2

ia didn’t ask questions anymore.

Not when he wordlessly took her phone from her at night.

Not when he chose her clothes, decided her meals, or watched her move around the house like she belonged to him.

Because somehow… she did.

It had been three weeks since she’d moved in. Three weeks since Aryan had laid out his rules. He hadn’t touched her—not really. But he didn’t need to.

His presence alone wrapped around her like silk and steel. He didn’t demand obedience; he simply expected it. And she gave it—effortlessly, willingly.

Tonight, he had only said one thing before vanishing into his study:

“Wear the black one.”

She knew what he meant.

The night suit—black, sleeveless crop top and matching shorts. Bare skin. Vulnerable. Soft. His favorite.

She had hesitated for just a second before changing into it.

Now she sat curled on the corner of the leather couch, blanket over her legs, a book open in her lap. The fire crackled low, and the air smelled faintly of his cologne—amber, smoke, control.

He walked in minutes later, barefoot, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a glimpse of his chest. She didn’t move.

Aryan didn’t speak. He sat beside her, close enough that his thigh brushed hers. Close enough to make her forget the words on the page.

His hand reached out slowly and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes meeting his. Trusting. Steady.

He didn’t smile, but something in his gaze softened. Pride. Possession. Maybe even a quiet kind of affection.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his hand slid from her ear, down her jaw, to her bare shoulder. He brushed the skin there with the back of his fingers. Light. Barely there. As if testing how far her trust went.

She didn’t flinch.

His touch moved lower, over the line of her collarbone, to the dip of her waist—just under the hem of the crop top. Her skin prickled beneath his touch, breath stuttering in her throat.

Still, she didn’t speak. Didn’t stop him.

“Mia,” he said, voice low.

“Yes?” Her whisper felt too loud in the still room.

“You’re doing well.”

Her heart clenched at the praise. It wasn’t just words—it was permission. It was reward.

His hand stayed on her waist, unmoving now. Holding her. Not claiming. Not yet.

Just reminding her:

You’re mine. And I’m patient.

Mia didn’t see it coming.

One second, she was curled beside him, warm and wordless in his quiet affection. The next, Aryan leaned in and kissed her.

No warning. No hesitation. Just claiming.

His lips brushed hers—soft at first, testing, tasting. Then deeper. Hungrier. A quiet groan rumbled in his chest as he cupped her jaw, holding her still, and kissed her like it was his right. Like she belonged beneath him, to him, for him.

And she did nothing to stop it.

When he finally pulled back, her chest was rising and falling in uneven waves. His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip, gaze dark and heavy with intent.

“That,” he said, voice like silk over gravel, “wasn’t a gift. It was a right.”

She blinked. “A right?”

He nodded, fingers sliding down to her bare waist—possessive, slow. “To kiss you. To touch you. To take what’s mine.”

Her breath hitched. “I—”

Aryan didn’t let her finish.

His lips moved to her nape, pressing warm kisses there. Soft, reverent, obsessed. Then a lick. Then a bite that made her gasp.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured against her neck. “But patience has limits.”

His hand moved over her thigh now, just resting there, warm and heavy. Controlling.

“I’m going to start giving you rules,” he said, nipping her skin. “Not just house rules. Mine. Do you understand?”

She nodded slowly.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes. “Use your words, Mia.”

“Yes, Aryan.”

His eyes narrowed. “Wrong.”

She swallowed. “Yes… Master.”

The smirk that played at his lips made her stomach twist.

“Good girl.”

His hand slid slightly higher up her thigh.

“From now on, when we’re alone, I want you dressed the way I prefer—bare skin, soft fabrics. I want to see you. Feel you.”

She nodded again, breathless.

“When I come home…” he leaned in, his voice dark with quiet command, “You greet me with a warm hug and kisses. Not one. Not two. I want them all over—my lips, my face… and especially—” his teeth grazed her neck again “—right here.”

She whimpered.

“And here.” His hand slid over her belly, caressing it slowly with the back of his fingers. His eyes followed his hand like it was his favorite part of her body. “This is mine. This soft little stomach. My obsession.”

He bent down and kissed it through the thin fabric of her night shorts. “I’ll mark it one day. But not yet.”

She was melting now, trembling in his hold.

He whispered against her skin, “Say it. Who do you belong to?”

“You,” she whispered, barely able to breathe.

He kissed up her torso, stopping just under her breasts.

“Say it right.”

She closed her eyes, body pulsing with heat.

“I belong to you, Master.”

And just like that, the game they’d been playing turned into something else. Something deeper. Darker. Real.

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