The real wedding had ended hours ago. Priya lay sleeping beside Ranjeet, her body finally his in the eyes of the world, her mangalsutra a warm, golden serpent against his bare chest. He closed his eyes, and a sprawling, unholy vision burst from the depths of his possessiveness, a dream where there were no walls, no shame, no sacred fire. Only a landscape of raw, surreal claiming where he was not her sasur hiding in shadows but her lawful husband, her god, her absolute owner before every soul that ever existed.
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