Later, she bathed in a silver basin just beside the tent-cool water poured gently over her bare skin by loyal servants who asked no questions. Her body was sore, flushed, marked by the heat of what she'd done.
She returned to him-still bound, still silent. And this time, she released the ropes.
"Don't worry," she said, as she covered him with a soft cotton sheet. "You won't need to chase me. I won't run."
He didn't answer.
But his eyes finally opened-and the look in them...
Fury. Confusion. Something darker.
"Why?" His voice was gravel, his throat hoarse from disuse.
Anaya paused at the tent's entrance, red silk clinging to her hips. She looked back over her shoulder with the ghost of a smile.
"Why not?"
And she vanished into the night.
She returned to the royal encampment, draped in her shawl, her veil back in place. Her servants-sworn to silence-smoothed her hair and re-applied her lipstick before she emerged into the wedding crowd once more, flawlessly composed.
To the world, she was still Anaya Mehra-the elegant, tragic ex-fiancée of the Yuvraj.
No one knew the monster she had just awakened.
Back in her private suite, she drank the herbal concoction to prevent pregnancy. No hesitation. No emotion. As if the entire night had been a transaction.
Her body was sore, her soul quiet.
For the first time in weeks... she slept peacefully.