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Desperation brought them to his door; obsession brought him to hers. Meera's father owes money he can't repay, and Devraj Singh—powerful, dangerous, and utterly fixated—sees an opportunity to claim what he wants.
When Naina stumbles through time from 2026 into a savage prehistoric world, she's completely helpless-unable to hunt, survive, or escape the two dominant tribal warriors who claim her as their own. Katan's hands are rough and commanding, teaching her body pleasures she never knew existed, while Rahn's wild hunger leaves her breathless and trembling beneath the firelight. They don't ask-they take, possess, and worship her with primal intensity. "Ohh... oh god..." My breath hitched, voice barely audible. "De meri randi... nikaal." (Give my slut... squeeze it out.) Rahn growled as milk sprayed in thin streams, soaking his fingers, running down my sides into the furs beneath me. My back arched involuntarily. A sharp gasp escaped my lips. "Ahhh!"He grunted with satisfaction. His mouth latched onto my right nipple and sucked-hard, greedy, pulling. The sensation shot through me like lightning."Aaahhh! Oh-oh fuck-" The words came out broken, desperate. My fingers clawed at the furs beneath katan's grip. My hips bucked. "Mmmnngh!" Rahn sucked harder. I felt each pull deep in my core, felt my body releasing more milk, felt his throat working as he swallowed. He made sounds-guttural, animal sounds of satisfaction-while his hands never stopped kneading, squeezing, forcing more out. "Ohhhh god... please... please..." I didn't know what I was begging for anymore. "Mujhe bhi chakna hain." (I wanna taste it too.) Katan's voice was flat, cold. He shifted, releasing one of my wrists to grab my other breast, thumb pressing into the flesh. "Ek taraf tu, ek taraf main." (One side you, one side me.) Rahn pulled off with a wet pop, milk dripping from his chin. They positioned themselves on either side of me, their mouths descending simultaneously. "AHHHHH!" The scream tore from my throat, echoing off the cave walls. The dual sensation shattered something inside me. Two mouths sucking, pulling, draining. Four hands groping. "Oh god oh god oh god-nnnngh-"
Flight 9W-237 lies shattered across a Himalayan ridge. It didn't crash. It was hunted out of the sky. Smoke, snow, and silence. Only two heartbeats still echo in the wreckage. Major Ahaan "Falcon" Singh, Para SF, moves through the Himalayan cold like death itself. Bleeding shoulder, storm-grey eyes colder than the mountain, and a grip that could snap bone. He's the kind of man whose classified files are sealed for a reason—the kind who's killed more men than he's saved. His has eyes that have seen death and hunting it. I was just another passenger flying home when terrorists turned the plane journey into a nightmare. We have survived. Because he wrapped his body around mine when the plane kissed the mountain. When we finally stopped rolling through the snow, I was alive. He was bleeding from a dozen places Now we're stranded on snowy mountains in cave. He positioned himself between me and the cave entrance, a human barrier against the cold and the darkness. One thin blanket. Outside: -15°C and falling. Inside: something far more dangerous rising. "You're shivering," he says, voice low, rough from smoke and command. I nod, unable to speak. It's not the cold making my breath catch. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. The warmth still carries his scent: metal, pine, and raw man. Then he steps closer. Too close. His calloused fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, lingering longer than necessary. "I've got you," he murmurs against my ear. "No one's touching you again. Not while I'm breathing." My heart slams against my ribs. I should be terrified. I've just survived a hijacking, a crash, a bloodbath. But when his hand slides down to mine and pulls me gently toward himself, fear isn't what floods my veins. Rescue is forty-eight hours away. Forty-eight hours of snowstorms, in a cave, and a man who saved my life. When he looks at me, it's with the kind of focus he probably reserves for military objectives. Except it's softer. Deeper. Like I'm the mission that matters. The hunters circle. The snow falls. And I realize—The most dangerous man on this terrain isn't the terrorists outside. It's the one holding me like he'll never let go, even as he pretends I mean nothing at all.
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