Mid 1850s, Calcutta.

The sky bled orange as dusk settled over the crowded ghats. Temple bells rang in the distance. The scent of marigold, river mud, and incense clung to the air like a lover’s ghost.

Sarika mishra walked barefoot across the stone steps, her golden dupatta dragging behind her like a secret. Bangles clinked softly on her wrists, and her long braid swung gently down her back. She held a silver thali — offering for the evening puja — but her mind was somewhere else.

Or maybe it wasn’t hers anymore.

Because he had seen her.

From the upper balcony of the cantonment barracks, Captain Julian Rhodes lit a cigarette with one hand, the match flaring just enough to illuminate the jagged scar on his left cheek — a souvenir from a rebellion long buried in official reports.

He exhaled smoke.

Then stopped breathing altogether.

There she was.

A girl. No — a woman. Dressed modestly, but moving like temptation carved in gold.

Not meant to be seen. Not meant to be touched.

Not his.

Yet.

Julian watched the way her eyes scanned the river — not in awe, but with the detachment of someone too smart for her surroundings. She was young. Soft. Defiant.

And she looked up.

Straight at him.

A second. Maybe less.

But in that second, something dark and irreversible locked into place.

She looked away first.

Mistake.

Later that night.

The British cantonment staff filed their reports, saluted, and left. Julian poured himself two fingers of scotch, not even tasting it.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind.

What was her name? Who was she promised to?

Does she scream when she’s angry? Or moan when she cries?

The glass shattered in his grip.

“Bring her to me,” he said to the Indian servant standing at the door. Calmly. Coldly. Like he was ordering wine or a gun.

The man hesitated. “Sahib… she is—”

“I didn’t ask what she is,” Julian said, wiping the blood from his palm. “I said bring her.”

The next morning.

“Miss Sarika mishra?”

She turned, startled, the fabric of her saree pulled tightly around her.

The two British soldiers stood tall. Out of place. Out of context. “Captain Rhodes would like a word with you,” one said.

Her father, emerging from behind a spice cart, paled. “Why—? She is only a girl—she’s done nothing—”

“It’s not a request.”

Inside his office.

She stood stiffly in front of the large oak desk, eyes darting over maps, guns, and documents she couldn’t read. Her heart thudded against her ribs.

He sat with his legs spread, hands folded loosely in front of him, staring.

“So you’re the girl who couldn’t look away.”

She said nothing.

“Are you scared?”

She swallowed. “No.”

He stood slowly. Walked around the desk. Stopped inches from her.

“Good."

His hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, and she flinched.

“That’s a lie,” he murmured. “You should be scared of me, Sarika.”

He circled behind her, and she felt the weight of his presence like heat against her spine.

“I could destroy your reputation. Have your father’s business burned to the ground. Make your fiancé disappear into a ditch somewhere on the Assam railway line.”

Her breath hitched.

“Is this what you do?” she said, voice shaky but laced with fury. “Take girls from their homes because they looked at you?”

Julian stepped in front of her again. Closer now. So close she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“No,” he said. “I take girls who lie to themselves.”

She slapped him.

The sound cracked like gunfire.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just slowly turned his face back to her with a quiet, dangerous smile.

“I like you even more now.”

The air inside his private quarters was suffocating — thick with humidity, cigar smoke, and tension too heavy to name.

Sarika sat stiffly in the carved wooden chair — her ankles crossed, posture upright like she was being judged. Her fingers clutched the end of her dupatta like it could shield her from the storm slowly brewing in the man watching her from across the room.

Captain Julian Rhodes didn’t sit this time.

He stood by the tall, shuttered window, moonlight cutting across his sharp features. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, uniform half-undone, collar open just enough to reveal the sheen of sweat on his chest. Arms folded, he looked like a king surveying something already his — or something that had dared to disobey him.

"You slapped me," he said, voice low and sharp like the edge of a hunting knife — controlled, but barely.

She didn’t answer. Her jaw clenched.

"I should have you arrested for disrespecting an officer of the Crown," he continued, stepping away from the window, boots echoing heavily on the polished floor. “Do you understand that, little girl?”

“I’m not yours to speak to like that,” she snapped, her voice trembling but clear. “I belong to no one.”

He laughed.

Bitter. Dangerous. That sound did not belong to a man used to being defied.

“No,” he said, almost to himself. “You belonged to me the moment you stepped into my gaze.”

He stopped in front of her now. The space between them was thick, electric.

Her chin tilted defiantly upward. Her eyes didn’t blink. Wide — not with fear, but with unfiltered rage.

And it made him want her more.

He crouched down in front of her chair, moving slowly — like a beast lowering itself before pouncing. His face leveled with hers. The scent of him — leather, musk, faint alcohol — surrounded her.

His hand rose — not to strike, but to stroke a line down the curve of her jaw, slow and deliberate.

She flinched hard and slapped his hand away, the sound echoing in the silence like a gunshot.

Big mistake.

In an instant, he grabbed her wrist — rough, unflinching — hard enough to make her gasp aloud.

"You think I’ll stop because you said no?" he said, voice dropping an octave, dark and molten. "I’ve bent entire nations, Sarika. Do you really think a girl with soft hands and sharp eyes can stop me?”

She kicked out — a sudden, desperate move — tried to bolt from the chair, but he was faster.

He shoved her roughly against the towering bookshelf behind her, dust rising in the wake. Books tumbled to the floor. His arm came up, barring her escape. His body pressed close, heat radiating from every inch of him.

She struggled — twisted — but he didn’t let her go.

“Let me go,” she hissed, breath hot against his neck.

“No.”

“Let me go, or I will—”

He cut her off, grabbing both her wrists and pinning them above her head, her back arching involuntarily.

“Or you’ll what?” he growled. “Tell me. Scream? Cry? Curse me in your sacred language?”

Her breath was ragged now, chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton blouse that clung to her skin from the heat. Her braid had loosened in the scuffle, strands of dark hair clinging to her cheek. She smelled of sandalwood and something wild, uncatchable.

He leaned in, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.

“You can run, fight, slap me again — I won’t stop until you break.”

Then softer. Crueler. Almost tender.

“And I’ll make sure when you do... you’ll beg for more.”

Her eyes welled with furious tears — not from fear, but humiliation. Powerlessness.

“You’re a monster,” she spat, voice cracking.

He smiled. Slow. Cold. Unapologetic.

“Finally. Something true.”

And just like that, he let her go.

She stumbled back, nearly tripping on the fallen books, her breath heaving, wrists bruised and pride in tatters.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t offer a cloth. Didn’t ask if she was okay.

He simply turned his back, poured himself a glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side table, the ice clinking gently like an insult, and said without looking:

“Come back tomorrow. Or I’ll send soldiers to fetch you.”

She didn’t move.

“Now leave,” he added, swirling the glass, voice detached.

“Before I change my mind and keep you here.”

Sarika didn’t go back.

She sat on the floor of her room, wrapped in her mother’s old silk dupatta like it could hide the bruises on her wrists — or the heat still lingering on her skin from his hands.

She hated the way her body remembered his touch.

She hated that he was right.

She hated him.

But she wasn’t going back.

Not to him.

Not today.

Not ever.

The knock came just past noon.

Sharp. Military.

Her father opened the door, expecting a neighbor.

What he saw made him stagger back.

Four British soldiers. Tall. Stone-faced. Holding rifles like batons. The one in front stepped forward and held out a sealed letter.

> Miss Sarika Mishra is ordered to appear at British Cantonment Headquarters immediately.

Captain Julian Rhodes does not tolerate disobedience.

Failure to comply will be considered defiance of Crown authority.

Her father dropped the letter.

“Tell your Captain,” he said shakily, “my daughter is a Hindu woman of virtue. She will not be dragged around like some—”

“She will come,” the soldier interrupted. “Or we will make her.”

The neighbors watched.

As the soldiers entered the house.

As Sarika’s mother screamed.

As Sarika, trembling but proud, stepped out on her own — saree hurriedly thrown over her shoulder, hair uncombed, chin held high.

The street went silent.

She was marched through the market like a prisoner. No carriage. No veil. Just her and the sound of boots behind her.

Back in his quarters.

Captain Julian Rhodes didn’t rise from his chair when she was shoved through the doors.

“Close them,” he said.

The soldiers obeyed. The echo of the lock was louder than thunder.

Sarika stood still.

He finally looked up.

“You disobeyed me,” he said.

“I’m not yours to command.”

He stood.

She instinctively took a step back — and hated herself for it.

He didn’t stop walking until he was inches from her, voice calm, terrifying.

“No. Not yet. But you will be.”

She stared at him, lips trembling.

“You had no right to drag me through the streets like that,” she hissed.

He grabbed her chin. Hard. Tilted her face toward him.

“I had every right,” he said. “You belong to me the second I decided I wanted you.”

She slapped him again.

He didn’t move this time.

Didn’t smile.

He slammed her against the wall so fast she gasped.

“You really don’t learn, do you?”

She struggled — but he was stronger.

His hand gripped her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her chest heaved. Her saree slipped slightly from her shoulder.

His eyes dropped — darkening.

“I gave you a chance to come willingly,” he said, voice low, hot against her ear. “You want me to become a monster, Sarika? I can be so much worse than you imagine.”

She turned her head, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Do it,” she whispered. “If you're going to ruin me, do it now.”

He stilled.

Then pulled back, slowly.

Her wrists were released. She collapsed into the wall, panting.

He stepped away, pouring a drink with shaking hands.

“No,” he muttered. “Not like this.”

She looked up in shock.

“I will have you,” he said. “But not when you’re daring me to. Not when you're begging for death just to spite me.”

He downed the drink in one shot, slammed the glass down, and turned to her with a voice like fire wrapped in silk.

“Now go home. But remember this—”

He walked to her, gently fixed her saree back over her shoulder, and leaned in.

“I can destroy you any time I want. I just haven’t decided how yet.”