The soft light filtering through the ornate window lattice was a gentle lie. Meher woke slowly, not to the familiar ache of her own cot, but to the overwhelming softness of silk beneath her, the faint, masculine scent of the bedding. For a moment, a blissful, blank moment, there was nothing. Then, like a viper uncoiling in her belly, the memories struck.

Her breath hitched, a silent gasp. Yesterday’s terror replayed—the single, brutal set of hands, the reek of stale liquor and unwashed bodies, the tearing of fabric, the horrifying pressure. Her mind replayed the sickening crunch of the grass beneath her, the burning friction against her exposed skin, the terrifying proximity of his hard, grunting erection against her thighs, the sickening fear that her virginity was about to be ripped away. A wave of nausea rolled over her, her stomach churning with the phantom taste of dirt and terror. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it back, but the images were vivid, seared into her very soul.

And then, another layer of filth, older, more insidious, crept into her mind. The countless times her cousin– Ravi’s – slimy hands had strayed, brushing against her breast as he “helped” her carry water, lingering on her waist when he pulled her close for a “joke,” the way his fingers would graze her inner thigh under the pretense of retrieving something. Never going far enough to be outright rape, but always there, always violating her space, leaving her skin crawling with disgust. That pervasive dread, the constant vigilance against his opportunistic touches, had been a prelude to yesterday’s full-blown horror.

Her body, though clean, still felt violated, tainted by a lifetime of unwanted contact. A shiver ran through her, not from cold, but from the chilling memory of hands that had claimed what wasn’t theirs. She could still feel the phantom sting of the bruise on her collarbone, a purple badge of yesterday’s brutality.

She lay still, heart hammering against her ribs, until the sounds of the haveli began to filter in. The distant clatter of pots, the murmur of voices. She heard the soft pad of footsteps approaching the room, then hushed whispers just outside the heavy door. Curiosity, a fragile, new emotion, nudged her to listen.

"Suna hai Thakur-saab ne toh use apni bana liya hai," a woman’s voice, hushed and conspiratorial, drifted in. (I heard Thakur-saab has made her his own.)

"Haan, pura gaon bol raha hai. Kal raat hi sabko dhamka diya," another replied, a hint of awe in her tone. (Yes, the whole village is saying. He threatened everyone last night.)

"Ab toh woh Thakur ki cheez hai. Koi aankh utha ke bhi nahi dekhega," a third voice added, laced with a strange mix of reverence and something that sounded like pity. (Now she is Thakur’s property. No one will even dare to look at her.)

The words hit Meher like a physical blow. Apni bana liya hai. Thakur ki cheez. Her stomach clenched, a cold dread seeping into her bones. The fear, fresh from the nightmare, intensified. Just moments ago, she was trying to escape the memory of being violated, of having her body treated as a thing to be taken. Now, she heard it again, in different words, but with the same underlying message of possession.

Yet, beneath the fear, a strange, overwhelming intimacy bloomed, hot and unsettling. He had said it. He had declared her his. The image of his stern face, his strong arms around her, the way he had washed her, his hand so carefully, almost reverently, cleansing her skin while his own body radiated a powerful, barely contained heat—it all flooded her senses. The memory of his hard erection pressing against her thigh when he carried her, a silent, potent promise of protection and something more, made her breath catch.

It was terrifying. This sudden, fierce claim over her, this overwhelming sense of being taken by him, even in protection. It felt like another chain, albeit one forged in steel rather than rope. She was no longer just a victim; she was his. The thought sent a confusing shiver through her, a mix of relief and a deep, unsettling loss of self.

No. She had to push it away. This was just his dharma. He was the Thakur. It was his duty to protect the weak, to restore order. He had simply helped her, as he would any other villager. He was a powerful man, a protector, nothing more. This overwhelming intimacy, this strange, possessive warmth that had settled deep in her chest, it was just her mind playing tricks, confusing gratitude with something far more dangerous. He was the Thakur, and she was just a girl he had saved. Nothing more. She repeated it like a mantra, trying to quell the unsettling tremor of desire that had dared to stir within her violated body. Just the Thakur. Nothing more.

Meher spent the next few hours in a daze, the weight of the haveli and his unspoken claim pressing in on her from all sides. Her mind, a whirlwind of fear and a terrifying, nascent pull, was a maelstrom of confusion. She couldn’t stay in the room, suffocating under the silent grandeur. Pushing aside the silk covers, she found her way out, drawn by the need to find him, to face him, to understand the truth of what she had overheard. She moved through the haveli like a ghost, a small, lost thing in a world of opulence and silent service.

She asked a passing maid about his whereabouts, her voice barely a whisper. The maid, bowing her head in a sign of deference, pointed towards a large, heavy door at the end of a long corridor. “Thakur-saa is in his study, maalkin.” Maalkin. The word, heavy and formal, landed on her with the force of a blow, cementing the reality of the maids’ whispers.

With a heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, she stood before the door. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then pushed it open.

He was there, a formidable figure seated behind a massive wooden desk. The room was dark, a single lamp casting long shadows that made him appear even more imposing. He wasn’t dressed in the finery of a Thakur, but in a simple kurta, its sleeves rolled up to reveal the coiled muscle of his forearms. A glass of liquor sat untouched on the desk, the rich scent of whiskey mixing with the scent of old paper and leather. As the door swung open, his head snapped up. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto hers. The look in his eyes was not of surprise, but a deep, dangerous knowing.

He said nothing, simply watched her approach, his gaze a physical weight that pinned her in place. The silent tension was thick enough to choke on. The air crackled with unspoken words, with the memory of the night before, of the cleansing bath, of the body-to-body contact that had both terrified and soothed her.

As she reached the desk, her eyes fell to his hands. They were resting on a stack of papers, large and powerful, but her gaze was drawn to the faint, dark smears still clinging to the creases of his knuckles, a testament to the brutality of his night. A cold shiver ran down her spine, and a flash of fear struck her: was this what Thakur’s claim meant? Was this the cost of his protection?

“I heard them,” she whispered, the words trembling on her lips. “The maids.”

His gaze didn’t waver. He simply stared at her, his dark eyes like twin pits of fire. “And what did you hear, Meher?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.

“They… they said you had made me yours,” she choked out, the words difficult to form. “That I am… aapki cheez.”

He rose slowly from his chair, his tall form blocking out the lamplight, casting her in shadow. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he came around the desk, stopping just inches away from her. The air was charged with a palpable tension, a raw, animalistic energy. He reached out, his hand coming to rest on the back of her neck, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her skin. She flinched at the touch, but his grip was firm, unwavering. He pulled her closer until their bodies were a whisper apart. She could feel the hard planes of his chest, the raw power in his frame, the subtle scent of him that filled her lungs.

“They’re right,” he said, his voice a low, guttural murmur that sent a shiver down her spine. “From the moment I picked you up and brought you here, you were mine.” His eyes raked over her face, her bruised throat, lingering on her lips. “Do you understand the difference, Meher? That man,” he spat the words like venom, “wanted to take you, to use you, to defile you. I,” he said, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, “I want to claim you. To own you. To keep you safe. And in return...”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. His eyes, burning with a dangerous hunger, told her everything. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest, a terrified little bird trapped in a cage of silk and stone. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was now tangled with an overwhelming, terrifying intimacy, a magnetic pull to the raw, possessive power that was threatening to consume her. She was a moth, drawn to the flame, even as she knew it was dangerous.

He lowered his head, his face a hard mask of desire, and his lips, firm and demanding, found hers. The kiss was not gentle. It was a statement, a brutal, possessive claim. His mouth moved over hers, a silent vow that she was his now, and that no one would ever touch her again. A strange, breathless fire ignited within her, an intoxicating blend of terror and something she was too afraid to name. She felt herself leaning into it, a fragile surrender to the storm, when his hand, large and calloused, left her neck and slid down her back, finally coming to rest on her hip.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his fingers traced the curve of her hip and moved up her side, until his palm flattened against the side of her breast, his thumb grazing its underside through the soft cotton of his shirt.

The contact was a lightning bolt of sheer, unadulterated terror.

His touch was not violent, but her mind replayed the filthy, grasping hands that had pawed at her, the rough, careless touch of her cousin, Ravi, that had made her skin crawl for years, the brutal, crushing weight of the man from the field yesterday. Her mind’s eye filled with the memory of his grimy fingers on her exposed skin, the vulgar promises and the sickening intent in his eyes.

A choked sob tore from her throat. The fire was extinguished, replaced by a cold, numbing horror that seized her body. This was just another hand. Another man. The same fear, the same violation, even if it was born of a different intent.

"Nahi!" she shrieked, the word a desperate plea, a guttural cry of a hunted animal.

With a strength born of pure panic, she shoved him away, stumbling back from his imposing form as if he were a monster from her nightmare. Her eyes, wide and wild, looked at him, but she didn’t see the Thakur anymore. She saw the men in the field, she saw Ravi, she saw every man who had ever made her feel like a piece of meat.

She turned and ran.

She ran from the room, from the suffocating intimacy, from the overwhelming, terrifying heat of him. She ran blindly, the silent, gilded corridors of the haveli a terrifying maze. She didn’t stop until she found an empty, dark storeroom, where she collapsed on a pile of jute sacks, her body wracked with shuddering sobs. She pulled her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping around herself in a pathetic attempt to hold the broken pieces together. Her mind screamed with the memories, her body a battlefield of old and new terrors. She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t escape the dirty hands of men.