Chapter- 22

Anvitha's POV

My body wakes before my mind does.

I feel the soreness first. A dull ache between my thighs, a burning reminder that last night wasn't a dream-or a nightmare. It was both.

Then the sheets, cool against my bare skin. The scent of him clings to them... and to me.

My eyes flutter open slowly. The room is dim, sunlight filtered through towering glass windows, casting golden streaks across the expensive flooring. I blink again, confused for a breath-until I see him.

Ryan.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, watching me.

Predator.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up, the top buttons undone. His eyes trail over me like he's not just looking-he's devouring. Like he's reliving every second of what happened... and wondering if he should do it again.

"What the fuck..." My voice is raw. Broken from the moans he stole last night.

"You're awake," he says. Not a question. A statement. Like he owns that, too.

I pull the blanket over my chest, suddenly hyperaware of my nakedness beneath. "What are you doing?"

"Watching," he says simply. "You look better this way. Quiet. Obedient."

I glare at him. "You want a dog, Raichand, not a woman."

"I want what's mine." His voice drops into something lower. Darker. "And right now, you are."

I throw the blanket off and sit up, ignoring the sting in my muscles. "That's not how this works. Last night was a mistake."

His jaw clenches, but he doesn't stand. Doesn't touch me. Yet somehow, he still cages me with just his stare. "Is that what you're going to call it? A mistake?"

"Yes." I lie. "A fucked-up lapse in sanity."

"You begged." He tilts his head, lips curling with cruel amusement. "Lifted your hips. Whispered 'please'. That doesn't sound like a mistake."

My cheeks burn. "You manipulated me."

"And you let me," he fires back. "You didn't stop me, Anvitha. You didn't even try."

"I hate you," I snap.

"You should." He stands slowly. Towering. Dangerous. "But you won't."

I reach for my clothes, or whatever scraps are left of them, when he stops me with a single line-

"You think this is over?"

I freeze. "Isn't it?"

Ryan steps closer, bending just enough for his lips to graze the shell of my ear. "That was only the beginning."

"Can you give me something to cover myself?" I ask, hating how vulnerable my voice sounds.

Ryan stops at the door of the bedroom. His hand rests on the handle, but he doesn't turn around.

"I like you this way," he says without emotion, and then, he's gone.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, a storm of emotions tearing through me. Humiliation, frustration... and the worst of all-this sick, throbbing need that refuses to die down. My skin still tingles in places his fingers touched. My body is still traitorously warm, lips still swollen from his brutal kisses.

He left me naked, like some possession to admire.

No.

I'm not a damn trophy.

I throw the blanket off and march across the room, slamming open the closet door. A wall full of tailored suits, crisp shirts, black slacks, and way too many expensive watches. All of it screams Raichand-cold, calculated, immaculate.

I yank out the first shirt I see and slide it over my body. It's massive, white with faint pinstripes, and smells like him. Like musk, power, arrogance. I button it halfway, grab a pair of boxers from the drawer, and roll the waistband to make them stay.

And maybe-maybe-I leave the top two buttons open just to prove that I'm not hiding.

I catch myself in the mirror.

God, I look like I just stepped out of a sinful dream. Tousled hair, kiss-bitten lips, hickeys blooming along my throat. And his shirt.

If I were in my right mind, I'd hate this. But I'm not. I'm caught somewhere between rage and ruin.

My stomach grumbles, traitorous thing. I pad down the hall barefoot, heading for the kitchen because screw him-if he thinks I'll be some trembling doll waiting in his bed, he's dead wrong.

The penthouse is silent except for the soft hum of electronics. Marble floors, glass panels, floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the city like it's his empire. His world feels like a different universe-far removed from rules, morality, or even logic.

I reach the kitchen. It's sleek, dark granite, matte black appliances, too clean to have seen real use.

Figures.

I open the fridge and grab eggs and cheese, because I'll be damned if I starve while wrapped in his scent.

As I crack the eggs into a pan, I hear footsteps.

I don't turn.

He's watching me. I feel it-the weight of his stare dragging over my body, his shirt barely covering me, my legs on display.

I stir the eggs slowly.

"Cooking now?" His voice is deep, rough-too amused.

"Trying to survive," I mutter without glancing at him. "Some of us weren't born to feed on power and ego alone."

He chuckles, moving closer. I stiffen as he stands behind me, too close. I can feel the heat of him.

"You look good in my shirt."

"Good. I'll burn it later."

His hand slides up my thigh, fingers brushing the hem of the boxers. "I'll rip it off again before that happens."

I jerk away, spinning to face him. "You think you can fuck me once and own me?"

"I think I've already owned parts of you you didn't even know existed."

His words slice through me like a hot knife.

I throw the spatula at his chest, and he actually catches it.

"Go to hell, Raichand."

"I live there, Wildfire. I was just waiting for you to join me."

"You have a dining table. A penthouse full of fucking furniture. Sit somewhere. Or better-just go away."

A pause.

Then his voice, low and teasing, slips down my spine.

"My house. My kitchen. My shirt on your body. I think I'll stand wherever I damn well please."

Of course.

Of course he'd say that.

I glance at him over my shoulder, giving him my most exaggerated eyeroll. "Congratulations, Raichand. Your dick and your ego are finally the same size."

He smirks. The arrogant, sinfully smug kind of smirk that makes me want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.

"And yet you were still begging for both last night," he says, stepping closer until his chest brushes against my back. "Remember that next time you talk shit."

I inhale sharply, lips parting. My grip on the spatula tightens.

"Don't test me," I whisper.

"Oh, I love testing you," he murmurs against the shell of my ear. "Watching you fail. Watching you fall."

"Keep pushing," I say, turning the stove off and slamming the pan down harder than I should. "You'll see how hard I can fall right onto your face with my fucking foot."

He laughs. A low, dark sound that wraps around me like silk dipped in poison.

I move to the counter, grab two plates, and begin dividing the eggs like a woman with a mission. I hand one to him without looking.

"Eat. Or choke. I don't care."

Ryan takes the plate, sets it on the island behind me, and doesn't move away. Instead, he leans in, trapping me between his body and the counter.

"You made me breakfast," he says near my neck. "That's practically a marriage proposal."

I whip around, ignoring how close we are. "If that's what you think a proposal looks like, no wonder you're still single and emotionally constipated."

He grins. "Emotionally constipated?"

"You heard me."

"You're creative when you're trying not to scream my name."

I jab a finger into his chest. "Don't push me, Raichand."

He grabs my hand before I can pull it away. His grip is gentle but firm, his eyes suddenly darker-less playful.

"I will push you," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Because every time I do, you come undone. And I love watching you fall apart in my hands."

My chest rises and falls with the sharp breath I take.

"I'm not your toy."

"No," he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of my jaw. "You're my wildfire. And I'll always come back to burn."

My heart hammers against my ribs, and my skin betrays me-flushing, heating, craving.

"Eat your damn eggs, Ryan ," I say, voice cracking like glass.

"I'd rather eat you."

And just like that, the spatula's in my hand again, threatening murder.

But instead of backing off, he leans forward, picks a piece of egg from my plate with his fingers, pops it into his mouth, and smirks like the devil he is.

"You didn't even use a fork."

"I like using my fingers."

I swear, the way he says "fingers" makes heat curl low in my belly. I should not be reacting. I should throw this plate at his smug face and leave.

Instead, I slam the second plate down on the island and glare. "Eat before I pour boiling coffee over you."

"You really need to work on your threats," he mutters, taking another bite. "They're adorable."

I narrow my eyes and lean in. "Keep talking and you'll find out just how adorable I can be when I'm strangling you with this spatula."

Ryan's lips twitch, amused. Then, his eyes darken.

And suddenly, he's not amused.

Suddenly, he's serious.

"I haven't touched you in two weeks, Anvitha," he says, voice low and ragged. "I've given you space. I've let you breathe."

"You didn't let me do anything," I snap.

He moves closer, and I take a step back-my hip hitting the counter.

"But I missed you," he says, "I missed your stubbornness. Your bite. Your rage. Your body. The way you undo under me like you were made for it."

My breath catches.

"And now," he continues, moving in so close that his chest brushes mine, "you think you can flirt with some suit in the cafeteria while pretending you're unaffected?"

"That suit was talking about a merger."

"He was talking about your laugh like it was foreplay."

"Not my problem."

"It is," he growls, backing me up completely against the counter, "because you're mine."

"I'm not." My voice is breathless and so obviously lying.

"You wore my shirt. You made me breakfast." His mouth is next to my ear now. "And when I touch you again, you'll come apart like the first time. No hesitation. No logic. Just instinct."

"I hate you."

"No, baby. You hate how much you want me."

He cages me in completely now, one hand gripping the edge of the counter behind me, the other brushing along the waistband of my boxers.

"Ryan, stop."

"I will," he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. "But you need to say it like you mean it. Because right now, your pupils are blown wide, your lips are parted, and your thighs are clenching."

I don't speak.

I can't speak.

He leans in, so close I feel his breath on my lips.

But then he pulls back, like a sadist who knows exactly what game he's playing.

"I'll be in the shower," he says casually, grabbing the coffee I poured and walking away. "Join me if you change your mind. Or just to see what else I can do with my fingers."

And he's gone.

Leaving me panting, pulsing, and ready to either murder him or climb him.

Maybe both.

I sit at the kitchen island, fork in one hand, coffee in the other.

His eggs are good.

Ugh. Even his damn eggs taste better. Smug bastard.

I take another sip of the black coffee and try to push away the residual ache he left behind. Not the physical ache-though that's still very much there-but the one clawing at my brain, whispering things I shouldn't want to hear.

"I missed you," he said.

I scoff to myself. Missed me or missed playing with me like I'm some dangerous game he can't get enough of?

Well... two can play that game.

My eyes flicker to the dark hallway he disappeared down. The door to his shower is closed. Steam is likely fogging the glass, his sculpted body under the hot stream, droplets sliding over the same skin I touched two weeks ago. The same skin that touched me like I was his property.

God.

I shove the plate away and rise to my feet.

No more games.

It's time for answers.

I move quickly through the penthouse, quiet on my feet. Past the large abstract art he clearly didn't pick himself, past the perfectly aligned shelves that scream decorator's touch. But the one door slightly ajar catches my attention.

His study.

Jackpot.

I nudge it open and step in. It smells like him-clean, woodsy, masculine with a faint hint of something darker. Leather-bound books, mahogany desk, a decanter with untouched scotch. The room is bathed in muted natural light and silence.

There's his laptop.

Sitting there like a forbidden promise.

I slide into the chair and open it.

The screen wakes.

Prompt: Enter Password

Of course.

My fingers hover above the keys. I try Raichand. Ryan123. Wildfire.

Nothing.

It buzzes at me like a smug security guard.

"Come on," I whisper, glancing toward the hallway.

If I'm lucky, he's still under that water, unaware. But luck's a fragile thing. And Ryan Raichand isn't a man who gives warnings. He is the warning.

I keep trying-variations of birthdays, obvious phrases, nothing works.

"Fuck," I mutter, slamming the lid shut. My heartbeat spikes as I push the chair back and rush toward the front of the penthouse.

This was a risk. A big one.

I can't afford to get caught. Not until I have real proof. And certainly not until I have access to that laptop. Because I know deep in my bones, that machine holds answers.

Answers to who Ryan really is.

Why he knows so much about me.

Why I feel like a goddamn marionette in his hands.

I step into the elevator, punch the button, and pray it doesn't take a lifetime.

The doors close just as I hear the shower shut off in the distance.

Too close.

Too fucking close.

But before leaving I take his car keys.

By the time I step out into the private lobby and exit into the chilled corridor of the building's parking basement, my mind is racing.

I need access. I need his password. I need to get closer.