(Aaric in his own residence)
Night settled over Benares like a held breath.
Aaric Grayson’s residence stood apart from the noise of the city—stone walls, guarded silence, a place built not for comfort but for control. Inside, the lamps were low, their light catching on maps pinned to the walls, red markings tracing unrest, rebellion, names that would soon disappear.
Aaric sat alone at the table, cigar burning slowly between his fingers.
He should have been thinking about strategy. About orders. About the next move that would tighten the Crown’s grip on Kashi.
Instead, his mind returned—again, unwillingly—to a pair of dark, defiant eyes.
Meera.
The irritation came sharp and unwelcome.
He crushed it down and exhaled smoke.
The door opened behind him.
He didn’t turn.
She never waited for permission.
Her presence announced itself in quieter ways—the soft sound of fabric, the certainty of someone who knew exactly how much space she was allowed to take. She had been part of his life long before Banaras became… complicated.
“You’re restless,” she said, stepping closer. “That usually means you’re dangerous.”
Aaric took another drag of the cigar. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet,” she replied calmly, “you didn’t stop me.”
She moved into his line of sight then, confident, composed. There was no shyness in her, no illusion about what she was or wasn’t. She had never demanded affection. Never asked questions she didn’t want answers to.
She sat on the edge of the table, close enough that he could feel her warmth.
For a moment, Aaric allowed himself the familiarity of it. His hand came to her waist—not possessive, not tender. Measured. Controlled.
This was indulgence. Predictable. Safe.
She leaned in, brushing her mouth against his jaw, then his lips. He responded automatically, the way one does to a habit formed over years. The kiss was precise. Practiced.
Empty.
She felt it immediately.
“You’re not here,” she said quietly, pulling back just enough to study him. “You usually are.”
His jaw tightened.
She smiled—not unkindly. “Is it the girl?”
Silence answered her.
That was enough.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “You’ve never let anyone do this to you before.”
“Do what?” he asked coldly.
“Unsettle you.”
Aaric’s grip tightened for a brief second—an instinctive response he did not like. He released her at once and stood, creating distance between them.
“This changes nothing,” he said.
She rose too, unoffended. She had always understood her place. “No,” she agreed. “But it changes you.”
She reached out, straightening his collar—a gesture too intimate for what they were. Aaric caught her wrist mid-motion.
“Don’t,” he said.
That, more than anything, told her the truth.
She withdrew her hand slowly. “You’re thinking about her even now,” she said. “That’s the problem with obsession, Aaric. It makes indulgence useless.”
His hand snapped to the table. He slammed the cigar down. The ember cracked. The room went colder.
“Obsession,” he said, every word a blade, “is for fools who confuse distraction with strategy.”
She laughed softly, lightly, audacious. “So this is strategy, then? Nothing more?”
He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on her, unblinking, deadly.
“Really,” she purred, stepping closer, “you never liked anyone like her before… Meera Thakur. Enemy’s daughter. Dangerous, strong… intriguing. And yet…”
That was it.
Aaric’s hand shot out, grabbing the heavy ink box from the table. It left his fingers in a blur and smashed against the wall. The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. Black ink splattered the maps, streaking across the red lines like blood.
The mistress jumped back, startled—but only briefly. She had underestimated him.
“Do not speak her name again,” he said, voice low, lethal, sharp enough to cut glass. “Do not presume my thoughts are yours. Do not test me.”
Her lips parted, fearless. “I only speak what’s obvious. You… like her. You never hid it until now—”
His gaze snapped to hers. Death itself seemed to pour from his eyes. Not desire. Not temptation. Pure, untouchable authority.
“Now,” he said. One word. Clipped. Final.
Her smirk faltered. A heartbeat. Then, she rolled her eyes, masking the shock, and walked toward the door—defiant, cautious, aware she had been warned.
Door closed. Silence fell.
Aaric pressed his fingers hard against the maps. The red ink circling Meera Thakur seemed to throb. Rage coiled in his chest—lethal, controlled, restrained—but it simmered.
He picked up the pen. Cross her out? Too easy.
Instead, he drew another line—clean, precise—linking her to villages, supply routes, and pressure points only he could see.
Control. Obsession. Authority.
And yet… deep inside, he knew with dangerous clarity:
Neutralizing Meera Thakur would not be simple.
Every instinct in him screamed—this girl was not to be ignored. Not ever.
Author's note~💗
She thought she could test him. She was wrong. So very wrong. But maybe that’s exactly what makes it fun
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