"Please… m-mujhe… mujhe chhod do..."
Her voice cracked, trembling like a dry leaf in a storm.
Meher's back slammed against the cold mud wall of the storehouse, her torn dupatta hanging from her shoulder, chest heaving—barely covered, barely breathing.

Her cousin’s breath reeked of paan and filth. His hands were already clawing at her blouse, eager, ruthless, drunk with years of unchecked lust.

"I told you," he growled, teeth grazing her ear, "nobody's going to save you, Meher. You're not a guest here. You’re just a body in this house... and I’ve waited too fucking long."

She whimpered. Kicked. Clawed at his face. Her fear wasn’t new—it was born the day she first bled and saw his eyes shift. Since then, every night she walked past him felt like walking naked through fire.

But tonight, fire became flesh.

Just as his fingers tore her blouse open—
The wooden door behind them flew open.

CRASH.

He was yanked back like a rag doll.
A punch. A roar. A scream.
Blood splattered against the wall.

Thakur Veer Singh stood there—jaw clenched, eyes black, breathing like a beast barely caged.

"You dared to touch what’s mine?" he snarled, dragging Meher’s cousin by the hair, slamming him to the floor like filth.

Meher dropped to the corner, sobbing, arms around her chest. But her wide, terrified eyes met his.

Veer turned to her, and the violence in his eyes melted into something else—something worse. Obsession. Possession. Pure, unholy hunger.

He walked to her, slow and steady, boots crushing dried grains on the floor. Kneeling, he reached out—his rough fingers curling around her shaking chin.

"You don't cry for them, Meher," he said, voice like molten thunder.
"You cry only for me."

She blinked, lips trembling. "Why…? Why are you here?"

"Because I’ve watched you," he whispered. "Bathing in the river… sleeping on the charpai… walking alone at dusk."
He traced a torn strap down her shoulder, his gaze devouring the skin beneath.
"I saw how they looked at you. I knew they’d try. That’s why I marked you in silence."

"You… marked me?"

"I did," he growled. "And I’ll do it again—on your neck, your thighs, your womb. Until this whole cursed village knows you belong to me."

She gasped.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear.
"You think I saved you because I’m good?" he whispered, voice dripping with sin.
"No, Meher. I saved you… because only I get to ruin you."

▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️

Dear readers,

Welcome to the twisted, wild, and sinful world of A Siren in Silk.
This isn’t your usual love story. This is obsession—raw, burning, and unapologetic.
Veer Singh doesn’t fall in love. He claims, he possesses, he ruins.
And Meher? She’s not your typical delicate flower. She’s fire wrapped in silk—and fire always leaves scars.

This story explores:

1. Dark obsession and primal desire

2. Power imbalance with emotional layers

3. Village politics, folklore, and sin wrapped in sensual silk

4. And the question: Can something born from darkness ever turn into love?

If you're looking for soft kisses and sweet nothings—this isn't it.
But if you crave intensity, forbidden lust, and the kind of male lead who’d burn down a village for a single moan—
You're in the right place.

🌒 Read with your heart open, and your morals tied up.

Love,
Shri
(Your sinful storyteller 💋)