She hadn’t given me a kiss in days. Not even the brush of lips on the cheek, not even the fleeting touch on my hand.

After my relentless asking, she’d finally snapped—not with words, not with shouting, but with the crueler punishment: silence. She turned her face away whenever I leaned close, kept her answers short, her eyes distant. Cold. Detached.

And me? I sulked. Not in despair, but in the sharp-edged mood of a man denied what he’d grown addicted to. It wasn’t sadness that gripped me—it was hunger, frustration, the ache of knowing I’d pushed too far, too often, and she was punishing me by withholding the smallest thing I craved.

I buttoned the top of my blue shirt, movements rougher than usual, catching her reflection in the mirror. She stood just behind me, setting her saree pleats, fixing herself with calm precision as though I didn’t exist.

When she lifted the small red bindi and placed it on her forehead, something burned inside me. She left the sindoor untouched again. My hand itched to fill that space, to mark her as mine, but I stopped myself. Forcing her into marriage was one thing—I told myself that was a necessity, a permanent act. But compelling her into every daily ritual, every wifely duty, was a war I couldn’t fight every day.

Still, the rejection gnawed.

She would smile at the nurses and doctors later, I knew she would. She’d light up like she always did for everyone else. And I would be left with nothing but this sulking hunger that twisted deeper each time her lips passed me by.

By the time we reached the hospital, I was brooding in silence. She softened immediately when she entered her father’s ward, leaning close to him, murmuring soft comforts, her smile tender as her hand smoothed his blanket. The nurses and doctors who came by received the same treatment—polite greetings, gentle laughter, small talk. She was warm, open, generous with them.

But me? I might as well have been a shadow at her side.

The ride back was heavy with quiet. She sat angled toward the window, her face catching the faint glow of passing lights, her eyes far away, chained to her father’s fragile state.

I let it stretch until I couldn’t anymore. My sulking broke into a deliberate smirk.

“You know,” I said slowly, “I’ve decided something.”

Her eyes flicked toward me, wary, suspicious. “What now?”

“No more begging. No more forcing.” I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “From today, we’ll play games.”

Her brows pinched. “Games? Why?”

“To get things done… in a playful way.” I shrugged, the excuse half-true at best.

“And you can get something in return from me,” I added, my smile twisting sharper.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she muttered, her gaze sliding back to the glass.

My jaw ticked, but I didn’t raise my voice. “That’s great. Then this will just be a one-sided game where I get what I want.”

Her head whipped back, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t agree to any game.”

I cut a glance at her, lips tugging upward. “I apologize if that sounded like a question.”

Her glare sharpened, those squinting eyes pinning me down. I chuckled low, leaning slightly closer. “Careful. You’ll make me want to bite.”

“If you’re not going to play the game,” I murmured, smirk widening, “I’ll just force my kiss on you in front of your father next visit.”

Her whole body stiffened. “No! You won’t do that.”

I turned the wheel smoothly into the next lane, voice dripping mockery. “Should I prove it?”

Her lips pressed tight, her glare burning into me. But she stayed quiet long enough for me to know I had her cornered.

Finally, she asked, “What’s the game?”

I loosened my tie, letting my voice slide slow and deliberate. “Simple ones. Cards. Dice. Whoever wins gets a prize. You can demand anything—freedom, favors, secrets. But when I win…” My hand brushed her wrist deliberately. “…I’ll take what I want. A kiss. A touch. Maybe more.”

“That’s childish,” she whispered, disbelief in her voice.

“No,” I leaned in closer, lips ghosting her ear, “it’s fair. And my version of child’s play…” I paused, savoring the shiver that ran through her, “…is safer for you.”

Her silence wasn’t a no. And for me, that was as good as a yes.

That night, we sat across from each other at the low table in our room. The air was thick with something that wasn’t quite silence—more like a low, restless hum between us. A single bulb cast a soft amber glow on the deck of cards lying between us. She sat upright, her hands folded close to her body, her fingers hovering nervously over the stack as though the cards might bite.

I, on the other hand, lounged back against the chair, one leg stretched out, my shirt sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the predator at ease in his den.

“Highest card wins,” I murmured, my voice smooth and unhurried as I shuffled the deck with practiced ease. The cards whispered against each other, snapping into place, their rhythm echoing in the small room.

I drew the first card. Mine.

The second card. Mine again.

Her shoulders stiffened as the corner of my mouth tilted into a smile. I leaned forward, forearms resting on my knees.

“Take off your bangle,” I said quietly.

Her eyes flicked up, startled. “Bangle? You want… a bangle?”

I almost laughed. Her tone was disbelief mixed with a touch of suspicion. I didn’t blame her. From a man who’s been starving for her body, a request for a piece of jewelry was the last thing she expected.

But that was precisely the point. I wanted her confused. I wanted her thrown off balance, thinking twice before assuming she understood me.

“Yeah,” I said, tilting my head slightly, my eyes fixed on hers. “A bangle. Or…” I let my voice drop lower, my smirk sharpening, “…did you expect something kinkier, Asha? Did I disappoint you?”

Color crept up her neck before she could stop it. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to retort, but no sound came. I adored those involuntary betrayals of hers—the way her body told on her long before her mouth did.

She scowled to cover the blush, slipping the bangle from her wrist with reluctant fingers. The clink of metal against the table was small, but it thrilled me more than it should have. That sound—her surrender in miniature.

Round after round, the game moved forward. Cards flipped, tension built.

Hairpin. Earring. Anklet. Each time, I claimed some small, intimate fragment of her. She would glare at me, sometimes mutter under her breath, but always, eventually, comply.

When it came to the pallu, I tapped my fingers against the table, impatience disguised as playfulness. “Time’s running, Asha,” I murmured. “Pallu. I want your pallu undone. It’s just a game.”

She didn’t move. She only looked at me, her jaw tight, eyes like dark glass.

“Should I do it myself then?” I asked softly, leaning forward, my hand half-extended.

Her hands slammed down on the table with a crack, the cards jumping from the impact. In one sharp movement, she unpinned her saree from her shoulder, yanked the pallu free, and hurled it at me.

I caught it mid-air without flinching, the fabric soft in my fist. My smirk curved deeper.

“Give me your shirt,” she snapped.

I raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t won yet.”

“Oh, just give me your shirt out of courtesy, on your wife.”

Her demand was not a plea—it was sharp, cutting. And that alone was enough to make me obey. Slowly, deliberately, I unbuttoned my shirt, my gaze fixed on her face as I peeled it from my shoulders and held it out to her.

“Do you realize the power you have over me, Asha?” My voice was low, rougher now. “Look at you. Haven’t won a single thing, yet you demand—and I’m already giving it to you.”

She grabbed it from my hand, almost snatching, and shrugged it on. The blue fabric hung loosely on her frame, falling over her like a second skin. The sight hit me like a punch to the gut.

I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes travel over her in my shirt, my fingers curling loosely on the armrest. “You know,” I said slowly, my voice a drawl edged with hunger, “I would have sold anything just to see you like this.”

Her cheeks burned crimson under my stare, but she didn’t look away. For a second, the game wasn’t a game anymore. It was a slow, quiet war of glances, breaths, and tiny surrenders.