Chapter 3: The Shadow He Claimed
1115 Words
Present — Midweek Monsoon
The monsoon was relentless. Not the romantic kind with light drizzle and poetry, but the kind that flooded alleyways and soaked souls. Misti's apartment had taken in the rain like a stubborn lung takes in smoke. Dampness curled in the walls, in her clothes, in the corners of her mind where she had locked away certain feelings.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, a yellow notepad on her lap, pen poised over blank paper. She was trying to draft a sociology presentation, but her thoughts kept slipping to the scent still lingering in her room—Rudra's cologne, faint and musky, mixed with her lavender shampoo.
He'd left in the morning. No goodbye. Just the sound of the door clicking shut while she pretended to be asleep. As always.
She didn’t mind. His comings and goings were part of her architecture now.
The bed still held the imprint of his body.
The door creaked.
She didn’t have to look. She knew.
Wet footsteps. Damp hair. Black t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin.
He dropped his helmet on the bean bag and ran a hand through his hair, flicking droplets onto the floor.
"No power at home. Ma told me to stay here tonight."
Misti just hummed, eyes on her notepad.
He came closer.
"What? No tea? No 'Rudra, you'll catch a cold'?"
She exhaled through her nose and got up. "There’s ginger tea on the stove. Cup yourself."
Behind her, his laughter rolled, low and smug.
Present — Kitchen Corner
She was pulling out mugs when he slid behind her, arms caging her in. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel his breath on her shoulder.
"You wore that just for me?" he murmured.
She glanced down at her pale blue camisole and cotton shorts. Nothing new. Nothing planned. Just laundry day.
"Don’t flatter yourself."
But his fingers grazed the hem of her shorts anyway. Light. Teasing.
"This...," he whispered, pressing into her back, "is what I want to come home to."
She shivered. Not from the cold.
Flashback — The Day She Was Claimed
Class 11.
It had started with another boy again.
Misti had laughed too long at something in class. A boy had brushed her fingers while handing her a book.
By lunch, Rudra had dragged her behind the sports storeroom.
"You think you can smile at anyone? Talk sweet and get away with it?"
She had looked up at him, confused. His hand was already on her hip.
"Tell me what he said."
"He just asked for notes."
"And you batted your lashes for that?"
Then he kissed her.
Furious. Unapologetic. Heat and punishment.
Her back hit the wall, knees wobbling. His hand was under her shirt before she could stop it.
"You don’t give yourself to anyone. Got it?"
She gasped.
"Say it."
"I don’t... I won’t."
He left a mark on her breast that lasted days. She had to hide it with dupattas and makeup. Her friends thought she was sick. But she wasn’t. Just... claimed.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t resist.
Because something in her liked belonging to him. Even if he never said it out loud.
Present — Living Room Tease
They drank tea in silence. She sat on the couch, legs curled under her. He sat beside her, sprawled like he owned the place. One finger slowly traced patterns along her knee.
"You’re quiet today."
"I’m always quiet."
"Yeah, but usually your silence screams."
She sipped tea. He took her cup, drank from the same spot her lips had touched.
"Your shampoo's driving me crazy," he muttered. "It’s like... I want to bite into your skin just to taste it."
She looked at him.
He looked back.
No words. Just a slow tension that pulsed between them.
Flashback — The Night She Touched Herself
After that first claim, she had gone home and locked herself in her room. The mark he left on her body throbbed under her t-shirt.
She touched it.
Fingers light. Breathing shallow.
Then lower. Deeper.
She had whispered his name. Moaned into her pillow. Felt her entire being shudder.
And cried.
Because she knew this wasn’t just lust.
It was love, twisted into silence.
Present — Bedroom Again
They lay in bed now. Lights off. Rain outside. Rudra pulled her close from behind. Nose buried in her hair.
"Did you talk to that senior in your group project again?"
"Why?"
His hand gripped her waist harder. "I don’t like him."
"He’s smart. Sweet. And polite."
Rudra rolled her onto her back, eyes glittering in the dark.
"Did he touch you? Did he make you wet like I do?"
Her breath caught.
He ran a thumb over her stomach.
"Tell me you don’t think of me when he talks. That your body doesn’t ache like it does when I just breathe near you."
She bit her lip.
He dipped his head, lips brushing her collarbone.
"You smell like warm water and the kind of dreams I want to sip from slowly," he growled. "Like I could lose my mind just trying to taste you."
She didn’t reply.
Because her body had already answered.
She arched. Moaned.
But then—he paused.
"You’re burning."
She blinked.
"What?"
He touched her forehead again. Then her neck. His fingers stiffened.
"You have a fever. Why the hell didn’t you say anything?"
"It’s nothing. Just tired."
He sat up, pulling away. Switched on the dim light, the rain casting shadows on the walls.
"Misti, your skin’s on fire. And you’re shaking."
"Don’t make a scene, Rudra. I’ve had worse."
His voice dropped, low and angry. "Have you seen a doctor?"
She turned her face. "Not yet. It’s probably viral. I’ll sleep it off."
"You always do this! Hiding things until it gets worse."
"Because it’s my body. My life. You don’t have to worry."
But he wasn’t listening anymore. He grabbed the thermometer from the drawer, forced her to lie still. She didn’t resist—but her heart thudded. Not from illness. From fear.
Because he didn’t know. Not yet.
That it wasn’t just fever.
That something deeper had been eating at her. A syndrome she hadn’t named aloud. A truth she hadn’t dared speak.
But in that moment—he didn’t touch her like before. Not with hunger.
He kissed her forehead.
Pulled the blanket tighter.
And held her hand.
As if she might disappear.
As if he felt something shift—but didn’t yet know what.
She turned her face into the pillow.
And let herself sleep.
Because for once, the night wasn’t about desire.
It was about being seen—even if only a little.
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