NUISANCE BLOOD

CHAPTER FIVE : FIRST CRACK IN HIS ARMOUR

Inside her skull, a single command screamed: 'Don't breathe fast. Don't let him feel the pulse jump. This is a test. Everything is a test.'

She breathed slow. She counted her heartbeats like a soldier counting bullets. His thumb rested on the side of her neck, right over the carotid, and she knew he could feel every surge of blood, every betrayal of her calm.

"The vein here..." Karan's voice had gone quiet, almost to himself, as if he'd forgotten she was listening. "It's fluttering. Like a trapped bird."

A pause. Three seconds that stretched into eternity. His thumb didn't move. His gaze was fixed on the curve of her throat, and something in his expression shifted—a crack in the predator's mask, a flicker of something unguarded. He was lost, just for a moment, in the architecture of her skin, the vulnerability he was holding in his bare hand. He'd killed before, many times, but he'd never lingered like this. He'd never wanted to.

She felt the hesitation. She didn't know what it meant—arousal, curiosity, a flicker of humanity that he'd long since buried—but she knew a weakness when she saw one. And she pounced.

"Pervert."

The word was a scalpel. It sliced through the charged silence, and Karan blinked. The spell shattered. He looked down at her, and then he laughed—a genuine, startled, delighted laugh that came from somewhere deep in his chest and echoed off the walls like a gunshot.

"Pervert." He was still laughing, the sound rough with surprise. "Hah. No one's called me that in years."

He spun her chair around to face him, the legs groaning against the floor. Now she was trapped between the table and his body, his hands on either armrest, his face inches from hers. She could smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his cologne, the faint metallic tang that never quite left him. His eyes were bright with a dangerous amusement.

"You're fearless, Shraddha Sharma. Reckless, but fearless. And you know what else you are?"

"Annoyed. Impatient. Unimpressed. Pick one."

"Seductive." The word dripped from his lips like honey laced with ground glass. "You sure are seductive. Not on purpose, I think. Which makes it worse. You just sit there, proud and starving, neck bared like a dare, and you expect me not to notice."

He reached out. His thumb traced her bottom lip—slow, deliberate, a signature not a caress. The pad of his finger was rough, calloused from years of knife work. He dragged it across the soft flesh, then up, tapping the tip of her nose with a finality that felt like a brand.

"There. Lip. Nose. Now you've been properly complimented. Eat."

Inside her mind, the wheels turned: 'His thumb is still warm on my skin. Don't wipe it away. Don't give him the reaction. The compliment is a trap. The tenderness is a trap. Everything is a trap.' She held his gaze, unblinking, and let the silence stretch.

"No."

"No?" A flash of incredulity crossed his features. "After all that, still no? You're exhausting."

"I aim to be. Keeps you on your toes."

"Last chance. Eat willingly."

She met his eyes, and in that moment, she weighed her options. She could cave and keep the peace, buy herself more hours of safety. Or she could push, and see what he was truly made of. Pushing was risky, but information was worth risk. She needed to know where his limits lay, how he responded when defied, what kind of monster she was dealing with.

"Make me."

The smile vanished from Karan's face like a light switching off. The air in the room thickened, the candle flames bending as if recoiling. His hand moved from the armrest to her jaw, fingers finding the pressure points with surgical precision. Then he squeezed. Pain bloomed—sharp, bright, precise, the kind of pain that commanded absolute obedience without causing lasting damage. Her mouth opened on a reflexive gasp, and in that moment, she hated her body for betraying her.

"There." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "That wasn't so hard."

He picked up a small piece of chapati from her plate. It was still warm, dipped in the golden paneer gravy, and he placed it on her tongue with the care of a man setting a fuse. Then he pushed her jaw shut, gently but firmly, and held it there.

"Chew." The command vibrated through his fingertips. "It's just food, not poison. I already told you."

She glared at him, the full force of her fury pouring into her eyes. But she chewed. The paneer was rich, creamy, spiced with cardamom and cinnamon—it should have been delicious. It tasted like ash. Because it wasn't food. It was submission. And she was swallowing it.

'Swallow the rage with the chapati,' she told herself, the thought a cold anchor in the storm of her fury. 'He won this round. But rounds don't matter. Only the last one. Remember the pressure points on his hand. The way he leaned in. Use it later.'

She swallowed. The food slid down her throat, and she felt a piece of her pride go with it. But pride could be sacrificed. Pride could be rebuilt. What mattered was that she was alive, and she was learning.

Karan watched her throat move, and a flicker of something satisfied passed over his face. "Good girl. See? That wasn't so difficult." He straightened, releasing her jaw, and turned to the man who had been standing motionless by the door—a servant named Manoj, who had witnessed the entire exchange with a face carved from stone. "Manoj—leave us. Take the guards with you. I want the corridor clear."

The servant bowed and exited without a sound. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was absolute. They were alone now, truly alone, the outside world shut out behind layers of locked doors and silenced corridors.

Karan leaned close, his breath ghosting her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more intimate than the hand he'd had on her throat. "You sure know how to intrigue me. Huh. A girl who'd rather starve than bend. A girl who calls me a pervert while my hand's on her throat. A girl whose name I still can't place in any file, any network, any family register. Who are you, really, Shraddha Sharma?"

She turned her head, just enough to meet his eyes from inches away. The closeness was suffocating, electric, dangerous. She could see the flecks of amber in his irises, the faint stubble along his jaw, the small scar on his chin that she hadn't noticed before. This was a face that had seen things. Done things. And it was still hungry.

"An artist," she said, her voice steady as a blade. "You ruined my painting. I haven't forgotten."

His smile returned, slow and sharp, a knife wound in the shape of a grin. "Neither have I. Tomorrow, you'll paint me a new one. But tonight—tonight you'll eat the rest of that plate. All of it. Then we'll talk about your bracelet. And the Sheikh family. And why your pulse just jumped again when I said their name."

She didn't flinch. But inside, the thought was a scream: 'He knows nothing. He's fishing. But the Sheikh name... why does it keep coming up? Dad, you lying bastard, what mess have you left me in?' She replayed every conversation she'd overheard in her father's study, every whispered warning about the Sheikhs. There'd been tension, yes, but open war? Her father had said they were contained. A lie. A goddamn lie. And now she was trapped in the middle of it, with a man who thought she was a piece on his board.

"Fine." She reached for the plate, pulling it toward her with a clatter that broke the tension. "Pass the plate. But don't think this means I've stopped wanting you dead."

He laughed again, soft and low, a predator's purr. He slid the plate toward her, his fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second—deliberate, a spark of static in the dim room. "I'd be disappointed if you had. Eat, nuisance. We have a long night ahead."

She picked up the chapati, the same piece he'd touched, and bit into it. The food was still warm. It tasted like strategy now, like fuel for the fight ahead. She would eat. She would gather her strength. And she would wait for the moment when his guard dropped, when the predator blinked, when the knife was pointed the other way.

That moment would come. And when it did, she would show him exactly what kind of artist she really was—the kind who painted with blood, and never, ever forgot a ruined masterpiece.