A week blurred in the sterile hush of the hospital, Virat's recovery a slow burn under Ishani's watchful gaze—days of her feeding him khichdi from her fingers, lips brushing his in accidental tease as sauce dripped for her tongue to catch; nights of her massaging his uninjured shoulder, hands kneading muscle with sensual pressure that drew groans from his throat, his cock hardening under the sheet as her breasts brushed his arm, nipples peaking hard through her kurta in constant arousal from pregnancy's fire. At 23, her body had become a vessel of heightened sensation—the subtle swell of her belly a warm secret under loose fabrics, breasts fuller and tender, nipples hypersensitive to every brush, core perpetually slick with illicit want for the man whose bloodied shoulder reminded her of the darkness she couldn't escape. Discharged finally, the injury almost healed but muscle tensed from immobility, Virat's arrogance returned in strides, but his eyes softened only for her, the dragon tattoo flexing under bandages like a beast leashed for her sake.