The clay stove breathed smoke into the evening air. My fingers were stained with turmeric, my sari hitched between my knees as I knelt over the cooking fire. Another meal. Another night of tending to Amma's cough, to the children's hungry mouths.

I didn't hear him approach.

"Kitni sundar ho tum."

The voice came from behind me—low, smooth, carrying an accent that didn't belong to our village. I spun, the ladle clattering against the clay pot.

He stood at the edge of our courtyard. City clothes. Dark jeans, a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jaw was sharp, his eyes darker than the well water at midnight. Naren Thakur. Everyone in the village had spoken of him by now—the developer who bought the old Sharma cottage.

"Mujhe maaf kijiye," he said, offering a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't mean to startle you."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Ji?"

He stepped closer. The evening light caught the gold chain at his throat, the watch on his wrist. Things no man in our village owned.

"Your mother sent me." His Hindi was polished, city-bred. "She said she had baskets for sale. I need several for my new property."

A lie. I knew it was a lie. Amma had been bedridden for three days, too weak to weave. But my mouth stayed shut as he stood over me, close enough that I caught the smell of cigarettes and something sharp—cologne, maybe.

"I'll show you," I whispered, rising.

My hands trembled as I led him to the corner where the finished baskets sat stacked. He didn't look at them. He looked at me—at the curve of my waist where the sari pulled tight, at the sweat on my collarbone.

"Tumhari maa ne tumhari taarif ki," he said. Your mother praised you.

"Ji."

"Kehti hain tum kitni achchi ladki ho. That you're obedient. That you never cause trouble."

His fingers brushed my wrist. Lightning. The touch was brief, almost accidental, but my breath caught and held.

"Main tumhari madad kar sakta hoon," he said. I can help you. Your mother's medicines. Your siblings' schooling. A better life.

My throat closed. "Why would you do that?"

That smile again—crooked, wrong, beautiful. "Because I want something in return."

---

The cottage smelled of sandalwood and foreign things. He'd brought furniture from the city: a low divan with velvet cushions, a glass table with golden legs, lamps that glowed like trapped fireflies. I stood in the center of the room, my hands clasped, my sari still smelling of smoke from the cooking fire.

"Daro mat Nandini," he said, his voice softer now. Don't be afraid.

His hands found my waist. I stiffened but didn't pull away. This was the arrangement, wasn't it? His money for my compliance. Amma's medicines. The children's school fees. The numbers had been laid out on the glass table like a contract I couldn't read.

He turned me around. His fingers traced my jaw, tilting my face up.

"Aankhen kholo."

I obeyed. His pupils were wide, swallowing the brown of his irises.

"Acchi ladki."

His mouth met mine. Not gentle. Not kind. A claiming, a branding with lips and tongue and teeth. My hands rose to push against his chest, but my palms flattened instead, feeling the heat of him through the cotton shirt.

He pulled back, breathing hard.

"Kapde utaaro."

The words hung in the air. Take off your clothes.

My fingers went to the pleats of my sari. I'd never undressed in front of a man. Never stood bare before anyone but my mother. The fabric fell in layers around my feet—first the pallu, then the petticoat, until I stood in only my blouse and underskirt, my arms crossed over my chest.

"Sab kuch."

Everything.

My arms lowered. The blouse hooks gave way one by one. I let the underskirt fall, standing naked in the amber glow of his city lamps.

He circled me. His footsteps were soft on the marble he'd had installed. I stared at the wall, at a painting of a woman with a pitcher, her face blank.

"Kitni khoobsurat ho tum," he murmured. His fingers traced my spine, each vertebra a prayer. "Ekdum masoom."

So innocent.

His hand slid around my waist, pulling me against him. The fabric of his jeans was rough against my bare thighs. His breath was hot on my neck.

"Ab main tumhe apna banaunga," he whispered. Now I will make you mine.

His palm pressed flat against my belly, then lower. My thighs clenched instinctively, but his other hand gripped my hip, holding me still.

"Aaram se," he breathed. Easy. "Mujhe sirf tumhari khushi chahiye."

I felt his fingers part me, slide through wetness I hadn't known was there. A sound escaped my throat—half gasp, half whimper. My knees buckled, but his arm held me up.

"Dekho," he said, showing me his glistening fingers. "Tumhare shareer ki tadap."

The truth of your body.

He pushed me onto the divan. The velvet swallowed my naked back. His body covered mine—the weight of him pressing me into the cushions, the denim rough between my thighs. His mouth found my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast.

"Meri gudiya," he murmured against my skin. My doll.

His hand slid between my legs again, two fingers this time, and I cried out—a sharp, broken sound. My hips bucked against his palm, chasing something I didn't understand.

"Itna tadap rahi ho mere liye?" he chuckled. So thirsty.

He pulled away. I heard his belt unbuckle. The rustle of denim falling. My eyes were squeezed shut, my hands gripping the velvet like it could save me.

"Aankhen kholo. Dekho main tumhe kya dunga."

I opened my eyes.

He knelt between my thighs, his cock hard and dark against his stomach. My breath stopped. Nothing in my village life had prepared me for this—for the thickness of him, for the way he held himself like a gift and a threat at once.

"Tumhari choot tadap rahi hai mere liye," he said, his voice dropping lower. Your cunt called to me.

His hand wrapped around himself, stroking once, twice. I watched, transfixed, as a bead of moisture appeared at the tip.

"Ab main lund tumhare andar dalunga ," he said. "Aur tum meri ho jaogi."

The head pressed against my entrance. I felt the pressure, the stretch before the invasion. My body trembled, every muscle tensed for what was coming.

"Ek baar bolo," he demanded. Say it once.

"Mujhe lund do," I whispered.

His smile was the last thing I saw before he pushed—

And the world split open.