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Udaipur. Midnight.

The palace courtyard smelled of rosewater, jasmine, and sandalwood. Fireworks had faded into the night sky, the last embers drifting over the lake. The haveli was silent now—except for one wing. The wing where the bride waited.

Aarohi Sharma sat on the grand four-poster bed, surrounded by maroon velvet and gold brocade. Her crimson lehenga still clung to her body. Heavy. Embroidered. Her hair was thick with gajra. Her wrists jingled with chooda. Her heartbeat? Loud enough to hear in her throat.

She was 19. Barely out of college. A small-town girl with soft eyes, flawless brown skin, and lips that parted in nervous silence. Tonight, she wasn’t a daughter anymore. Or a student. She was a wife.

The wife of Devraj Singh Rathore.

She hadn't chosen him. The decision had been made between her father and Devraj’s team—papers signed, gold exchanged, and the contract sealed in blood-red sindoor.

He was 30. CEO of Rathore Global, a real estate empire spanning five countries. Sharp-jawed. Towering. With eyes the color of storm clouds and a silence that crushed weaker men. He didn’t smile. He didn’t ask. He commanded.

And now, he was her husband.

The door creaked open.

Her breath caught.

He entered.

---

Devraj’s sherwani was black silk. The buttons were undone at the throat. His hair was wet from a cold rinse. The scent of his cologne—rich, heavy with oud—poured through the room like dominance.

He locked the door.

Aarohi didn’t meet his eyes. Her hands tightened on her lehenga, knuckles white. Her chest rose and fell beneath layers of fabric, her breath shallow.

"**Utho,**" he said softly.

She looked up.

“Stand up.”

She obeyed. Slowly.

Devraj stepped closer. His eyes swept over her—from the sindoor in her parting, down to the waist-heavy lehenga.

"Too much fabric,” he muttered. “We’ll fix that."

Her lips trembled. He saw it.

---

He stepped behind her.

His fingers went to her back. One hook. Two. She froze as he undid her blouse. His knuckles brushed her skin—bare, smooth, untouched.

He said nothing.

When the blouse dropped to the floor, she gasped.

Her breasts were full, firm, bare in the cold air. And already, they were sensitive—swollen slightly, a reaction she didn’t understand. But he noticed.

He leaned down.

"You’re already tight,” he murmured, voice like silk against her skin. “Your body’s preparing.”

She didn’t know what that meant. But his mouth moved lower.

He kissed the side of her breast. Not her lips. Not her cheek.

Her breast.

She gasped aloud.

---

"You've never been touched, have you?"

She shook her head.

“Say it.”

"Nahi… kabhi nahi.”

Devraj's hand wrapped around one breast—slow, heavy. His thumb brushed her nipple. It stiffened instantly. She moaned softly, shocked at her own sound.

His gaze darkened.

"From now on,” he said, “these belong to me."

He bent forward and flicked his tongue across her nipple. She flinched—but didn’t stop him. He did it again. Slower.

Then he sucked.

Hard.

Her knees buckled.

---

Aarohi whimpered.

He didn’t stop.

Her breasts were overly sensitive. Heat poured into her core. And she felt it—that strange pressure behind her nipples. Fullness. She wasn’t pregnant. But it felt… swollen.

He pulled away and whispered, “You’re going to feed me soon. Your body already knows it. It’s getting ready.”

Her eyes widened.

“Main—main samjhi nahi…”

“You will.”

He picked her up—just lifted her off the floor like she weighed nothing—and laid her flat on the silk bedsheets.

He untied her lehenga. Tossed it aside. Then her panties. Her legs trembled.

He kissed her thighs. Bit softly. Then looked into her eyes and said:

"**You're mine now. Raat bhar. Har din. Har raat.**"

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