The air in the room was thick, heavy with the scent of stale whiskey and something far more primal, musky arousal, sweat, and of Mumbai humidity. Arvind, slumped against the far wall, felt his chest constrict as if the very atmosphere was being squeezed from his lungs. His daughter, his Priya, the girl whose scraped knees he had once bandaged, was draped over her father in law like a silk shroud. Her back was arched, pressing her breasts into Ranjeet’s chest with a shamelessness that made his stomach churn with a sick, green jealousy.

Ranjeet’s large, coarse hand was tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the long, elegant column of her throat. He didn’t just kiss her; he devoured her. His mouth latched onto the sensitive skin just below her ear, sucking a dark, livid bruise into existence, a brand. Priya’s reaction was instantaneous, a full-body shudder that traveled from her shoulders down to her toes.