But his body didn't care about logic. Neither did the primal part of his brain that whispered:Mine. Only mine. Anyone who touches her dies.
That Evening - Master Bedroom, 7:45 PM
Nimisha sat at her vanity, removing the simple jewelry she'd worn that day. She'd avoided Samarth all day, eating meals in her room, working in the library when she knew he'd be in his office.
The previous night still felt too raw. Too fresh.
The door opened.
She didn't need to turn to know it was him. She could feel his presence like a physical weight.
"We need to talk," he said.
"I'm tired."
"Nimisha—"
"Whatever you need to say, can it wait until tomorrow?"
"No."
She met his eyes in the mirror. He looked tense, jaw tight, holding something behind his back.
"What is it?"
He moved closer, setting a box on the vanity in front of her.
Her brows furrowed. "What's this?"
"Open it."
Something in his tone made her wary. She lifted the lid, pushed aside the tissue paper, and froze.
Her face drained of color.
"Oh my God." She slammed the lid shut, her hands shaking. "Where did you—I didn't—"
"I know."
She looked up at him, mortification burning in her cheeks. "I would never order something like this. You have to believe me—"
"I know," he repeated, his voice gentler than she'd heard in days. "Someone sent these to you."
"Who?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out." He crouched beside her chair, bringing himself to her eye level. "Someone is targetingyou, Nimisha. The bracelet. Now this. Someone's trying to send a message."
"What kind of message?" Her voice was small, frightened.
"I don't know yet. But until I figure it out, you're not going anywhere alone."
"I never have security—"
"You do now." His hand came up, cupping her face with unexpected gentleness. "Non-negotiable."
She stared at him, searching his face for something—anger at her for attracting this attention, maybe, or irritation at the inconvenience.
Instead, she saw something that looked almost like concern.
