Chapter 5: The Bargain

The gates to her husband’s home never opened.

Sarika stood outside, saree clinging to her skin in the thick Calcutta humidity. Her bare feet ached on the stone steps, ankles bruised from the struggle. Hair clung to her cheeks, tangled, half-loosened, just like her dignity. Behind her, two British guards waited — rifles in hand, expressions carved in marble. Silent. Cold. Untouched by her collapse.

She pounded the gate again.

“Arjun,” she cried, voice cracking, “let me in. Please.”

Stillness.

From the top window of the haveli, Arjun watched her. One hand pressed to the curtain, the other clenched at his side. The shame in his eyes was louder than his silence. He didn’t come down.

He couldn’t.

Because he had been warned.

> “If you ever take her back... I will burn your family to the ground.”

The words weren’t a threat. They were a promise. A cold fact issued by a man who never had to speak twice.

---

She was taken that evening.

The carriage wound its way through narrow alleys and then out into the countryside, far from the noise of the city, where the British built their sanctuaries in exile. A high-walled estate stood cloaked in silence, shrouded in the scent of mango trees and overgrown bougainvillea — red as spilled blood.

The guards left her at the threshold.

Julian Rhodes was waiting.

He didn’t rise when she entered. He sat in a high-backed leather chair beside the crackling fireplace. Sleeves rolled. Collar open. Shadows dancing across the sharp lines of his face. He looked less like a soldier and more like something older. Something mythic.

A predator at rest.

“Sit,” he said, eyes unmoving.

She didn’t.

He stood without hurry. Walked to her. His grip was firm as he guided her to the chair opposite his — not violent, but final. Like a decision already made.

“You’re shaking,” he said. “Good. Means you’re finally listening.”

She held her chin high, rage burning through the cracks of her fear.

“What do you want from me?” she hissed. “You already took everything.”

“I haven’t taken anything yet,” he replied calmly. “But I can. You know that.”

He reached for the folder on the table. Placed it down with precision. Her father’s name stared up at her in heavy British ink. Pages filled with charges — tax evasion, sedition, blacklisting.

“They’ll make an example of him,” Julian said smoothly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Jail. Hanging. Maybe both. You know how eager they are these days.”

Her throat closed. Her fingers curled around the armrest until her knuckles whitened.

“Unless,” he said, stepping away, “you give me one thing.”

He moved slowly, circling her like a storm building around the eye. Then he bent low — breath warm against her ear, voice dipped in venom and velvet.

> “One night. No resistance. No lies. No more pretending you don’t want this.”

She flinched.

He straightened again, cold and unreadable.

“You’ll stay here tonight. Do as I say. Let me have what was always mine. And in the morning, your parents will wake up safe. Untouched. Free.”

She turned toward him, fire in her eyes.

“You think I’ll let you touch me for them?”

He stared back. Unblinking.

“I think you already know you will.”

---

Later.

The room was suffocatingly quiet.

She stood by the window, her back to him, arms wrapped around herself like armor. The candlelight flickered over the curve of her shoulder, her spine, the crimson fabric of her blouse. The wind outside stirred the curtains, but inside, time refused to move.

Julian poured himself another glass of whiskey. Let it sit in his hand.

He said her name.

> “Sarika.”

She turned slowly.

His voice was different now. Lower. Controlled. But still dangerous — like the moment before a knife kisses flesh.

> “Take it off.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself. Just set the glass down and approached — like he had all the time in the world.

> “Your choice was made at that table,” he said, standing before her now. “Now finish it.”

Her hands trembled as they moved toward the folds of her saree, breath shaky. But before she could undo anything, he reached out.

> “No,” he said. “Let me.”

His fingers touched her waist — the contact electric. His hands weren’t gentle. They were sure. Possessive. As if he was unwrapping something that had been promised to him long ago.

> “Everything about you has been stolen from me,” he said, voice a low burn. “Your name. Your body. Your defiance.”

He leaned in, lips grazing the space just below her ear.

> “Tonight… I take it back.”

She wanted to push him away. Scream. Scratch. But her body betrayed her — locked between resistance and something she refused to name.

He could feel it in her breath. Her skin.

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust.

It was ownership.

And it had begun.

---

Her breath hitched as his fingers slipped under the edge of her blouse, slow and deliberate, his touch searing through the thin barrier of modesty. Every inch he touched felt claimed, marked, not by pain — but by control. She hated him. She hated herself more for the part of her that didn’t move away.

Julian's lips trailed down the line of her jaw, hot and possessive, pausing at her pulse.

> “Still trembling,” he murmured. “But not from fear anymore.”

She opened her mouth to protest — but no words came. Only the heat of his breath, the weight of his body as he pushed her gently against the wall. One hand braced beside her head. The other explored the small of her back, dragging fire in its path.

> “Say it,” he whispered. “Say you don’t want me.”

She didn’t say it.

Couldn’t.

Because her body betrayed her.

His hands roamed lower, along the curve of her hips, pulling her closer until there was nothing left between them but air and tension. Her blouse slipped down her shoulder, and his mouth followed — teeth grazing her skin, enough to leave a mark that would stay through the morning.

> “Every time you pull away,” he said, voice dark, “you make me want you more.”

She shoved him, fists against his chest, but he didn’t flinch.

Instead, he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, his eyes burning into hers — not cruel, not gentle, but something far more dangerous: truthful.

> “I told you not to pretend,” he said. “Not tonight.”

His mouth crushed against hers again — this time deeper, longer. One hand still held hers captive, the other traced her thigh, lifting her slightly, her breath torn from her throat in a gasp she couldn’t silence.

> “You were never meant to belong to anyone else,” he whispered against her lips. “You were always mine.”

Her head fell back as he kissed down her neck, past her collarbone. The firelight flickered wildly, casting shadows of two bodies pressed close, tangled in war and want. She felt his heartbeat — fast, feral — as if this wasn’t control, but desperation disguised as power.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t surrender either.

Somewhere between hate and heat, between fear and longing, Sarika found herself unraveling — not just from the touch, but from the weight of everything she had buried for too long.

And Julian?

He didn't take her like a man claiming a victory.

He took her like a man claiming vengeance.

But somewhere in the way his lips softened at her pulse, in the way his hands finally loosened and held her like something precious — there was something else hiding under the ruin.

Something terrifying.

Something like love.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***