The third night the air felt heavier, charged. Maya slipped behind the baithak with her heart hammering and her thighs already slick. She had worn almost nothing under the thin white odhni—just enough cloth to reach him without being stopped. Digvijay was waiting in the small back room he used for private talks, the door locked, a single oil lamp throwing golden light across the cot. He looked even bigger in the small space, shirt half open, thick chest rising and falling, the heavy outline of his lund already straining against his dhoti.

The moment the door shut he pulled her against him.