CRIMSON VOWS

Chapter 11

The courtyard was a blur of music, laughter, and vibrant color. Marigolds hung like heavy golden chains across the whitewashed walls, and the air carried the sweet, heavy scent of crushed jasmine mixed with wet henna. Women danced in circles; children darted through the crowd; guests laughed over sweet tea.

To anyone watching, it was the celebration of a fortunate bride.

Only Aira knew it was a funeral.

She sat on the flower-draped swing in an emerald-green lehenga, the delicate mirrorwork catching the afternoon light. Her hands were outstretched, palms held flat as the mehendi artist carefully drew intricate floral scrolls across her skin. Traditionally, the groom’s initials were hidden somewhere in the detailed curls of the pattern for him to find on the wedding night.

Dominic hadn't settled for initials.

He had demanded his full name—D. Moretti—be traced clearly across her inner wrist in dark green paste.

When Aira had tried to pull her hand away, her mother had leaned in, her grip tight and her voice trembling as she whispered, "Please, Aira... he threatened to destroy your father's business if you cause a scene."

So Aira sat perfectly still, her blood boiling beneath her skin.

He didn't arrive quietly.

Dominic entered the courtyard like a dark storm crashing into a summer afternoon. He wore a tailored black kurta, dark sunglasses, and a gold watch that gleamed in the sunlight. Behind him, his men dispersed into the crowd like silent shadows, positioning themselves at every exit with quiet, practiced authority.

He didn't smile. He didn't greet her family.

His eyes locked onto her instantly.

Aira saw him coming and turned her head away, her jaw tight.

Too late.

He closed the distance in long, measured steps, crouching beside her swing. He reached out, the tip of his finger lightly tracing the damp henna paste on her wrist.

"You smell like flowers," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear over the music. "And lies."

"Go away," she hissed through her teeth, not looking at him.

Dominic smirked, his dark eyes trailing over her embroidered blouse. "You look so picturesque sitting here. Don't ruin the illusion for your family."

She snapped her head toward him, her eyes burning with pure venom. "I will never love you."

His jaw clenched for a fraction of a second—a brief flash of something dark crossing his features—before his cold smirk returned. "I'm not asking for your love, Aira. Just your obedience. And your skin."

"Get out of my face."

"Is that a request or a plea?"

Unable to take another second of his proximity, Aira stood up abruptly. The wet henna on her hands forced her to keep her fingers splayed, and the silk of her skirt brushed against his legs as she stepped past him.

Dominic stayed crouched for a moment, his eyes dropping to the bare curve of her lower back revealed by her cut-out blouse. He exhaled slowly—a quiet, possessive sound—before rising to his full height.

An hour later, Aira was locked in her upstairs bedroom, standing over the bathroom sink. Her heart pounded as she tried to scrub the wet paste off her wrist with a damp towel before the dye could set into her skin.

The bedroom door burst open. No knock. No warning.

Dominic stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a heavy click.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Aira yelled, backing away from the sink.

In two quick strides, Dominic reached her, grabbing her wet wrist in an iron grip—the exact wrist bearing his name. "You're not erasing it."

"Let me go!"

"No."

She jerked her arm back, but he used her momentum to press her firmly against the mahogany dresser. He didn't use enough force to hurt her, but his frame completely caged her against the wood, trapping her between his arms.

"You want to know why I chose you?" he whispered, leaning down until his dark eyes consumed her vision. "Because the moment I saw you, nothing else mattered. Not the debt your family owes. Not the blood on my hands. Just you. And that kind of obsession doesn't let go."

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. "You're a monster," she choked out. "A disgusting, power-drunk, psychotic—"

Dominic leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Then stop making me dream of breaking you."

She trembled, her breathing shallow against his chest. "I will never belong to you willingly."

He offered a slow, cruel smile. "That’s what makes this fun."

He pushed himself back from the dresser, adjusting the cuffs of his black kurta. He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the brass handle.

"I want you looking flawless at the sangeet tonight," he said without looking back. "Wear something backless. I like knowing your family thinks you're happy while you're silently falling apart."

The door clicked shut, leaving her alone in the quiet room.

Aira stood by the dresser, her chest heaving as she looked down at her wrist. The green paste had dried dark, locking his name into her skin—a permanent reminder of the cage closing around her