The heavy, velvet-draped windows of the master suite kept the outside world entirely at bay, sealing away the suffocating echoes of the cremation grounds and the lingering, spectral scent of funeral sandalwood. Inside the dimly lit sanctuary, the air was warm and intensely private. Shivanya lay pressed flush against Abhimaan’s broad, solid chest, her head resting comfortably over his heart as his strong, calloused hand lazily traced the smooth curve of her bare spine. The physical trauma of the gunshot wound that had nearly ended her life months ago was now a faded memory, replaced instead by the quiet, possessive rhythm of their domestic life.

Abhimaan shifted slightly, his fingers tangling lazily in the dark strands of her loose hair. His gaze drifted down to her face, a faint, dark shadow of amusement touching his lips as he broke the heavy quiet.