Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
25: The Queen's Gambit
Mythology Sex Story: 25: The Queen's Gambit - Bharath moves from Chennai to Calcutta to join Heritage City — one of India’s top football clubs — with dreams of becoming a professional footballer. But after rescuing a mysterious man from a robbery, he finds himself drawn into a hidden world of vivid dreams, powerful women, and ancient forces beyond his understanding. As his journey on the pitch grows more intense, so does the pull of something deeper — a path shaped by desire, danger, and a power that is only just beginning to reveal it
Caution: This Mythology Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Mind Control Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Sports Alternate History Paranormal Magic Sharing Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Indian Erotica
25 August 2000
The light in the small apartment was diffused by thick beige curtains, filtering in like the reluctant hope of a new morning. The safehouse - modest, clean, tucked above an unassuming tailoring shop - was silent save for the slow hum of the ceiling fan and the shuffle of papers.
Satyabrata Roy sat on the cushioned bench beneath the window, a thick cotton shawl draped over his shoulders. He looked tired but lucid, cleaner than he had been the night before, with two days’ stubble and bloodshot eyes that burned with something more than grief - clarity.
The PI team - two senior operatives from Hema’s Chennai network and one Calcutta local - were seated around the table, sorting through folders, maps, contact sheets, and old photographs. Priya sat nearby, quietly watching. Her hands were folded in her lap, her braid resting over one shoulder. She hadn’t said much since they brought Satyu in.
But she hadn’t left, either.
“I don’t know how much help I can be,” Satyu said, breaking the quiet. His voice was rough, but steady. “But I remember names. Patterns. Faces people forget.”
The older Chennai operative, Rajan, nodded. “That’s all we need. Confirmation. Direction. You’ve already given us more than some paid informants.”
Satyu leaned forward. “Bansal,” he said. “That name came up often. He’s a sleazy builder. He used to host parties with a lot of junior politicians. Never got booked for anything, but his name always surfaced during raids - and then vanished from the paperwork.”
“We’ve started digging into his real estate books,” the Calcutta PI said. “So far we’ve found two shell companies. At least one links to Bankra.”
Satyu nodded grimly. “He’s Syndicate-linked. Always operated just shy of the spotlight. I never connected him to models - I was too busy chasing cops and contractors - but it fits. All the whispers I heard ... it fits.”
Priya spoke then, softly. “We know he was Celina’s buyer.”
Satyu looked at her, startled. “You’re sure?”
“We heard it from someone who had no reason to lie,” she said, her gaze steady.
He exhaled, leaning back again. “That means he’s not just a buyer. He’s a top-tier client. That’s leverage.”
The Chennai lead scribbled notes. “We can get more on him through revenue records, shareholding overlaps, and zoning permits. We’ll cross-reference all his known events, parties, and construction site data. No more guesswork.”
“And if we can find one more girl who was trafficked through his circle,” Rajan said, “we blow the door open.”
Satyu nodded. “I might be able to help there. I’ve got two old stories that never got published - both about girls who disappeared after shooting with one of Bansal’s photographers. I couldn’t prove it then. Maybe now, I can.”
The Calcutta PI handed him a list of stylists, assistants, and guests from the gala. “Take a look. See if any names ring bells.”
Satyu scanned the sheet, brow furrowing.
Three names in, he paused. “This one. Ranjit Bose. He was a fixer once - used to supply escorts for club parties. If he’s back on the scene, that means the Syndicate is tightening its net.”
Priya watched him work, watched the ease with which he slipped into this world of data, deduction, quiet rage. There was no drunken bitterness now. Just precision. Purpose.
She felt something twist inside her - not attraction, not yet. But recognition. A flicker of kinship. The haunted stubbornness of someone who had survived betrayal and still insisted on meaning.
“You and Anya did all this?” Satyu asked, glancing up. “These maps, aliases, timelines?”
“Yes,” Priya said.
“With no help?”
“Just instinct,” she said. “And a lot of fear.”
He stared at the walls, at the columns of red yarn and tacked-up polaroids the team had assembled.
“Well,” he muttered, “you’re not just brave. You’re bloody brilliant.”
Priya blinked - not expecting that.
The PI team chuckled.
“We agree,” Rajan said. “That’s why Hema sir is taking this as seriously as he is.”
“Is he funding the whole thing?” Satyu asked.
“Yes,” Priya replied. “And protecting us. He’s our anchor. But he’s not a field man. He’ll want a real strategy.”
Satyu stood and walked to the whiteboard. “Then we give him one. Let’s build a timeline around Bansal. Narrow his circle. Watch for patterns.”
He turned to her. “And Priya?”
She raised her eyes to meet his.
“I’d be honoured,” he said, “to be on your side.”
Priya didn’t smile - not fully. But she nodded. “Then we’ll make this count.”
The monsoon sky outside had darkened slightly, veiled in low clouds, but the apartment was filled with soft golden light from the lamps. A breeze stirred the sheer curtains, and the scent of sandalwood from the morning’s incense still lingered in the air.
But the warmth was incomplete.
Bharath had been gone for a few days - called away to Goa for a practice match against Dempo’s senior squad. It was supposed to be a brief trip, just a scrimmage, a test of fitness and tactics ahead of the real fixtures. But to the women who had come to rely on his presence like breath and sunlight, it felt like an exile.
His absence clung to the corners of the apartment like missing color.
Celina had taken to napping in his T-shirt. Anya had started burning his aftershave on a tissue, pretending it was incense. Kim had stopped sleeping in the bed entirely and instead curled up on the couch, eyes half-open long into the night. No one said they were spiraling - they weren’t - but there was an unmistakable tilt in the balance of things. Like a table missing one leg. Like the center of their shared yantra had gone dim.
Even Priya had noticed it - the way conversation stalled more often, the way Anya stared at her phone longer than she admitted, the way Kim reached for his water bottle without realizing it wasn’t there.
Hema sat by the window, sipping slowly from a cup of black coffee. Anya and Kim were seated on the couch nearby, barefoot and cross-legged, their postures relaxed but attentive. Priya stood near the dining table, flipping through one of her notebooks. Celina had just stepped out to take a short nap, still healing - and perhaps needing to retreat from the ache of emptiness. But the rest of the apartment buzzed gently with motion - the rhythm of a strange new home trying to settle into peace
Anya spoke first.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about ... how unfair life is,” she said quietly, glancing toward the window. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since the gala. But it feels like we’ve all lived three different lifetimes since then.”
Kim nodded. “It’s like time bent around us. I still don’t understand how we all ended up here. But it feels right. And terrifying.”
Priya smiled faintly. “That’s what survival feels like. Like the ground never fully stops shaking.”
Hema said nothing for a while. He just looked at them - these women who had become entangled in his son’s life, his family’s life. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, not stern.
“You’ve all been through things ... things no young person should have to endure,” he said. “But you’ve each built something stronger from it. I see that.”
Anya glanced over, surprised by the gentleness in his tone.
Hema cleared his throat, always the man who preferred action to emotion, but he continued anyway.
“I was raised to believe certain things. One man, one woman. Clear roles. Clean lines. But life isn’t ... it’s not that simple, is it?”
“No,” Kim said softly. “It’s not.”
“I may never understand the ... arrangements,” Hema said with a wry smile, “but I understand courage. I understand loyalty. And I see all of it in this house.”
There was a quiet pause.
Priya looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable. “Even me?”
Hema met her gaze.
“Especially you.”
That landed harder than she expected. She didn’t speak for a moment - just nodded once, lips pressed tightly together.
Hema turned to Anya and Kim next.
“Anya,” he said, “you are sharp. Unyielding. You speak your mind, and yet you listen more than most. It’s not easy to hold both qualities at once.”
Anya blinked, visibly moved.
“And you, Kim,” he said, “are a seeker. I can see it in your eyes. You’re always learning. Observing. It reminds me of my daughter.”
Kim smiled - touched, almost shy. “Thank you, uncle.”
He gave a slow nod, acknowledging her.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be the kind of man who hugs every girl who walks into my son’s life,” Hema added, dryly. “But I will say this - you are all remarkable. And if you ever need my help, it will be there.”
Anya reached out and squeezed Priya’s hand. Kim smiled, blinking quickly.
Anya turned to him then, her voice steadier. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
Priya cleared her throat, forcing a bit of her old irreverence back into the room. “That’s as close to a group hug as we’re going to get, I suppose.”
Hema chuckled. “Consider it my version of one.”
They all laughed - not loudly, but with that rare warmth that comes when broken people begin to trust one another.
Kim leaned her head against Anya’s shoulder. “This feels ... like a family.”
“It is,” Priya murmured.
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Outside, the clouds parted just enough for a sliver of light to streak across the floorboards.
For a moment, they were not warriors, not survivors, not conspirators.
They were just people - gathering strength.
Kim sat cross-legged on a cushion, posture neat and open, pencil tucked behind her ear. Beside her, Celina fidgeted - her notebook open, but her confidence flickering like a shy candle in wind.
Hema Narayanan had been watching all this from a polite distance. A few days under this roof had upended nearly everything he thought he knew about youth, his son, and certainly relationships. He’d kept his thoughts to himself, but today, curiosity won out.
He gestured to the growing stack of books Kim had brought back from the university library and the club’s wellness center. “So,” he said, clearing his throat, “are you training to be gurus, or has this turned into a theology seminar?”
Kim looked up and smiled. “We’re trying to understand what’s happening to us. Especially to Celina. And to Bharath.”
Hema folded his arms, half-skeptical. “What do you mean, happening?”
Kim glanced at Celina, who blinked at her - then slowly sat up straighter.
“Actually,” Kim said warmly, “Celina should explain. She’s the one keeping our notes now. She’s piecing it together beautifully.”
Celina’s eyes went wide. “Me?”
Kim nodded. “You’ve got this. Just ... explain it like you did yesterday.”
Celina swallowed and gave a tiny, nervous laugh. Then, catching Anya’s reassuring glance and Priya’s gentle nod, she began.
“So ... okay. This might sound weird. But we’ve been reading a lot - Kim mostly. And it turns out a lot of what’s happening to us lines up with ancient stuff. Stuff from Hindu philosophy. Stuff I’d heard of before, but never really understood.”
She picked up her spiral notebook, flipping to a page labeled “Basics.”
“There’s this idea in Hinduism,” she said, “that everything in the world - people, animals, stars - is made up of two kinds of energy. Purusha - which is like pure awareness, spirit - and Prakriti, which is matter, the feminine, the active force.”
Kim added softly, “And in tantric philosophy, those become Shiva and Shakti.”
Celina nodded. “Right. And Shakti is where life comes from. She’s not just a goddess - she is the energy that flows through everything. When she awakens in someone, especially when guided the right way, she becomes a kind of fuel. For growth. Healing. Even union with the divine.”
Hema raised a brow. “So ... you’re saying you’ve become divine?”
Celina flushed, but Kim chuckled. “Not divine. But awakened. Or awakening. There’s a difference.”
Celina pointed to another page. “Then there’s Kama. Most people think the Kamasutra is just about sex. But it’s not. Kama means desire - and it’s one of the four purusharthas, or goals of life. Along with dharma - righteousness, artha - prosperity, and moksha - liberation.”
Anya, lounging across a pillow, added, “So basically ... we’re not sinners. We’re seekers.”
Celina grinned. “Exactly. The ancient texts didn’t think desire was wrong. They thought it was sacred. As long as it served growth. As long as it connected you to something deeper.”
Kim picked up. “That’s where Kamadeva comes in. The god of love. He’s not just Cupid. He’s the one who sparks transformation through love, through yearning. And sometimes, he doesn’t show up with roses. Sometimes, he shows up in fire.”
Hema nodded, slow and cautious. “And you think this is what ... Bharath embodies now?”
Celina took a breath. “When I was dying - literally - I had no one left. But in the dream, I reached out ... and Bharath came. Not like a doctor. Not like a man. Like ... like a force. Like someone who could hold the pain and take it away.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was ... awake.”
Kim added, “And that’s when we started looking into yantras. Sacred diagrams used in meditation and rituals. Bharath described a place he saw in a dream - a huge circular space with triangles, lotuses, serpents. And in the center - a lingam.”
Hema, who had been mostly quiet, leaned in a little now. “Lingam - as in the temple stones?”
Celina nodded. “Yes. But also more. It represents the divine masculine - not just as a man, but as a stabilizing force. It’s paired with the yoni, the divine feminine. Together they create - everything. Life, energy, balance.”
Kim gestured toward a hand-drawn diagram. “The Sri Yantra is one of the most complex symbols in the world. It’s used to map both the cosmos and the body. The central point - the bindu - is the place where the divine enters. Where all energy converges.”
“And Bharath said he saw something like this in the dream,” Celina continued. “Before he even knew what it was.”
Kim looked at Hema, her tone calm but firm. “We believe that Guruji - the man Bharath met when he first came here - awakened something in him. Kamadeva’s energy. It’s not just spiritual. It’s tantric. It’s physical and emotional and cosmic.”
“And you’re saying,” Hema said, voice more thoughtful now, “that all three of you have ... changed?”
Anya spoke up. “I used to have dreams about him for years. I thought they were fantasies. But they were real. And when we finally met ... it was like we’d known each other forever. Like something was waiting to complete.”
Kim smiled gently. “Since the connection deepened, our bodies have changed. Our responses. Even the way we feel temperature, time. I’ve started documenting it. My cycle’s altered. My energy spikes in the evenings. Celina’s reflexes have improved. Anya dreams vividly every night now - and wakes rested. All of us are syncing.”
Hema exhaled. “And this ... this isn’t just love?”
“No,” Celina said softly. “It’s devotion. Love is part of it. But it’s also surrender. Trust. Faith.”
Kim nodded. “Tantra isn’t just about sex. It’s about union. Shiva and Shakti. Stillness and motion. Heaven and earth.”
Priya, who had remained mostly silent, spoke at last - her voice even and careful. “I don’t have these dreams. I’m not part of this yantra. But I’ve watched you girls change. I’ve seen Bharath glow in ways I can’t explain. You believe in what’s happening - and that matters.”
Hema looked around the room, his eyes resting on each of the girls.
“I won’t pretend I understand all this,” he said. “But you’re not foolish. And you’re not lost. You’re learning - and that makes me ... more comfortable than I expected.”
The girls smiled, visibly relieved.
He added, more gently, “And Celina ... you explained this better than most professors I’ve met.”
Celina flushed, eyes wide. “Really?”
“You’re not a child anymore,” Hema said. “You’re thinking like a scholar. And that counts.”
Anya gave Celina a playful shove, grinning. “Told you.”
Celina beamed.
Kim leaned over and whispered, “Told you you could do it.”
The room filled with warmth - the quiet, golden kind that came not from candles or incense, but from trust. Shared faith.
Celina was still glowing from the praise - but her curiosity, now emboldened, hadn’t dimmed. She flipped to another page in her notebook, looking at Kim for permission.
Kim nodded. “Go ahead.”
“So ... something we started noticing after the dream where I was healed,” Celina said, “was how different it felt. Stronger. Like there was more power. And then we realized - that was the first time all three of us were there. Me, Anya, and Kim. Together. At once.”
Hema raised an eyebrow. “You think the number mattered?”
Kim leaned forward slightly. “It did. And in Hinduism, numbers aren’t just arithmetic. They’re symbolic. Especially three.”
“Trimurti,” Anya said softly.
Hema turned toward her.
She lifted her fingers, ticking them off. “Brahma. Vishnu. Shiva. Creator. Preserver. Destroyer.”
Kim added, “And their consorts - Saraswati, Lakshmi, Parvati. The Tridevi. Knowledge, wealth, and power.”
Celina continued, “In yoga, there are three gunas - sattva, rajas, tamas. Three essential qualities that govern all life and matter.”
Kim nodded again, her tone shifting into teacher mode. “Three is balance. Not symmetry - but dynamic equilibrium. Creation needs opposites, but it also needs a third force - to hold the tension, to mediate, to evolve.”
Hema’s gaze grew sharper. “So you’re saying when it was just two of you, the connection was incomplete.”
Kim smiled. “Not incomplete - just ... less. Like two sides of a triangle. They need the third to form a shape. The moment Celina joined, something locked in. The energy loop became self-sustaining.”
“It was different,” Anya admitted. “More intense. But also more peaceful. Like we were aligned.”
“And Bharath...” Celina said, voice dropping, “was glowing. Like, literally glowing in the dream. His touch - it was like medicine. Like light. I don’t think we could’ve healed me without all three of us there.”
Kim glanced toward Hema. “It’s not about romance. Or even sex. It’s about resonance. He’s carrying something ancient - something Kamadeva left behind. And the more we align around him, the more he can channel it.”
“Three,” Anya repeated. “Not two. Not four. Three.”
Hema sat in silence for a moment, absorbing it.
Then he said quietly, “Even the Vedas are in three parts. Even time itself - past, present, future.”
Priya added from her seat, “And every ritual begins with three invocations. To the body, to the mind, to the spirit.”
Celina smiled. “That’s why we work. We’re not just here for Bharath. We’re balancing each other.”
Kim rested a hand on Celina’s shoulder. “She’s right. We’ve each brought something different. Anya has emotional memory - the long pull of devotion. I bring the mind - study, structure, discipline. Celina brings instinct, courage, fire. And all of that draws something out of Bharath he didn’t even know was there.”
Hema tapped his knee thoughtfully. “And you believe this is why ... he’s changed?”
Kim nodded. “Yes. Faster recovery. Higher energy. Even mental clarity. He’s more focused. More aware.”
Anya whispered, “And more powerful. I don’t just mean strength. I mean... presence. The way the dream responds to him now. The way we respond.”
Hema leaned back slowly. “Three women. One man. Not a structure most people would accept. But you’re not building a household. You’re building a yantra.”
The girls exchanged a glance - then looked back at him.
He didn’t flinch.
He gave a slow, accepting nod. “I may not understand all this yet. But if it’s giving you strength - and purpose - I’ll respect it.”
A hush settled for a moment. Then Celina softly said, “Thank you, uncle.”
Hema smiled faintly - the kind of smile that had taken a few days and a lot of faith to form.
The apartment was quiet but charged - a strategic calm, like the low thrum before a storm.
Files, photographs, and sketched maps lay scattered across the dining table. Beside them, a thermos of stale coffee, two walkie-talkies, and a small whiteboard smeared with ink and urgency. The ceiling fan clattered like a metronome to the room’s tense rhythm.
Satyu dropped into the armchair with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. His shirt clung to his back, his glasses fogged from the transition between street and fan-cooled flat. Behind him, two members of the PI team quietly closed the door and slid the deadbolt shut.
“Location’s cold,” one of them said. “Same as yesterday. No girls, no foot traffic. Only movement’s a supply van that comes once every two days. Driver’s changed, but the van’s the same.”
Satyu exhaled. “It’s a shell house. Probably used only during delivery or movement cycles. Everything else happens elsewhere.”
He leaned forward and pulled open his notebook, flipping through pages filled with scrawls, press clippings, and street names.
“The shell’s connected to a larger web. And I think we found our thread.”
Just then, the front door opened with a soft creak. Priya stepped in, followed by Hema, who offered a sharp nod to the room. Both had shed any signs of formality - they wore plain cotton clothes, sunglasses, and low-key expressions. Camouflage, in a city that watched too closely.
“You have something?” Priya asked, taking a seat at the table. Hema remained standing, eyes sweeping over the mess of intelligence like he was auditing a balance sheet.
Satyu nodded, eyes dark with intensity.
“Bansal.”
Priya blinked. “The builder?”
Hema frowned. “I’ve heard the name. Small-time real estate. Unremarkable. You think he’s connected?”
“Not just connected,” Satyu said. “Central. I think he’s the Syndicate’s logistics nerve.”
He pointed to the stack of marked maps - Calcutta, South 24 Parganas, fringe towns around Behala and Baruipur.
“Look here,” he said. “These properties - safehouses, storage flats, ‘guesthouses’ where girls are brought in or passed through - all of them sit on land registered through shell companies. Some are traced to different owners. But the development permissions? The permits? The interior retrofitting? All of them run through one chain.”
He jabbed his pen at the centre of the diagram: Bansal Infrastructure Holdings.
Hema crossed his arms. “So he builds them safehouses?”
“More than that,” one of the PIs added. “He furnishes them. Modifies them. Soundproof rooms. Multiple locks. Hidden basements. We’ve seen this before with international rings - the infrastructure is the product.”
“And that’s his leverage,” Priya murmured. “If he goes down, half their network gets exposed.”
Satyu nodded grimly. “Exactly. He might be a slimeball with a taste for brutality, but he’s smart enough to tie his name to just enough paperwork that if anything happens to him, the whole thing starts to unravel.”
A beat.
“And Rekha Das?” Hema asked.
That was Satyu’s cue. He slid out another folder - this one thinner, but full of bite.
“She’s not just a madam. She’s the syndicate’s curator - handles grooming, presentation, coordination with buyers in the upper echelons.”
He dropped two pages on the table - one a tabloid feature from a gala two years ago, the other a blurry photo of Rekha entering a high-rise off Loudon Street late at night.
“This building?” Satyu tapped the photo. “Leased by one of Bansal’s fronts. Registered as an event agency. But no license renewals. No public records since 1998.”
“You think it’s active?” Priya asked.
“Used for special clients. Possibly even grooming sessions or filming,” Satyu said, tone clipped. “Rekha’s name is never on paper. But there’s a man who handles all her finances - one Subhash Thakur, on your list of shady media intermediaries.”
The PI lead chimed in. “He’s been seen talking to reporters who later printed puff pieces to cover ‘model scandals’. He’s a fixer. A handler. We’re trying to flip someone in his circle.”
“So,” Hema summarized, fingers steepled, “you’re saying we have: a logistician, a media handler, a madam, and a network of real estate assets. Tied by documentation. Protected by silence.”
“Yes,” Satyu said. “And we need to break one.”
“Bansal,” Priya said, her voice steely.
Satyu nodded. “He’s the easiest to destabilize. He’s greedy, sloppy, and wants revenge. If we can shake his confidence - make him think the Syndicate’s using him as a scapegoat - he might start slipping.”
The PI lead added, “We’re working on tracking his current location. He’s gone underground since his injury, but one of our men tailed a doctor who visits a ‘spiritual retreat’ outside Baruipur. We think that’s where he’s recovering.”
Hema tapped the whiteboard thoughtfully. “Then we hit it from both ends. Surveillance on Bansal. Financial tracing on Subhash. Priya and Anya continue front-end probing - events, salons, model circuits. Keep feeding names.”
Satyu added, “And I’ll keep chasing the press trail. There are more journalists like Rishi out there. And someone’s feeding them.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
And then, Hema said, “Good work.”
Coming from him, it meant a lot.
He turned to Priya, expression unreadable. “I underestimated what you’d built. This ... this is real.”
Priya didn’t smile. But her eyes shone.
“So what’s the next step?” one of the PI agents asked.
Satyu flipped a fresh page open.
“Simple,” he said. “We make Bansal sweat.”
The others had gone quiet, retreating to their own corners to pore over files or make hushed calls. The whiteboard sat half-erased. The fans whirred overhead. And the city beyond the grilled balcony continued to sweat and breathe, unaware of the storm being charted inside.
Priya stood by the window, arms folded, eyes tracing the sprawl of rooftops that shimmered gold in the slanting light. Her shawl had slipped slightly off one shoulder, but she didn’t notice.
Behind her, Satyu lingered at the dining table, flipping through his notebook for the third time without reading a word.
He cleared his throat. “You know ... this operation you’ve built with almost no resources - it’s better than some of the things I’ve seen backed by full agencies.”
Priya turned, the corner of her mouth curling faintly. “You’re just saying that because we’ve got better tea.”
“Alright, yes,” he said, deadpan. “But also - you and Anya ... you mapped half a trafficking network with gossip, stolen photos, and hotel gossip.”
She shrugged. “Gossip is just intelligence with lipstick.”
That made him smile.
She walked back toward the table, resting her hand lightly on the edge.
“You,” she said, “took one look at a sketchy obituary and cracked open a lead we hadn’t even touched.”
Satyu looked down. “I get obsessed. Usually with the wrong things.”
“That’s not a flaw,” Priya said. “Not in this war.”
There was a quiet between them - not uncomfortable, just suspended. Like a breath they weren’t quite ready to release.
He looked up again, this time directly at her.
“You ever wonder how two people like us ended up here?”
Priya raised an eyebrow. “Like us?”
“Scarred,” he said, bluntly. “Mistrustful. Stubborn. Terrible at sleeping.”
She laughed softly. “Don’t forget beautiful.”
He grinned - then paused. “I still don’t understand why you trust me.”
“I don’t,” she said, and then gentled it with, “Not yet. But I’m starting to believe I could.”
That made him still.
Priya glanced down, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Inches. The overhead fan stirred the curtain behind them - it brushed her hair, sending a few strands across her face. Satyu instinctively reached to tuck one behind her ear, and his fingers just barely grazed her skin.
She didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
But the moment held - and then passed, as they both seemed to exhale at the same time.
She stepped back, reaching for her shawl. “Careful, Roy. You’re making it hard to hate you.”
He smiled, crooked and sad. “You’re not like her.”
Priya blinked. “Who?”
“My wife,” he said, softly. “The first Priya.”
That silenced her.
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
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