The air in the room instantly grew heavy, suffocatingly tight as he closed the distance between them. "Moon, look at me," he commanded. The gravelly roughness in his voice contrasted sharply with the agonizingly slow, deliberate way he lifted her chin with his index finger, forcing her face up. "D-Door... door raho," she stammered, her lips trembling so violently the Urdu words barely formed. She wanted to push him away, to scream at him to back off, but her body betrayed her. His touch—even now, under these horrific circumstances—felt devastatingly familiar. It carried the exact same warmth she had craved once before, a phantom heat that confused her senses and made her chest ache. "We just had our *nikah*, Moon. You can't deny this. You can't deny me," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. He didn't let go, his knuckles tracing a slow, possessive path down the curve of her cheek. The word *nikah* hit her like a tidal wave, pulling the air right out of her lungs. The brutal reality crashed down, crushing her under its weight: *I am his wife.* Suddenly, the heavily embroidered red lehenga she was wearing felt like a gilded cage, tight and suffocating. Her breathing turned shallow, her throat tightening against the weight of the massive bridal *nath* piercing her nose. His parting words, delivered just hours ago, began to ring viciously in her ears, drowning out everything else: *“Hamara yaha nikah sirf nath ke saath hota hai, Moon. No other jewellery.”* He had engineered this entire nightmare. He was the one who had forced her into this room, sending her off with his silent helpers to get ready only after threatening her with the death of her parents. Now, he was hovering right in front of her. His face was inches from hers, his warm, erratic breath fanning across her lips. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, erratic rhythms, a trapped bird fluttering against its cage. His eyes shifted, dropping to the gold *nath*. A dark, intense fixation sparked in his honey-brown eyes, staring at the jewelry as if it were a physical manifestation of his victory. "As I was the one to wear it to you... I'll be the one taking it off," he rasped, his voice dropping into a hoarse, dangerous register. His eyes bore into her skin, stripping away whatever defenses she had left. Before she could even gasp, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of her ear. "Begum," he breathed. The title was uttered with such heavy, dominant possession that a violent, uncontrollable shiver ran straight down her spine.