## **VOLUME 1: THE COLD COLD WAR**
### **Chapter 8: The Aftershock of Subjugation**
**Setting:** The surface of the obsidian table. The intense noon sun has shifted slightly, casting long, dramatic shadows across the room.
**Time:** 3:00 PM.
**Characters:** Afsar & Deepa.
[The air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and spilled semen.
Afsar is still hovering over her, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, exhausted rhythm, his forehead resting against hers.
Deepa lies completely still beneath him, her eyes open but glazed, staring at the ceiling.
Her thighs are still trembling slightly from the sheer force of the contractions that shook her body minutes ago.
The thick, white fluid of his release is slowly trickling down the inside of her thigh, staining the black marble beneath them.
Neither of them moves.
The realization of how feral, how utterly animalistic their intimacy just became is a heavy, suffocating weight.]
**Afsar:**
(His voice a low, raspy whisper, his breath hot against her damp cheek)
You're bleeding a little.
From my scratches.
**Deepa:**
(Her voice completely flat, devoid of emotion, yet her fingers are still weakly tangled in his hair)
It doesn't matter.
**Afsar:**
(Slowly pulling himself out of her. The wet, sticky sound of his exit echoes loudly in the quiet room. He winces slightly as his core leaves hers)
Look at me, Deepa.
**Deepa:**
(Closing her eyes, letting her head fall to the side on the cold stone)
I can't.
Don't make me look at what we are doing.
**Afsar:**
(Sitting up on the edge of the table, his bare back covered in long, angry red scratches from her fingernails)
We aren't doing anything we didn't want.
Look at your hands, Deepa.
Your nails are covered in my skin.
You tore me apart.
**Deepa:**
(Slowly sitting up, her body aching, her unbuttoned shirt slipping completely off her shoulders. She looks at her bloody fingernails, a shudder running down her spine)
This is sickness, Afsar.
This isn't love.
This isn't even an affair.
This is... we are destroying each other's sanity.
**Afsar:**
(Turning around, his dark eyes locked onto her exposed, bruised breasts, his hand reaching out to touch a faint bite mark on her collarbone)
Who cares what it's called?
Your body belongs to me now.
Every time you sit in a boardroom with your father, you're going to feel the soreness between your legs.
You're going to remember exactly how hard I hit you from behind on this table.
**Deepa:**
(Slapping his hand away with the last bit of her strength, her voice cracking)
Stop it!
Don't talk about it like that.
Don't make it sound so dirty.
**Afsar:**
(A dark, cruel smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remain deadly serious as he leans back in)
It *is* dirty, Deepa.
We are traitors to our bloodlines.
We are lying to the world, and we are using a trillion-dollar government brief as an excuse to lock ourselves in a room and fuck like animals.
Own it.
Because I am owning every single bit of you.
**Deepa:**
(Staring at him, her amber eyes filling with a strange, dark acceptance as she realizes she can no longer fight the gravity of his obsession)
If my father finds out... he will kill you, Afsar.
He won't just ruin your business.
He will put a bullet in your head.
**Afsar:**
(Reaching out, his large hand wrapping around her throat, not choking her, but holding her still, his thumb resting against her frantic pulse)
Let him try.
As long as the last thing I see before I die is you... looking at me exactly like this.
[He leans down, pressing a slow, heavy, fluid-stained kiss onto her swollen lips, sealing their toxic pact as the digital timer on the wall blinks quietly: *41 HOURS REMAINING.*]
