I was in the kitchen grinding masala when I heard Mummy's voice from the courtyard, high-pitched and nervous in that way it got when someone important visited.
I wiped my hands on my dupatta and walked out to the courtyard.
Maa whispered under her breath, "Hai Ram... yeh yahan kyun aaya?"
I swallowed hard.
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t think anyone did.
Mummy was practically bowing, her hands folded in nervous respect. And there he was.
Devraj Singh.
The evening light clung to his shoulders as if even the sun didn’t know how to behave around him. He wore a simple dark shirt, but on him even simplicity looked like a threat.
"Namaste, sahib," Mummy said, her voice nervous and high-pitched. 
"Please, aayiye andar. Hari abhi khet mein hain, main unhe bula leti hoon—"
"Koi jaldi nahi hai," he said casually, removing his sunglasses. His eyes found mine across the yard, and I felt that familiar chill run down my spine.  
"Main thodi der baithta hoon."
Mummy ushered him inside to our small sitting area—the best we had, which was still pathetic compared to a single corner of his mansion. I followed reluctantly, keeping my eyes down.
"Sahib, main abhi Hari ko bula leti hoon. Woh khet mein hain, bus paanch minute."
"Theek hai," he said, settling into our old chair like a king on a makeshift throne.
Mummy practically ran to get Papa from the fields, calling over her shoulder, "Meera, chai banao! Jaldi!"
And just like that, I was alone with him.
He looked around at our modest furniture, cracked walls, poverty on display, and I saw the corner of his mouth lift. He liked this. Liked seeing how far above us he was.
"Chai?" he prompted, turning those dark eyes back to me.
I nodded and escaped to the kitchen, my hands trembling. The kitchen was tiny—barely enough room for one person. The stove sat on a low platform, the counter space minimal. I lit the burner and set the pot on to boil, focusing like my life depended on it. 
Tea. Just tea. Don't think. Don't feel. Just—
I heard him move. My whole body froze. The soft sound of his footsteps approaching made my heart hammer.
Please don’t. Please don’t come in here.
But he did.
I sensed him before I saw him—massive presence filling the doorway, blocking the light. I kept my back turned, stirring tea leaves with shaking hands, pretending not to know. 
"Smells good," he said quietly.
I couldn’t respond; my voice was gone.
"Hmmm."
He stepped into the kitchen. The small space instantly suffocated me. His body heat pressed against my back. 
"Tum kitni saal ki ho?" His voice was casual, like normal conversation. 
(How old are you?)
"Nineteen." 
"Nineteen." He tasted the word slowly. "Perfect age. Naa bahut choti, naa bahut badi. Just... ripe." 
(Not too young, not too old.)
The word "ripe" made my stomach churn. I forced myself to focus on the tea leaves.
"Shaadi nahi hui tumhari?" (Not married?) 
"No, sahib." 
"Good." His voice dropped, darkening. "Very good."
He moved closer, his body heat engulfing me. My heart pounded fiercely.
"Meera," he whispered right behind me.
I gripped the spoon tighter, knuckles white. "Chai... chai almost ready hai."
"Hmmm." A deep rumble came from his chest. His presence pressed even closer. I couldn’t breathe properly. The tea boiled over but I was paralyzed.
"Main... main glass le leti hoon," I whispered, turning.
His hand appeared over my shoulder, placing a glass on the counter directly in front of me. He leaned forward, pressing his whole front against my back. His huge chest anchored me, arms caging me on both sides as he slowly, deliberately set down the glass.
I stopped breathing.
He stayed bent over me, arms trapping me, his face near my neck. His breath is hot on my skin.
Then he did something chilling.
He inhaled deeply—like breathing me in, trying to memorize my scent. The sound was obscene—a long, slow intake—starting at my shoulder, moving up my neck.
"Ahhhh," he breathed exhaling, a mix of sigh and groan. Pleasure and hunger in one terrifying noise.
I trembled all over. 
"Please..."
He inhaled again, deeper this time, nose almost touching my skin. The sound is low, rough—like a hungry animal.
"Please, my mother will be back—"
"Teri maa tere baap ko lene gayi hai. Khet door hai. Time lagega." His hands rested on the counter beside me, caging me fully.
"Hum dono ke paas... time hai."
(Your mother went to fetch your father. The field's far; it’ll take time. We have… time.)
I tried to move away but had nowhere. The stove burned hot before me; he was hotter behind me—pressing harder.
"You smell good," he growled. He pressed his face to my neck, inhaled deeply again—an animalistic sound.
"Ahhhhhh. Bahut achhi khushboo. Saabun? Ya sirf... tumhari skin?" 
(Soap? Or just your skin?) 
"S-Sahib, please—"
"Please kya?" His nose dragged up my neck; lips brushed my skin. I flinched.
"Please aur karo? Okay."
The tea boiled over, spitting on the stove, but I was frozen—between the burning flame and the heat of his body. 
He pressed closer—every inch of him. Chest, stomach, thighs, and something hard pressing against my lower back, making me want to cry.
"Itna darr kyun rahi ho?" he murmured, a smile in his voice.
His hand slipped from the counter to my waist. I gasped; my body stiffened. His palms- large, spread wide, curling possessively around my hip.
"So small," he muttered. "Itni choti, itni narm. Main tumhe itni asaani se tod sakta hoon."
(So small, so soft. I could break you so easily.)
His hands gripped me possessively, fingers spreading to cover as much as they could.
I trembled, tears threatening. 
"My father will be here any minute—"
"Toh jaldi karna padega, naa?" His mouth brushed my ear, breath hot and wet. 
"Dekh, Meera—main ek seedha aadmi hoon. Jab main kuch chahta hoon, main clearly bolta hoon. Aur main tumhe chahta hoon."
His hand slid from my waist to my hip, gripping hard—bruising.
"Tumhari body...perfect hai. Exactly what I like. Choti. Soft. Tight lagti ho."
"Oh God—Please don't—" I wanna puke.
"Don't kya? Don't yeh?" His hand cupped my breast through my kameez, squeezing roughly.
I gasped, tears spilling. 
"Ya don't yeh?" His hips ground against me, hard length pressing my back.
"Stop! Please stop!" 
"Shhhh." His hand clamped over my mouth, muffling me. "Awaaz mat karo. Neighbours sun lenge. Phir sochenge ki kya ho raha hai. Aur tumhe pata hai woh kya sochenge?"
He ground again, a low groan from his chest.
His hand squeezed my breast roughly; the other moved down my stomach, lower—I bit his palm hard. 
"Fuck!"
He jerked back; I spun, back against counter, breathing hard.
He looked at his bitten hand, then back with that terrifying smile.
"Yeh I like it," he said softly.
He stepped forward; I grabbed the ladle—boiling water threatening.
"Don’t come closer."
He laughed. Actually laughed. 
"Kya karogi? Mujhe jalaaogi? Okay, try karo. Lekin uske baad, jab main tumhe pakdunga..." He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. 
"Tumhe itna chodunga ki tum hafte bhar nahi chal paogi."
"Main papa bataungi.. police main compla-" I threatend him.
"Bataogi?" He tilted his head. 
"Batao. Phir dekho kya hota hai."
"Tera baap mere saamne sar jhukaega aur sorry bolega ki uski beti ne mujhe naraaz kar diya. Kyunki woh jaanta hai—agar main naraaz hoon, toh woh sab kuch kho deta hai, yaha ka pura gaon mere pair mein hai. Teri police mere pocket mein hai. Teri family... teri family bhi mere saamne naak ragdegi."
He was right. And we both knew it.
His hand came up, and he ran his thumb across my lower lip slowly, deliberately, inspecting me like merchandise. His touch was possessive, degrading—not a caress but a claim.
I tried to pull away, but the counter dug into my back, trapping me.
"Nahi nahi," he said softly, almost gently—which was infinitely worse. 
"Ruk. Stay still."
His thumb pressed between my lips, forcing its way into my mouth. The taste of his skin—salt, dirt, possession—coated my tongue. I gagged.
"Chuso isse," he commanded, his voice thick and obscene. 
"Chuso aur apna kaam yaad rakhna. Yeh tera job hai ab. Mera lund chaatna. Meri baat sunnna. Meri izat karna."
The words degraded me. I bit down hard, teeth sinking into his thumb.
"Aahhh!" He yanked his hand back, eyes lighting up with feral hunger. He examined my teeth marks, then looked back, pleased.
He brought the bleeding thumb to his mouth and sucked it, eyes never leaving mine. The gesture is obscene, disturbingly intimate.
"Saali," he growled, laughing that insane, unhinged laugh that made my skin crawl. 
"Perfect. Ekdum perfect ho tum. Bilkul bilkul perfect."
We heard voices outside—Papa and Mummy returning.
Devraj stepped back casually, fixing his t-shirt like nothing had happened.
He walked to the sitting room as Papa came through the door.
I stood in the kitchen, body shaking, lips bruised from his thumb, skin burning where he touched me.
And I knew my life would never be the same again.