SHAURYAMAN GAUR

The world had evolved—from walking distances to creating wheels and innovations taking flight, from living in caves to building houses of mud until towering apartments filled out the horizon of metropolitan cities, from a society that frowned upon women to their fight for voting rights giving rise to feminism, from the conceptualisation of marriages to the creation of social norms around it until the youth decided to break them down to love freely.

The world had changed plenty—but not the whole one, even though most wore the facade of modernism over a heart still favouring the old practices that once defined the civilisation that resided on the land near the banks of Indus.

An elegant chandelier of glass hung from a frame of gold, illuminating the spacious sitting room Shauryaman had been shown to by the middle-aged housekeeper who smiled too widely and spoke too politely, making the man wonder whether she knew as well the bitter pill of truth he was forced to swallow.

It hadn’t been the first time his father had made a decision for him—the man was practically obsessed with controlling the life of the heir of the vast family empire, always bringing forth ideas that would disrupt his life. But unfortunately for his father, he underestimated the cunning of his son.

But there were no artful tricks that could rid him of Harshvardhan Gaur’s latest demands.

None except obedience and a quiet hope that his intended—carefully chosen by his father, a daughter to an industrialist acquaintance—despised this idea of union as much as he did. Because perhaps then, he might figure out a way to avoid disruptions in his already satisfactory life.

A deal would work favourably, one where his soon-to-be wife agrees to let him live his life the way he wants to while she breathes however she want—no interference in each other’s business.

A perfectly happy marriage.

His anticipation was rising as the time ticked by, the careful and revealing searches in the browser of his mobile felt heavy on his chest as well as in his pocket—ones he had made in the chauffeured car on his way to the mansion that was registered in the name of his to-be father-in-law.

The research revealed not much about her, nothing entertaining as he had hoped. Only pictures taken during launch parties and charity galas, along with the formal information about her expensive education and her role in her father’s empire: the head of the Public Relations team, a fancy title for a job that seemed nearly useless in the eyes of Shauryaman.

But who was he to comment?

Well, technically?

Her fiancee.

The rapid train of his thoughts derailed the moment dark mahogany double doors opened with a quiet creak that echoed in the otherwise silent room, his dark eyes—deceivingly resembling the innocent ones of a newborn deer—lifting to find the figure of his betrothed closing the door she had entered through.

Elegance was the only word that came to his mind as he watched her approach the sofa he sat upon, her heels clicking like the devil’s warning against the marble floor.

A smirk tugged on his lips as his eyes dragged over her—assessing from her head to toe, until he was pleased enough to rise to hid feet. At least, his father had found him a pretty face, easy on sore eyes—one that would look breathtaking on his arm and in the family photographs for Harshvardhan Gaur’s election campaigns.

“So you are the chosen one?” He wondered out loud, his boots heavy against the floor as he chewed away the distance separating them, halting only when she stood at an arms length from him.

His mocking words earn him an arched eyebrow, her head tilted to a side while she folded her arms in front of him. Her eyes—large like his own, honeyed poison in appearance—venture out on an expedition of their own, studying the sharp lines of his tailored suit and the laid back crew neck underneath the jacket.

“Chosen one?” She repeated, her voice a soft cadence that disguised her own arrogance, not like his—loud and obnoxious and evident from a mile—but quieter, more dangerous.

“Or the bali ka bakra?”

Shauryaman’s smirk widened, eyes darkening with interest as he let out a rumbling hum, bending down until his fingers trace the rim of the untouched glass of water—an action dripping of arrogance and something far more sinister—before the long digits wrapped around it like a striking snake.

A predator intimidating another, or perhaps, trying to deduce whether he was faced with a true predator or a sheep in the lion’s skin.

“Bali ki bakri hui tum toh,” he teased, taking an agonising long sip of the water while his obsidian eyes remain locked onto hers above the rim—a silent challenge simmering in the air, daring her to rise to his bait.

And oh! Does he wish to see her come alive with rage—witness the fire, if she has any.

She rolled her eyes, a nearly quiet huff of annoyance eliciting an amused laughter as he waited patiently for her reply, because he could see the gears in her mind working, her lips parting in a telltale sign of a reply incoming.

“How are you so sure ki sacrificial lamb main hu aur tum nahi?” She taunted, a smirk mirroring his dancing on her attractive features as she shifted—slow steps graceful like a panther’s, moving through the length of the room as if it was a forest, and her the queen of the land, which, in its own uniquely manner, was true.

That caught him off guard, because wasn’t it always the women that got the shorter stick in such lifelong arrangements while the men enjoyed their privileged lives? And yet, the confidence oozing from this woman a decade younger than him had even the arrogant heir reconsidering every word he had been told about the deal, and everything his father had left unsaid.

And from the amused glint in her eyes and the smirk widening the slightest inch? She knew that he was doubting everything, exactly what she wanted.

With a deep breath, one meant to fill the cracks in his composure and buy him enough time to find a satisfying reply to her words, he placed the glass back on the table before he stood up to his full height—not the tallest by any standards, and yet, his impactful aura did most of the intimidation when required.

“Mushkil hota hoga na,” he began with a mocking smile, lazy steps circling her once before he stopped in front of her, heavy gaze tracing her delicate features with eyes that gleamed at the knowledge of having a worthy opponent in the shape of his intended wife.

At least, the marriage won’t be boring.

Unless he can tame her, which would be fun, but only for a brief time.

“Aise pretend karna ki tumhe koi faraq nahi padhta ki tumhari freedom tumse cheen li ja rahi hai, all because your father thinks this marriage is of more value than you? As if tumhe bura nahi laga ki tumhare baap ne tumhari jagah tumhare bhai ko waris bana diya, even though you clearly were the better option? ”

He tsked, cruel as his fingers brush against the bare skin of her wrist—slow like a predator enjoying the thought of teasing and tormenting his prey before delivering the killing blow. His very soul relished at the sight of her muscles tensing, shoulders squared almost painfully while her jaw tightened in restraint, patience and composure hanging from a fine thread while his words and actions all but push her towards the cliff’s edge—waiting for her to lose her grip and show him the fire that blazed behind the cold facade of neutrality in her eyes.

With a deliberate shift, his hand wrapped around her wrist, catching her completely off-guard as he tucked her closer. His empty arm wrapped around the curve of her waist, keeping her pressed to his front as his dark eyes trace the newfound expression on her face—committing it to his memory, for the uncertainty of witnessing the sight again was not lost on him.

Her wrist is freed soon after, allowing her to press both of her hands to his chest in an attempt to push him away—applying as much force as she could muster. But his arm was an iron shackle, and rather than being discouraged, her defiance only fuelled the darkness swirling in his eyes—entertained he was at her attempts, unfazed still because she held little strength over him.

His fingers caress her clothed shoulder, a lingering touch—though featherlight, at best—that had her growing more restless against the suffocating warmth of him, before they shift north.

The bared skin of her neck was warm to his touch, inching closer to her face and savouring every hitch of her breath with a mocking smirk while his fingers reach their destination, splaying across the line of her jaw and tilting her face up—just to peer down into the eyes that have intrigued him in a matter of few minutes. His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, messing with the defining lip liner and matte lipstick she wore like an armour, creating a sinful chaos on a sharp visage.

“Itna gussa,” he started, voice dropping down an octave or two as his face inched closer to hers until their breaths mingled as one, grazing each other’s cheeks and warming skin against her will—tobacco from his cigarette tangled in the mint from the chewing gum she had spat out before walking through the doors that enclosed them now.

The thumb halted its ministrations at the pause of his words, rising to press insistently on the plump skin until her lips part, offering him delightful vulnerability that contrasted against the wide eyes of his soon-to-be wife that seemed feral with rage—a sight he smirked down at.

“Sirf barbaadi lata hai, meri jaan.”

He felt her recoil at the term of endearment before he saw it, her body filled with renewed energy to get out of his hold that had began to only ebb a little, and it only brought a laughter out of him—full and cruel with his eyes gleaming under the chandelier lights.

And still, his arm around her waist unbothered, fingers tracing little mocking circles only to enrage her more.

“Let me go!” She protested, glaring up at him, but it was hard to appear in control of the situation when she was all but caged against the man she already hated—the very one that she has to marry because of their father’s whims. Rather, she looked adorable to him, like an angry spoiled brat told she could not have everything she wants.

Instead of replying verbally to her, Shauryaman only leans down until their lips were mere millimetres away, nearly brushing with every deep breath she took—unsteady from the anger that rushes through her veins—but still not touching as the heir of Harshvardhan Gaur would want—though he would have what we wants, one way or the other.

He always does, with hook or with crook.

There was a unique satisfaction in having her against him, defenceless and breathing heavily with a flush she couldn’t control colouring her cheeks pink and her lips parted under his thumb without any words to utter because even the smallest of syllable meant a contact of intimacy she clearly doesn’t want—a perverse pleasure that persuaded his blood to rush southward and pupils to dilate as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, hidden from his sight by the silk shirt she wore, before his eyes lifted to meet hers again.

Anger. Disgust. Indifference—that is what he had hoped to feel for his fiancee before she had walked in, and yet, standing in the middle of the room with a woman glaring up at him despite having the shorter stick? He could only feel a raw desire to devour her completely. A lust deeper than anything he had ever felt for any woman before—and to think that he had been with quite beautiful ones, models and actresses and aspiring stars that dwindle before making it to the sky.

Before he could think more, or before she could find in her the strength to push him away for good, his lips slanted away on hers—not a gentle press of kindness or hesitation between virginity lovers or strangers trying to familiarise themselves to the map of their would-be.

But rough—teeth and tongue and lips clashing in a war for dominance that he was determined on winning at any cost.

A gasp is all he lets her react with before his teeth sink into her lower lip, biting hard enough to leave behind the faint imprint of himself on her skin and taste the slightest tang of her blood before he lets her lower lip escape only for his tongue to slip in, muffling her cry and probing and poking her insides until her tongue was dancing alongside his—not in harmony but engaged in a battle.

The hand cupping her jaw slipped away into her open hair, tangling into her strands and tugging at the roots—hard enough for the sting to tread closer to the line that separated pain from hard-earned pleasure—but his hand was as restless as the man, shifting south until his fingers traced the curve of her spine. All while the hand around her waist moved to play at the curve of her ass, groping and feeling the supple flesh before delivering a singular spank that elicited a yelp from her.

Shauryaman had expected rebellion—screeches and protests and pushing him away with all her strength and accusations about him being a perverted monster. But instead, his rough actions are greeted with equal vigour that surprised him just as it excited him.

Her lips moved against his with frightening intensity—fuelled by anger and a desire she would never vocalise, especially not when it originated for her to-be husband. Tongue tasting tobacco with a quiet sound of protest against the harsh and bitter flavour—a stark contrast to the refreshing minty chewing gum—and still, her pride relented from letting him win the battle, leaving them a tangled mess of saliva and raging storm that left behind ruins at its wake. One of the slender hands moved away from his chest, fingers tangling into the lapel of his suit while her body tried to arch away from his heat—failing miserably and instead, pressing into the lean ridges of his front.

It is only when air became necessary did they pull away from one another, a string of shared drool connecting their parted lips while his grip upon her loosens just a little, fingers moving until his hands settled upon her wide hips—holding rather than restraining, because all his limbs could focus upon was the lingering sensation of her; senses already overwhelmed by her scent—vanilla and orange and something warm—but he would rather take a knife to his heart before he admits to being unravelled by her.

Silence crowded the room, broken only by the broken breaths of two individuals that clearly hated—and desired—each other. Two bodies clinging to one another, suspended for a brief moment before the reality kicked in.

At last, she succeeds in pushing him away, back of the hand wiping away the traces of wetness that glossed over her lips while her eyes glared daggers at him—trying to act composed, and still, he could see the slight tremble in her fingers, the tension lining her shoulders and the flush on her cheeks that had little to do with her rage now and more to do with her kiss-swollen lips and disheveled appearance.

It amused him immensely, her feeble attempt at appearing distant as she had been when she had entered the room—unfazed even, while the sight of her spoke a different truth—bringing forth a deep laugh as his fingers ran through his hair before wiping away the lingering remnants of her from his lips.

Pride is what rushed through him, and a need to have her whole—an evidence of which pressed against the seams of his trousers stubbornly, asking for attention and sweet release.

“Agar aisi hi baat hai, Shauryaman Gaur,” she hissed, tears lining her wide eyes—out of frustration, rather than anything more vulnerable—fingers curled into fists by her side. The urge to run her fingers through her hair to bring back a semblance of confidence was immense, but she didn’t trust her own limbs to comply without giving away her vulnerability—far more than she was willing to give him.

“Then I will ruin you.”

A bold proclamation, one that didn’t terrify him. Instead, it made his trousers grow tighter, a thrill of dark amusement rushed to his mind like a line of properly crushed powder that sent him to the top of the world—not a loser son to an ambitious father, but the king of the world.

And apparently, he didn’t need the substance anymore, just his defiant betrothed with her intoxicating attitude and sarcastic remarks.