The heavy silence of the master suite was broken only by the soft, ragged rhythm of exhausted breathing. Curled inward like a broken doll, Shivanya finally drifted into a deep, chemically induced sleep, her face buried against the solid, unyielding wall of Abhimaan’s chest. The storm had temporarily spent its fury, leaving behind the wreckage of broken skin, stained sheets, and tear-streaked pillows.

Abhimaan lay awake in the dim amber light, his arm securely locked around her waist—not out of affection, but with the cold, absolute territorial possessiveness of a dragon guarding its hoard. When a faint, muffled disturbance drifted up from the lower levels of the estate, his eyes snapped open in the dark. Without waking her, he carefully eased himself away, gently pulling the thick woolen blanket up over Shivanya’s bruised shoulders and tucking the edge tightly around little Abhimanyu’s bassinet to shield them both from the cold draft of the sprawling mansion.