Page 26 of Mrs. Rathore

My breath hitched when I saw what it was.

The mangalsutra.

“Don’t you dare take this off again,” he growled.

His hand brushed my neck. Rough. Possessive. He fastened the chain around me with a force that made my pulse spike. My breath caught as his fingers grazed my skin, lingering a moment too long.

It wasn’t a loving touch. But it wasn’t cold, either.

It was on fire.

I could smell his skin - woodsy and warm, tinged with something darker and the scent of his aftershave lingered as he hovered behind me.

Then his fingers slipped away.

“There’s your water…” Rhea’s voice cut through the moment.

We both jolted.

She stepped inside, oblivious or maybe pretending to be. Her eyes flicked between us, then she placed the glass on the table. “Mom says to come into the living room in a few minutes. Don’t take too long.”

She left. Aryan didn’t say a word. He walked across the room, slammed the door shut behind her with a bang.

And then he turned to me.

His eyes burned.

He strode forward, his height a shadow over me as he leaned down. There was barely an inch between us. I could feel the heat of him, the restrained fury, the tension, the tightly coiled power.

“I will be really grateful,” he hissed, “if you stay the hell away from my sister.”

His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, his anger barely contained.

“And stop pretending to be some kind of goddess,” he sneered. “I know exactly what kind of woman you are.”

His words sliced through me but I didn’t flinch. I met his gaze, unshaken.

“I am not pretending, Mr. Soldier,” I whispered, my voice steady, “but I promise you, I’ll pretend so well, I’ll become your worst nightmare.”

His expression shifted. His lips curled into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“Oh really?” he murmured. “Are you going to haunt me now, Mrs. Ballerina?”

I rolled my eyes, even as my cheeks flushed. But he didn’t move away.

Instead, he placed both hands on either side of my wheelchair, caging me in.

His scent overwhelmed me. It was spicy and minty.

“Stop playing the victim,” he said, his voice low, almost intimate. “Start acting like a wife.”

My breath caught.

He leaned closer, just a hair away, his mouth hovering near mine. His breath warmed my cheek. His eyes flicked to my lips, and in them I saw something.

Not hate.

Not contempt.

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