His lips claimed hers then—not gently, but with a hunger that bordered on wrath, as if he were punishing her for the very air she breathed. Ishani stiffened, her body a fortress under siege, but something treacherous stirred in the depths—a spark of forbidden fire amid the ashes of her old life. When he pulled away, his breath ragged, he traced the line of her jaw with a thumb scarred from plowing fields. "Sleep now. Tomorrow, you learn your duties."

She lay awake long after he turned away, the mangalsutra's pendant—a small, infinity-shaped gold 'V' etched with an 'I' intertwined—settling coolly between her breasts, a brand of this unholy union. Around her neck, the longer pendant dangled to her navel, a diamond-studded chain that whispered against her skin with every breath. Her wrists were encased in green chooda bangles, symbols of new beginnings in their Rajasthani tradition, clinking softly like chains. Sindoor smudged her parting like fresh blood, jhumkas swayed from her ears, kohl rimmed her eyes in smoky allure, anklets chimed at her feet, and a delicate waist chain cinched her midriff beneath the saree. She was adorned as his—trussed in tradition, every inch screaming possession.