Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
As Nandini slept peacefully beside me, her breath rising and falling in a gentle rhythm, I couldn’t help but think about everything that had transpired. My mind was racing with thoughts of her—how she had shared her deepest fears, her darkest memories, and how she had given herself to me completely. I marveled at the strength she had shown, and yet, there was a part of me that worried. How would she react to the truth that I hadn’t yet revealed? Would she even believe me?
These thoughts kept gnawing at me as I lay there, feeling the weight of our intertwined destinies. The room was filled with the soft scent of her skin, mingled with the faint lingering traces of our passionate encounter. I couldn’t sleep; I needed to clear my head.
Carefully, I slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb her. I leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin against my lips. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake. I quietly dressed in a pair of sweatpants and stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night air hitting me as I closed the door behind me.
Standing there, I gazed out at the dark expanse of the night sky, the stars faintly twinkling above. The world felt quiet, almost eerily so, as if holding its breath. I raised my hand, and with a thought, the black and red mist that held my power began to swirl around my fingers, crackling with electricity. The mist danced in the air, a physical manifestation of the darkness within me, one that had always been a part of who I was. But now, it was different. It wasn’t just my darkness—it was hers, too now.
As I played with the mist, I noticed something that made my heart swell with possessive pride. Around her neck, even during our most intimate moments, Nandini had kept on the black feather pendant locket I had given her. She never took it off. Even when she had given me everything—her past, her secrets, her trauma, her body, her soul—she had held on to that one symbol of our bond. It was as if, in her own way, she was claiming me just as much as I was claiming her.
I smirked at the thought, my fingers clenching around the swirling mist before I released it back into the night air. Despite the overwhelming love and desire I felt for her, there was a gnawing need for reassurance, to make sure that everything was under control. There was one person who could help with that.
Without a second thought, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. It was the middle of the night, but I knew he’d be awake. Rakshit was always up, just as I expected.
"Yash . It’s three in the morning. What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait till daylight?" Rakshit’s voice came through the line, gruff but tinged with amusement.
I chuckled. "Cut the crap, Rakshit. You know I don’t keep regular hours. And neither do you."
"True enough," he admitted. "So, what’s going on? How’s My Little Queenie ?"
I could hear the teasing in his voice, and it made me smirk. Rakshit always had a way of cutting through the bullshit.
"She’s fine," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "But I need an update. Have you heard anything about Z?"
