Kavya's pov

The first rays of sunlight pierced the curtains, cutting the bedroom into golden stripes. I lay curled on the cold marble floor, muscles aching from sleeping on the thin dupatta I had spread beneath me. My wrists throbbed faintly, stiff from Kabir’s grip last night. My body screamed for comfort, warmth, safety—but there would be none here. Not with him.

The door clicked sharply. Kabir.

He stood in the doorway, tall and rigid, arms crossed, dark eyes boring into me. The silence was suffocating. His gaze moved over me like fire, measuring, assessing, claiming. I shrank instinctively, clutching the lehenga from the wedding to my chest. My cheeks burned even in the soft morning light.

"Get up now"he said finally, low and dangerous.

I obeyed instantly, legs trembling as I rose. My wrists ached, my body protested, but I did not dare falter. His eyes scanned me completely, sharp and predatory. The weight of his ownership pressed into me, heavy, suffocating.

“You’re going to change,” he said, tossing a pile of clothes onto the bed. “Right here. In front of me.”

My heart stopped. My fingers grazed the silky blouse he had thrown. It was pale beige, embroidered with subtle gold, hugging the swell of my breasts. My chest rose and fell with a nervous tremor. I swallowed hard.

“Do you think I’m joking?” he snapped, stepping closer. The air seemed to tighten around me. “I own you, Kavya. Every inch. And right now, I want to see you obey. Strip. All of it. For me.”

My hands shook as I unhooked the blouse, sliding it slowly over my shoulders. The soft fabric pressed against my bare skin for just a second longer than necessary, teasing my shame. My chest was fully exposed now, nipples tightening instinctively, skin hot and sensitive under his gaze. My cheeks flamed. I tried to cover myself, but his eyes drank in every inch, and I knew I was powerless.

He stepped closer, the heat from his body pressing against mine, his dark gaze unrelenting. “Faster,” he commanded. His fingers shot out, gripping my wrist and forcing me to turn toward him. “Mine. Every inch of you. ”

I trembled, unable to speak. The humiliation scorched me hotter than fire. My stomach twisted, my thighs pressed together instinctively. He could see it all, my shivering hands, my bare chest, my vulnerability laid bare.

Kabir circled me like a predator inspecting prey. “Look at you… so delicate, soft, and yet so filthy. You belong to me, Kavya. Every inch is mine. Don’t even think for a second you’re free.”

I picked up the saree he had thrown, my hands shaking violently. I wrapped it around my hips, feeling the smooth silk brush over my bare skin. His body moved closer again, brushing against mine, heat pressing into me. My chest heaved, cheeks burning, a shiver running through me.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, near my ear, voice low, dangerous. “This is your place. On display. For me. Mine. You’re mine, my personal whore.”

I wanted to pull back, to run, to scream—but my body betrayed me. Every word, every glance, every brush of his fingers was ownership. I was trapped in his gaze, his presence, his control.

When I finished adjusting the saree, he stepped back, inspecting me with cold precision. “Good. Stay there. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself, trembling, cheeks flushed, body burning from exposure. My mind reeled with humiliation. Even as my body shook, a tiny spark of resistance glimmered. I will survive this… I will endure… I am more than his possession.

The morning stretched on like an eternity. Every small movement—combing my hair, arranging my jewelry, adjusting the saree—was under his scrutiny. A pause, a hesitation, a fumble with the pleats of the saree, and he was there:

“Move. Faster. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I obeyed, each motion a mixture of shame and fear, my hands trembling. His dark eyes followed me relentlessly, observing every twitch, every quiver.

He circled me again, stopping behind me. His hand brushed my waist lightly, deliberately, sending a shiver through me. I swallowed hard. The heat of embarrassment and the suffocating sense of being watched made me ache.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, voice low, possessive. “Every part. Every inch. Don’t think I won’t notice if you even breathe wrong.”

My mind drifted to fleeting memories of my mother—the warmth of her hands, the lullabies she sang, the gentle press of her palm on my shoulder. The contrast between her care and his cruelty was sharp, painful, burning through me. I bit my lip to keep from crying, shivering under the weight of both fear and shame.

Even while humiliated, my inner spark refused to die. I whispered into the silence: I will survive. I will endure. I am more than his whore.

By mid-morning, he dragged me to the living room, making me kneel on the plush carpet. I lowered my gaze, keeping my head bowed. Every movement, every shiver, was a reminder of his ownership. His shadow loomed over me as he inspected me like property, smirking cruelly.

“Look at you, wife” he said, circling. “Kneeling, trembling… mine. You think anyone else would want you? You’re nothing without me.”

Tears prickled my eyes, but I forced them back. I clutched my saree, feeling the silk against my skin, feeling exposed, yet a tiny ember of defiance lingered.

When he finally left the room, I sank against the carpet, shaking, cheeks flushed, heart pounding. The room was silent except for the rapid thrum of my pulse.

Even as fear, humiliation, and shame pressed against me, one thought persisted: I will survive this. I will endure. I am more than what he says I am.

The night would be long, dark, and filled with his control, b

ut deep inside, the fire of who I truly was refused to die.

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