The penthouse was a tomb of silence as Reyansh carried Myra through the foyer. He was a man holding a live wire, his muscles coiling with a tension that was becoming physically painful. Every time his stride hit the floor, Myra shifted, her hands—clumsy and relentless—sliding beneath the waistband of his slacks.
"Myra, enough!" he growled, his voice a ragged edge. He caught her wrists, pinning them against his chest, but she simply used the opportunity to nuzzle into his neck, her teeth grazing the bite marks she had left in the car.
He strode into the master suite and practically threw her into the vast, marble-clad bathroom. "Stay here. Don't move. You need to wash the filth of that gin off your skin."
He stepped back, slamming the heavy glass door and locking it from the outside. He leaned his forehead against the cool surface, his chest heaving. "Bathe, Myra! The cold water will do you good!"
"I hate you, Reyansh!" she screamed from behind the glass, followed by the sound of a heavy thud.
Reyansh paced the bedroom, his hand raking through his hair. He was covered in her scent—gin, jasmine, and a raw, female heat that was driving him to the brink. Suddenly, a sharp, piercing shriek echoed from the bathroom.
"Reyansh! Help! Myra—!" It was a choked-off sound of genuine terror.
He didn't think. The "Ice King" didn't calculate. He threw his shoulder against the door, the lock snapping under his brute force. He burst into the bathroom, expecting an intruder or a fall.
The shower was running—ice-cold and violent. Myra was standing under the spray, but she wasn't falling. As soon as she saw him, she lunged. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his dry, expensive clothes into the freezing downpour with her.
"Got you," she whispered, her voice a mix of a sob and a laugh.
The water hit them both. Myra was wearing a thin, white silk slip dress—a garment designed for the bedroom, not the rain. Under the heavy spray, the fabric vanished. It became a second skin, completely transparent, revealing every curve, every shadow, and the pale, trembling reality of her body.
Reyansh felt the air leave his lungs. He was fully clothed, his shirt clinging to his skin, but he felt more exposed than she was. He tried to grab her waist to push her away, but the sight of her through the wet silk was a psychological execution.
His body betrayed him. The three days of abstinence, the three days of playing "caretaker," and the sheer intensity of her assault on his senses reached a breaking point. Under his slacks, his pulse became a roar. He felt the hot, sudden release—a primal reaction to the overwhelming visual and physical overload. He didn't even touch her, yet he felt the warmth of his own juice trailing down his thigh, a shameful mark of how much power she truly held over him.
Myra didn't care. She leaned in, her lips finding his, her tongue tasting the salt and the cold water. She pressed her transparent chest against his soaked shirt, trying to fuse their bodies together.
"See?" she murmured against his mouth. "You're not a stranger. You're mine."
Reyansh's eyes snapped open. The shame of his own loss of control turned into a cold, hard focus. He was Reyansh Khurana; he did not lose to a bottle of gin and a wet dress.
He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin with a force that made her gasp. He didn't kiss her back. Instead, he used his strength to shove her back against the cold marble wall of the shower.
"Look at yourself!" he roared over the sound of the water. "You're a mess. You're pathetic. You think this is how you win? By throwing yourself at me when you can barely stand?"
"I want you!" she screamed back, the water masking her tears.
"You don't even know who I am right now!" He reached over and turned the shower handle to its coldest setting, the water turning into needles of ice. "Stay under it. Don't come out until you can say my name without slurring. I am not your 'distraction,' Myra. And I am certainly not a man who accepts a hollow victory."
He turned on his heel and walked out of the bathroom, his soaked clothes heavy and dripping. He left a trail of water and the evidence of his own weakness on the floor. He slammed the bedroom door, leaning against it, his heart hammering in a hollow chest.
He had pushed her away, but as he looked down at the wet fabric of his pants, he knew the truth: she hadn't just marked his neck tonight. She had marked his soul.
Author's Thought
THE TOTAL COLLAPSE! 😱🌊 This was the most intense chapter yet. Reyansh lost control so badly he couldn't even wait for the act, but his pride still made him push her away. He's disgusted with himself for being so weak for a drunk woman. 🚩🚩🚩