HIS GODDESS

Deepika lay asleep on her bed. The saree she had worn was discarded carelessly at the foot, the modest blouse barely clinging, held together by a single hook stretched to its breaking point, straining to hide the weight beneath. Her long, blackish-brown hair spilled over the pillow like shadows creeping in the night. Her hands lay bare, stripped of bangles, her arms bound tightly to the cold bedposts. Her feet brushed against each other in restless sleep, oblivious to the predator closing in. He had watched her from the shadows, his patience exhausted, restraint shattered like fragile glass. Silent as death, he moved closer, drawn by a dark hunger. His forefinger lifted slowly, tracing a cold, deliberate path: her forehead, down her nose, over her lips, then to the fragile curve of her neck where the mangalsutra hung—a silent symbol of a bond she could not escape. His gaze burned into her exposed sternum, then traveled down to her smooth waist, flawless and unguarded, stopping just above her bellybutton. His fingers slipped inside the small opening, cold and invasive. She shifted without waking, her body responding unknowingly, while his eyes devoured her vulnerable form. The air thickened, heavy with menace and dark desire