Chapter 3: Shadowlines

The silence inside the bookstore was never just silence anymore.

It hummed now — with presence, with memory, with the echo of footsteps too heavy to forget. Matteo hadn’t come in two days, and yet Aaravi felt him in everything. In the untouched poetry shelf where his fingers had once lingered. In the small indent on the counter where he’d once leaned too close. In the rainwater stain on the floor where he’d stood, soaked and uninvited, and told her she was his.

Not yet.

The words lived rent-free inside her now.

She told herself she hated it — the arrogance, the claim, the way he’d bought the building without permission, without warning. But there were things she didn’t admit, even to herself. Like how she checked her phone too often. How she left the light on after closing. How she replayed their conversations when she thought no one was watching.

That was the worst part of all — she wasn’t sure if she hated it… or if she was waiting for him.

And then on the third day, she found the rose.

It was left on the poetry shelf — white, full bloom, wrapped in the kind of silk ribbon no local florist used. No note. No message. Just that singular presence. Elegant. Lethal in its implications.

Her fingers closed around the stem. No thorns.

Of course there weren’t.

Matteo never left obvious wounds.

She should’ve thrown it away.

Instead, she placed it in an old glass bottle and tucked it between Rumi and Tagore like it belonged there.

—

By late evening, the sun had slipped behind the dusty skyline of Jaipur. The shutters creaked as she pulled them down. Just as she reached for the final lock, her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number.

But it wasn’t really unknown.

Matteo: Come outside. No questions.

Her pulse jumped.

She should’ve ignored it.

Instead, she stepped out.

The black car was waiting. Long, tinted, sleek. A man in a suit stood by the rear door. Not Matteo. Someone with an earpiece and a neck too thick for comfort.

He didn’t speak. Just opened the door.

Aaravi hesitated. Every inch of her screamed to walk away.

But her hands moved on instinct.

When the door shut behind her, the world outside went silent.

He was inside.

Matteo.

The backseat was dim, the scent of his cologne—dark sandalwood and something sharper—already thick in the air. He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her. Like she was a complicated poem he hadn’t yet decided how to read.

“You shouldn’t come here like this,” she whispered.

“And yet you came.”

She looked away. “What is this?”

“A truce.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. “A truce for what? We’re not at war.”

He smiled faintly. “Aren’t we?”

The car pulled away from the curb, and for a moment, Aaravi felt her old world dissolve behind her. The hum of the street. The chai vendors. The safety of familiarity.

Matteo’s hand rested near hers. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. The space between them pulsed.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “Somewhere quiet.”

—

It was a rooftop.

High above the city, away from the temples and the palaces and the glittering chaos of Jaipur. The car had stopped by an old haveli, now turned private. The staff had opened the gates without question. Matteo had led her up marble stairs and through candlelit halls. And now, she stood on a terrace laced with soft lights, looking down at a city she suddenly felt very far from.

“You brought me here for this?” she asked, turning to him.

Matteo leaned against the carved railing, hands in his pockets. “I brought you here because no one listens this high up. No whispers. No threats. Just air.”

She crossed her arms. “You talk like a man being hunted.”

“I am.”

Her breath caught.

He looked at her then. Really looked. “You think you’re the only one with secrets, Aaravi?”

“I don’t have any.”

He chuckled once. Dark. “Everyone does. Even you.”

She stepped back, wary. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t ask for protection. I didn’t ask for anything from you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is with me.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. There was something in his tone — a weight, a fracture — that warned her this wasn’t flirtation anymore.

“You live in a world of stories,” Matteo said, voice lower now. “Words. Shelves. You’ve made yourself small in it. Safe. But your life is not safe, Aaravi. Not anymore.”

“Because of you,” she snapped.

“No,” he said calmly. “Because of your name.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

But Matteo just looked out over the city. “There are things your father never told you. About why your family really left Delhi. About the men he once worked for. About the debt your name carries — one that someone intends to collect.”

She went still. “You’re lying.”

He shook his head. “I don’t lie, dolcezza. I don’t have to.”

Aaravi’s chest tightened. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand something.” He stepped toward her, close enough that the space between them vibrated. “This is not about obsession. This is not about claiming something fragile and breaking it. This is about you.”

“What about me?”

His hand rose, fingers barely grazing her cheek.

“You are the only thing in my life I didn’t plan for.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re light in a world built on blood,” he whispered. “And I will burn anyone who tries to touch you.”

The words landed somewhere deep — between fear and desire, between resistance and collapse.

She should’ve stepped back.

She stepped forward.

His lips brushed hers — soft, hesitant, like even he didn’t know if he was allowed. But when she didn’t pull away, his hand slid behind her neck and the kiss deepened.

It wasn’t soft after that.

It was war.

Heat, breath, teeth. The kind of kiss that blurred edges and made poetry irrelevant. That said things no verse ever could. Her fingers curled into his shirt. His arm locked around her waist. And for one suspended moment on that rooftop, she forgot everything — who he was, what this meant, where it would end.

She only remembered how it felt to be kissed like a secret that might shatter the world.

When they broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t let go.

“I’m not good for you,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“And yet...”

And yet.

She didn’t say it aloud.

Because some truths didn’t need words.

Some truths came with roses and rooftops and green eyes that never blinked when they stared into your soul.

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