The morning was a disaster from the second I opened my eyes. My room looked like a battlefield of open books, ash, and secrets I didn’t want to face in the daylight.

I cleaned up in a frantic blur, my heart still racing from the dreams I’d had—dreams that felt far too much like the reality of yesterday.

I emerged from the shower and reached for the outfit Priya and I had agreed on. A vibrant red top and a black skirt that sat high on my waist. I looked at myself in the mirror, remembering his low, gravelly warning from yesterday.

Don't wear these types of clothes.

A defiant spark flared in my chest. He wasn't my father. He wasn't my owner. I finished my puja, skipped breakfast, and sprinted for the bus.

By the time I reached the classroom door, it was 10:10 AM. The hallway was silent, which meant only one thing: he was already inside. I pushed the door open, my lungs burning, and the entire room felt like it dropped ten degrees.

Ishaan Khanna was standing at the podium, looking dangerously sharp in a charcoal suit. He stopped mid-sentence, his grey eyes locking onto mine with the force of a physical blow.

He didn't just look at me; he dismantled me. His gaze traveled from my red top down to the hem of my skirt, and I felt the air leave the room.

"You are late," he said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that made me flinch. "Ten minutes, Miss Mishra."

"I... I'm sorry, Sir," I managed to whisper.

"Get inside," he commanded, his eyes darkening to the color of a stormy sea. "And since you find my schedule so flexible, you are in detention in my office during your free period. Understood?"

I couldn't even speak; I just nodded and scurried to my seat beside Rahul.

"Rough morning?" Rahul whispered, leaning in. "Priya said you probably missed the bus, but damn, Ira, he looks like he wants to kill someone today."

"I forgot the bus was early," I lied, my hands shaking as I pulled out my pen.

"Forget the bus," Priya hissed from behind me. "Did you forget the surprise test? He just announced it. He’s in a foul mood, Ira. Be careful."

My heart sank. The test. I was so distracted by him that I’d completely blanked. Before I could even protest, Ishaan was at our row.

He slapped a sheet down in front of me, his knuckles white. I looked up, and the anger radiating off him was terrifying. The veins on his neck were popping, his jaw set so hard I thought it might crack.

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving as he stared down at me. I bit my lip, the guilt and heat swirling in my stomach. I knew why he was angry. The red top. The skirt. I’d ignored him, and now I was paying for it.

The hour was a blur of panic. I could barely focus on the questions because I could feel him watching me from his desk.

Every time I looked up, those grey eyes were there, burning into me. My body was betraying me—I felt a familiar, heavy warmth spreading between my thighs, my virgin pussy thrumming with a need I didn't understand but couldn't ignore.

The bell rang like a death toll.

"Miss Mishra!" he roared, making the entire class jump. "Collect all the sheets and bring them to my office. Now."

He turned and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

"Holy shit," Rahul muttered, standing up. "He’s pissed. He’s definitely going to make you write 'I will not be late' a thousand times."

"Or make you transcribe the entire Reproduction chapter," Priya added, trying to lighten the mood, but her eyes were wide with worry. "Go, Ira. Don't keep the beast waiting."

I gathered the papers with trembling fingers and climbed to the seventh floor. The "Private Wing" felt like a tomb today.

I knocked softly, and his "Come in" sounded more like a growl.

I stepped inside and locked the door behind me, the click sounding final. He wasn't at his desk. He was sitting on the leather couch, his tie loosened, looking like a king on a dark throne.

"Keep them on the desk," he said, not looking at me.

I obeyed, stacking the sheets neatly, my back to him. I turned to leave, desperate for air, when his voice stopped me cold.

"Come here."

I gulped, my pulse hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Sir, I have to go to—"

"Don't make me repeat myself, Ira. Move."

I walked toward him, my knees weak, until I was standing right in front of him.

"Closer," he demanded.

I took one more step, my skirt brushing against his knees. Suddenly, his large hands shot out, gripping my waist and hauling me upward. I let out a sharp gasp as he pulled me directly into his lap.

I froze, my mind spinning. I was tucked into the crook of his arm, my legs draped over the cushions, my chest pressed against his broad shoulder. He held me like I was a fragile doll he was tempted to break.

"I told you," he hissed, his voice raw with a terrifying, possessive anger. He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. "I told you not to wear this shit, didn't I? You decided to play a game today, little kitten? You thought you could walk into my classroom in a red top and this pathetic excuse for a skirt and not expect me to tear it off you?"

His grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging into my skin.

"You think this is funny? Seeing every man in that hallway stare at what belongs to me?" He turned my face toward him, his thumb pressing hard against my bottom lip. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you. You've been a very bad girl, Ira. And bad girls don't get to walk away with just a detention."

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The silence in the office was thick, broken only by the sound of my own erratic breathing.

Being in his lap felt like being held by a thunderstorm—powerful, dark, and capable of destroying me at any second.

His scent, a mix of expensive tobacco and something dangerously masculine, swirled around me, making my head spin.

"Answer me," he growled, his hand sliding from my waist to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair to force my gaze up. "Why did you wear this? After I explicitly told you not to?"

"I... I just wanted to feel... pretty," I whispered, my voice trembling. It was a half-truth, a shield against the raw intensity in his eyes. "Priya and I... we just decided..."

"Pretty?" Ishaan’s laugh was a dark, jagged sound. He leaned in until our noses were almost touching, his grey eyes turning into liquid smoke. "You don't get to be 'pretty' for the world, Ira. When you put on a skirt this short, every fucking man in that building looks at you and imagines exactly how you’d look beneath them. And that makes me want to burn this whole campus to the ground."

His grip tightened, pulling me flush against his hard chest. I could feel the heat of him, the sheer muscular bulk that made me feel so tiny, so fragile.

"You're mine," he hissed, the word vibrating against my lips. "I don't share. Not a glance, not a thought, and certainly not the sight of your skin. If I see you in this again, I’ll lock you in this office and you won't leave until you’ve forgotten how to stand. Do you understand me?"

"Yes... yes, sir," I whimpered, my heart hammering.

He didn't move. He just stared at me, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. "You’ve been crying today. Before class. Why?"

I froze. I couldn't tell him about the loneliness, the crushing weight of being an orphan, or the way I’d stayed up late reading those books just to feel something.

"I... I just had a headache," I lied, looking away. "The bus was loud and—"

"Don't fucking lie to me," he snarled, his hand moving to my jaw, forcing me to look at him again. "I can smell the salt on your skin, Ira. I can see the puffiness. I know when you're hurting. Tell me the truth, or so help me, I will find out another way."

The dam broke. The fear of him, the exhaustion, and the strange, magnetic pull he had over me crashed together.

"I was just... I felt alone," I choked out, a fresh tear escaping. "Everything feels so heavy... being an orphan, having no one... I just sat on the curb and... I felt like I was disappearing."

The anger in his face didn't vanish, but it shifted. It turned into something deeper, more predatory, yet strangely protective.

He didn't say 'it's okay.' He didn't offer empty comforts. Instead, he pulled me so tightly against him that I could barely breathe, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, smelling my hair, his nose brushing against my skin.

"You aren't alone," he murmured, his voice a possessive rasp that sent shivers down to my toes. "You have me. Even if I have to break you to keep you, you're never going to be alone again. You're fucking dripping with fear, little kitten, but you need to realize... I’m the only thing in this world you should be afraid of."

I felt his heart thudding against my back, a steady, violent rhythm. I closed my eyes, my hands clutching his shirt, my shy, broken heart beating in sync with the monster holding me.

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The room felt like it was shrinking, the air thick with the scent of his expensive cologne and the raw power radiating off him.

Suddenly, I felt the soft, lingering pressure of his lips against my closed eyelids. He kissed my eyes with a tenderness that felt more terrifying than his rage.

I froze, my breath hitching in my throat.

"What did you have for breakfast, Ira?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my skin. His hand was still possessively wrapped around my waist, pinning me to his chest.

"I... I had a sandwich and coffee at home, Sir," I lied, my voice small. I couldn't tell him I’d skipped it because my stomach was in knots thinking about him.

I felt his body stiffen. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"I told you once, Ira," he hissed, his grip tightening until it was almost painful. "Do. Not. Fucking. Lie. To me. I know you didn't eat. I know exactly when you left your house and how you ran for that bus."

I flinched, my heart hammering against my ribs.

How could he know that?

He reached to the side of the couch and pulled out a sleek, expensive-looking insulated box. He set it on his lap right next to me. "Open it," he commanded.

With trembling fingers, I lifted the lid. My jaw practically hit the floor. Inside was a gourmet chicken sandwich—exactly how I liked it—and two glazed donuts, still smelling faintly of sugar and yeast.

"My favorite..." I whispered. A single tear escaped, but before it could even track down my cheek, he leaned in and kissed it away, his lips lingering on my skin.

"Don't cry," he growled, his eyes dark with an obsessive light. "And never lie to me again. Every part of you—your hunger, your breath, your lies—they all belong to me. If you’re hungry, I feed you. If you’re hurting, I own that pain. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I breathed, my face burning.

I started eating, the sandwich tasting like heaven, but the weight of his gaze was heavy on me.

He didn't look away once, watching every bite I took as if he were devouring me instead of the food.

"You... you should eat too," I blurted out, looking at him in disbelief. "You're big... you must be hungry."

Ishaan’s lips curled into a dark, predatory smirk. "I only eat if you feed me, Ira. Otherwise, I’ll just stay hungry until I decide to take a bite out of you."

My eyes widened. He was serious. I picked up a piece of the sandwich and held it to his lips.

He tracked my fingers with his eyes before taking a slow, deliberate bite, his lips brushing against my fingertips in a way that made me feel like I was melting.

After I finished, he held a bottle of water to my lips, making sure I drank every drop.

Then, he pulled me back into a crushing hug, burying his face in the crook of my neck again.

"You're so small," he whispered, his voice thick with obsession. "I could snap you in half, and yet you're the only thing that keeps me sane. Don't ever test my patience again, little bird."

He leaned up and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Go. Before I decide to lock the door and never let you leave this wing."

He let me go, and the second my feet hit the floor, I bolted. I didn't look back, but as I sprinted down the hallway, the sound of his low, dark chuckle followed me like a ghost.

What the fuck just happened?

I ran all the way back to the classroom, my face flushed and my hair a mess. I slid into my seat, and Rahul practically jumped. Both he and Priya turned to me, their eyes wide with suspicion.

"Whoa, Ira," Rahul whispered, looking at my disheveled state. "What happened? You look like you just escaped a lion’s den."

"Did he grill you?" Priya asked, leaning in. "Did he make you write the notes?"

"He... he just scolded me," I lied, my heart still racing. "He’s so mean. He just yelled at me for the entire hour about being late and the test. I thought he was never going to let me go."

Rahul shook his head, looking sympathetic. "Man, that guy is a psycho. At least you're back in one piece."

"Yeah," I mumbled, opening my book to hide my shaking hands. "One piece."

But as I sat there, I could still feel the ghost of his lips on my forehead and the terrifying heat of his lap. I wasn't in one piece. He had taken a part of me, and I knew he was never giving it back.

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The college gates had barely closed behind me when I reached for my pack. I needed the nicotine to settle the tremors Ishaan had left in my bones. But just as I was about to flick the lighter, that familiar, blacked-out SUV screeched to a halt at the curb.

I shoved the pack into my bag in a heartbeat, my pulse jumping. The window rolled down, revealing those piercing grey eyes.

"Get in," he commanded. No 'hello,' no 'how was your day.' Just that raw, iron-clad authority.

"Sir, the bus is coming in five minutes, I really don't want to bother—"

"I don't remember asking for a status report on the public transit, Ira," he interrupted, his voice dropping to that dangerous, gravelly register. "Get in the fucking car before I come out there and put you in it myself. You're not riding a crowded bus in that skirt."

I didn't argue. I couldn't. The ride was suffocatingly silent, the air in the car thick with the scent of his leather seats and the unspoken tension between us. Within twenty minutes, we were idling in front of my apartment.

I climbed out, expecting him to drive off, but he was already out of the driver's seat, rounding the car to open my door. I looked at him, surprised. "Would you... like to come in? For a bit?"

He didn't even answer. He just started walking toward my door like he owned the building. I followed him like a shadow, my heart hammering.

"Sit, please," I said, gesturing to the small couch once we were inside.

"I don't feel like sitting," he murmured, his eyes scanning every inch of my small living space with a predatory curiosity. "I want a tour. I want to see where my little bird sleeps."

"It's... it's just a small place. You can look around," I said, feeling exposed. I retreated to the kitchen, needing to do something with my hands.

I started making Honey Chilli Chicken, the sizzle of the pan drowning out the sound of his footsteps.

Thirty minutes later, the smell of ginger and honey filled the air. I walked into the living room with the bowl, but the couch was empty. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed my bedroom door was slightly ajar.

I stepped inside and froze.

Ishaan was sprawled across my bed, looking completely at home among my pillows. In his large, tattooed hand was the book I’d been reading last night. "Lights Out."

"Fuck!" I yelled, the bowl nearly slipping from my hands. "Give that back!"

He didn't even look up. He flipped a page, his thumb tracing the spine of the book with a slow, deliberate motion. "Interesting taste you have, Ira," he said, his voice a low, dark purr. "I didn't take you for the type to enjoy... disturbing literature."

"It's just a book, Sir! Please, give it to me!"

He finally looked up, and the look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated narcissist power.

"Is it just a book? Because right here," he tapped a paragraph, "the lead is describing exactly how he wants to wrap his hand around her throat until she's gasping for his air. How he wants to sit her on his face, tasting her, sucking the life out of her pussy while he uses his fingers to ruin her asshole."

I felt the blood drain from my face, then rush back in a violent wave of heat. I was paralyzed.

"He wants to own her," Ishaan continued, his voice dropping to a psychotic whisper as he tossed the book aside. "He wants to break her until she's nothing but a mess of needs that only he can fulfill. Is that what you want, Ira? Do you want to be ruined?"

Before I could breathe, he reached out, his hand snaking around my waist and yanking me forward.

I tumbled onto the bed, landing directly on top of him. The bowl landed on the nightstand with a thud as his arms locked around me like iron bands.

He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply.

"You smell like honey and spice," he groaned, his grip tightening until I was crushed against his muscular chest. "And you're shaking. Why are you shaking, little kitten? Is it because you’re scared... or because you’ve realized that I’m exactly the monster you’ve been reading about?"

"I... I don't know," I whimpered, my hands clutching his shoulders.

"You're so submissive," he chuckled, the sound vibrating through my entire body. "So perfect. You sit in my class and pretend to be a good girl, but you come home and read about being choked and used. You're a filthy little liar, aren't you? And you know what I do to liars who belong to me?"

He moved his hand to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back so I had to look into those stormy, obsessive eyes.

"I make them beg," he whispered against my lips. "I make them forget they ever had a life before me. You aren't just my student, Ira. You're my obsession. And I’m going to make sure every single one of these 'fantasies' you read about... you experience with me. Only me."

He didn't kiss me. He just held me there, letting me feel the terrifying heat of his body and the hard reality of his possession.

"Tell me," he growled. "Who do you belong to?"

"You," I breathed, the word escaping before I could stop it. "I belong to you."

He smirked, a dark, victorious expression. "Good girl. Now, feed me that chicken. And then... we’re going to talk about exactly how much of this book we’re going to act out tonight."

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I sat on his lap, the weight of him beneath me feeling like a throne of solid muscle. Here I was, a college student, hand-feeding a thirty-year-old billionaire tycoon in my tiny apartment.

The embarrassment was a hot prickle under my skin, but every time his lips brushed my fingertips to take a bite, a jolt of electricity shot straight to my core.

I tried to shift, to get up once the bowl was empty, but his arm tightened around my waist like a steel band.

"Where do you think you’re going?" he murmured, his voice thick with a dark, lazy possessiveness.

"I... I should clean up, Sir. And maybe change," I whispered, gesturing to my cramped room.

He looked me over, his grey eyes darkening as they traced the lines of my body.

"Go. Freshen up. Put on something comfortable," he commanded, finally loosening his grip. "I’ll deal with the kitchen. Don't take long, Ira. I don't like waiting for what's mine."

I scrambled off his lap and fled to the washroom. My heart was thundering. I washed the scent of honey and stress off my face and pulled on a pair of soft, short sleep-shorts and an oversized, loose t-shirt.

I hesitated at my dresser, looking at my bra, and then—feeling a strange, rebellious heat—I decided to leave it off. The fabric of the t-shirt felt soft against my skin.

When I walked back into the bedroom, my breath caught. He had discarded his blazer on my desk and was sprawled across my bed, the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

The sight of his tanned chest and the dark ink of his tattoos against the white sheets was almost too much to handle.

Asshole, I thought affectionately, though my legs felt like jelly.

"Come here, little bird," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He patted the space beside him.

I hopped onto the bed, sliding under the sheets, feeling small and fragile next to his massive frame. For a while, the air softened. We talked in low voices—about the crushing silence of my life as an orphan, and the cold, gilded cage of his family mansion.

He spoke about his parents and sister with a detached, narcissistic coldness, as if they were merely chess pieces in his empire.

Suddenly, the air in the room changed. It became heavy, charged with a predatory stillness.

"Ira," he said, turning on his side to face me. His gaze was intense, almost psychotic in its focus. "Have you ever touched yourself? Thinking about the things you read in those books?"

I froze. I literally felt my heart stop. The memory of last night—the vibrator, the moans, the way I’d cum apart flashed behind my eyes.

"I... I don't..." I stammered, my face turning a violent shade of red.

"Don't lie," he growled, reaching out to tilt my chin up. "I can see it in your eyes. The guilt. The hunger. Tell me the truth. Do you do it? Do you imagine a hand around your throat while you pleasure yourself?"

I gulped, the weight of his obsession pinning me down.

"Yes," I whispered, the word barely audible. "Sometimes."

He didn't get angry. Instead, he let out a low, satisfied hum and pulled me roughly into his arms. He tucked my head under his chin, his body a wall of heat against mine.

I rested my head on his bicep, feeling the hard ripple of his muscle, while his other hand wandered beneath the sheets.

His large palm settled on my stomach, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles around my navel. The intimacy of it was overwhelming.

"You're so soft," he muttered, his hand moving with a slow, agonizing possessiveness. Suddenly, his fingers stilled. He let out a dark, rough chuckle that vibrated against my skull. "Ira... you aren't wearing a bra, are you?"

I went rigid. I didn't say a word, my face pressed into his chest, my silence the only confession I could offer.

"Cat got your tongue?" he teased, his hand moving slightly higher, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin cotton of my shirt. "You’re a dangerous little thing, aren't you? Walking around like a shy little kitten while you're secretly a brat who needs to be handled."

He shifted, pulling me even tighter against him until there wasn't a breath of space left between us. "It’s a good thing I’m a patient man, Ira. Because now that I know what’s under this shirt... I’m never going to let anyone else even imagine it. You’re going to sleep right here, against me, and tomorrow, you’re going to realize that your books have nothing on the reality of being mine."

I closed my eyes, drifting into a sleep that felt both like a dream and a beautiful, gilded trap.

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