NUISANCE BLOOD

CHAPTER FOUR: A SIMPLE MISTAKE

They met over a long table of dark mahogany, in a room that smelled of roasted cardamom and burning sandalwood. Candles flickered in iron sconces. The light licked at Karan Singh's cheekbones as he sat at the head, a glass of blood-red wine untouched by his hand. Shraddha was brought in barefoot, her paint-stained clothes a deliberate insult to the silk-draped chairs. Arjun had walked her through corridors that twisted like a labyrinth, past doors with no handles, until they reached this strange oasis of civility. A table set for two. Silver domes steaming. And a man who watched her enter like she was the main course.

Karan didn't rise. He gestured lazily to the empty seat. "You came. I half-expected you'd barricade the door with the mattress. Dinner is served. Sit."

She didn't sit immediately. She stood at the edge of the table, letting the silence stretch, letting him see that she was cataloguing everything: the number of exits (one, behind her), the weapons on display (none visible, but the butter knife was close to her plate), the weight of the chandelier above his head. Then she pulled out the chair, the legs scraping against marble with a sound like a knife on bone.

"Barricading felt too dramatic. Besides, you'd only break it down and then I'd have splinters everywhere. I hate splinters."

"Practical." He tilted his head, a flicker of genuine approval crossing his features. "I appreciate that. Since we're being civil—Karan Singh. Host, captor, and your new favorite puzzle."

He said his name like it was a gift, something she should be grateful to receive. She wasn't. She'd been waiting for this moment, and she gave hers without hesitation—her real name, because a lie would be caught and a half-truth was her best armor. He didn't recognize it. She watched his eyes for the micro-flinch, the flicker of recognition. Nothing. He didn't know her family. That was the first piece of useful information she'd collected all evening.

"Shraddha Sharma. Artist, captive, and your current migraine. There. Introductions done. Now can we skip the small talk and get to the part where you tell me why I'm still alive?"

She leaned back, letting her hands rest on the armrests, the picture of unbothered defiance. Inside, her mind was a razor: 'He doesn't know the Sharma name. Which means he doesn't know about Father's shell companies, or the alliance with the Naiks. Good. Keep it that way. Don't mention them. Don't mention anything that leads back.'

Karan laughed—a short, clipped sound that echoed off the high ceiling. "Straight to business. No 'how was your day, Karan?' No 'lovely weather, Karan?' You wound me."

"You'll survive. You seem durable."

"Durable. Another label. Your collection grows." He picked up his wine glass, swirled it, didn't drink. "Very well, Shraddha Sharma. Since you asked—you're alive because you're interesting. And because you haven't lied to me yet. Keep it that way."

Her heart didn't skip; it adjusted. Interesting was a reprieve, not a pardon. She could work with interesting. "Interesting is a fragile currency. It runs out. What happens then?"

"Then I spend you." The words fell like a coin onto stone. "But for now, eat. The food isn't poisoned, if that's what you're thinking. I don't waste good poison on interesting people."

He lifted one of the silver domes. Steam rose, carrying the scent of saffron and garlic. Paneer makhani, golden and rich. Naan, butter-drenched. Her stomach betrayed her with a soft clench, but she didn't move. She was already calculating: eating was surrender. Refusing was defiance. Both were traps, but one kept her agency. She'd starve before she'd perform for him.

"I'm not hungry."

Karan set down the lid with a deliberate click. His eyes, which had been lazily amused, sharpened. "You haven't eaten since yesterday. You're lying. That's one strike."

The word strike hung in the air like a guillotine blade. She felt the weight of it—not fear, but the cool recognition that she'd misstepped. He'd been watching her vitals somehow, or he'd studied her plate from the night before. Either way, he knew her body's weaknesses better than she'd assumed. Stupid. Rookie mistake. She filed it away.

"It's not a lie." She kept her voice even, a smooth stone skipping across dark water. "I'm not hungry for anything you're serving. Food, games, charm—none of it sits well. So I'll pass."

He leaned back, the leather of his chair exhaling softly. The smile that curved his lips didn't touch his eyes; it was the smile of a predator watching prey limp in circles. "You think refusing to eat is defiance. It's not. It's just slow suicide with extra steps. And if you want to die, there are faster ways. I can arrange one. Right now. Less mess than a hunger strike."

The killing intent rolled off him in waves—not a change in his posture, but a sudden, suffocating density in the air. Shraddha felt it press against her skin, a primal warning that bypassed her brain and spoke directly to her spine. She didn't flinch. She'd been trained for this, not by circumstance but by blood. Her father's men had looked at her like this. She'd learned to smile back.

"There it is. The killing intent." She let a note of boredom creep into her voice. "Took you longer than I expected. Most men jump to threats in the first five minutes. You waited almost ten. I'm almost impressed."

"Most men lack patience. I have plenty." His voice dropped to a register that vibrated in the bones. "But even I have limits. You will eat, Shraddha. Not because you're hungry. Because I said so. That's the only reason that matters here."

She lifted her chin. The candlelight caught the stubborn line of her jaw, the flash of something feral in her eyes. "And if I still refuse? You'll what—carve me up at the dinner table? Ruin the upholstery? You seem like a man who hates stains."

"I do hate stains." He placed his wine glass down with the precision of a sniper adjusting his scope. "But blood washes out. Defiance, however, lingers. And yours is starting to irritate me."

"Then we're even. Your existence irritates me. Pass the salt—oh wait, I'm not eating. Never mind."

A beat of silence. Then another. The candles flickered as if the room itself was holding its breath. Shraddha watched his hands—they were still, resting on the table, but the knuckles had whitened slightly. She'd needled him, and the needle had found a nerve. A very Good nerve indeed...

Then Karan rose. The scrape of his chair against marble was a deliberate, drawn-out sound, like a blade leaving its sheath. He walked around the table, each step measured, unhurried. She didn't turn to track him. She kept her eyes forward, her spine straight, a statue in the path of a storm. The warmth of his body registered at her back before his shadow fell across her plate.

"You have a lot of pride for someone in a cage."

"Pride is all I have left. You took the rest. So yes, I'll cling to it. Bite me."

"Bite you? No. I have something else in mind."

His hand moved before she could brace. Fingertips brushed the loose hair at her nape, feather-light, a caress that was all threat and no tenderness. Then his palm settled on the back of her neck—warm, heavy, absolute. He tilted her head forward slightly, just enough to expose the pale column of her throat to the chandelier's glow. The skin there was thin, delicate. A map of blue veins traced beneath the surface, and the pulse that beat in the hollow of her collarbone was a frantic, caged thing.