Piece by piece, she had been unraveling under my victories. The deck of cards sat between us like a loaded weapon, each round stripping away not just her adornments but her composure. Her bangles lay scattered like fallen chains, her earrings glinted against the wood, her anklet was coiled like a small, surrendered snake, and her pallu draped carelessly over my thigh — my trophies. Her saree clung to her now only by stubborn folds and habit, slipping further each time she shifted.

In between my victories, she managed to steal a few of her own. Her hands trembled as she laid a card down — and when she won, I leaned forward, expecting her to ask something small, something that would sting my pride the way I stripped hers.

But her lips parted, steady and resolute. “I want something else,” she said.

“Oh?” I mocked lazily, already unbuttoning the cuff of my shirt. “My pant? My undershirt? Don’t hold back, wife.”

Her eyes lingered on me for a fraction too long — I saw the flicker of temptation there, whether she realized it or not — but then her jaw hardened. “No. Help me shift my father from the hospital. Arrange a proper bed at home. Somewhere nearby.”

For a moment, I just stared at her. Then a low chuckle rumbled out of me, dry and dark. “You waste your victory on him?”

Her glare snapped up, sharp enough to cut. “He’s my father.”

The conviction in her tone silenced even my smirk. Her eyes burned — not with lust, not with fear — but with stubborn, unshakable love. A love I could never compete with.

“Fine,” I said, waving my hand dismissively, as though it cost me nothing. “Done.”

The next round came. This time she leaned in quickly, almost desperate, as she placed her card down. She won again. Her breath caught, but instead of gloating, she pressed forward immediately, her voice softer, pleading. “Then… medical equipment. An oxygen cylinder. A monitor. A nurse to attend him at home. Please.”

Her ‘please’ was different from the ones she gave me when I cornered her body. This one was raw. Unpolished. Born not from fear, but from a daughter’s heart cracking under helplessness.

Something twisted inside me — something I wasn’t ready to name.

“You’re turning my game into a charity,” I muttered, trying to bury the unease under a drawl.

“I don’t care,” she shot back. “You said winners can demand anything. This is my demand.”

Her defiance should have enraged me. Instead, I found myself leaning back, watching her as though I was seeing her for the first time. The fire in her eyes… it wasn’t the trembling resistance I usually enjoyed breaking. This was different. Fiercer.

“Fine,” I said again, but softer this time. “Done.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief, the first true breath she’d taken all night. And for that moment, it wasn’t her earrings or her bangles I envied. It was her father. That frail old man lying in a hospital bed — he held a part of her I would never be able to steal, no matter how many games I played.

And yet… each of my victories still pulled her back to me. Each round, I reclaimed her body inch by inch, even as her wins tried to anchor her away from me.

By then, there was nothing left for me to give except my own clothes if she won again. And that was fine. It thrilled me. Because I knew the next win would be mine.

It was.

I laid my king of spades down with a slow, deliberate movement. She placed her card after me — a queen of hearts that looked weak beneath mine. My gaze crawled up from the card to her chest. Her blouse rose and fell with her shallow breath.

“Your bra,” I said calmly.

Her breath hitched, a sound almost like a whimper. Color flooded her cheeks. “No.”

“Yes.” My tone was smooth but cold as steel. I leaned in, my voice dropping low. “That was the deal.”

Her arms folded across her chest, hands clutching fabric like it could protect her. Panic flickered behind her eyes. “I… I’ll give you a kiss instead.”

I tilted my head slowly, pretending to weigh it, then let the refusal slide from my lips like silk. “No. I’ve already tasted your kisses. This isn’t about a kiss, Asha. This is about obedience.”

Her lips quivered. “Please…”

I let the silence stretch until it filled the room like smoke. Then I leaned back, one arm slung over the chair, smirking.

“Fine. If you can’t take it off,” I drawled, letting my eyes linger deliberately on her trembling hands clutching at her blouse, “then I’ll take something else.”

She blinked, wary, as if bracing for the trap to snap shut. “What?”

“You’ll sleep with me tonight,” I said, my tone velvet-dark, edged with command. “Naked.”

Her entire body went rigid. Her eyes snapped up to mine in shock, wide and unblinking. “You—what?”

“You heard me.” My gaze didn’t soften, didn’t waver. I wanted her to feel caged in it. “No bra. No blouse. Nothing. Just your skin against mine.”

She shook her head violently, strands of hair slipping free from their pins. “Never!”

I almost laughed at the innocence in her defiance. As if I’d never seen her body before. As if this wasn’t already mine by law, by bond, by force. But I knew why she resisted—it wasn’t about the nudity. It was about the fact that this time, I wasn’t ripping the choice from her. This time, she had to *give* it. Voluntarily. And that terrified her more than anything else.

“Then you forfeit the game,” I said, my smile curling sharper. “And you know what that means.”

Her glare was sharp, her lips pressed into a thin line, but underneath her fire I could see calculation flickering in her eyes. She remembered my threat—the kiss in front of her father—and she knew I would follow through. She looked cornered, torn between two humiliations, trying to weigh which one hurt less.

Finally, her voice slipped out in a whisper, soft and almost trembling. “…Only if there’s a blanket. Between us.”

My grin widened, slow and merciless, savoring her attempt at bargaining. I leaned forward, my voice dropping lower. “On us, Asha. Not between.”

Her shoulders slumped, her brows furrowed like a scolded child, her lips parting in a faint pout. The innocence of it struck me like a drug—defiance wrapped in vulnerability. I could already see it, already taste it—her bare body pressed into mine under a shared blanket, every breath betraying her, every shiver unraveling her resolve.

This wasn’t new for me. But damn, wasn’t it as tempting as the very first time? I could feel the heat coil low, my cock hardening with the thought. That, however, would have to wait.

Later, the deck had thinned to almost nothing, cards spread like scattered sins between us. She sat across from me, flushed and messy-haired, her blouse loose from earlier rounds, her dignity clinging by threads. She had lost more than she had won, but still she fought, still she refused to break.

And then—fortune turned. She slapped her card down with a sharp flick, triumph flashing in her eyes as the corners of her lips curved into the faintest, fleeting smile.

It was the first real crack in her mask all night. And God, I wanted to tear it wider.

I leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest. “So… what’s your prize this time?”

She hesitated. This time she didn’t ask for a nurse. Didn’t ask for help. Instead, her eyes lifted to mine — cautious, testing — and her voice dropped into a softness I hadn’t heard before.

“Tell me,” she said, “why did you go to jail?”

The smile froze on my lips.

The air shifted instantly. The playful edge curdled into something heavier. My chest tightened as her words dragged out a shadow I had locked away for years.

I looked down, jaw clenching, the cards slipping from my hand and scattering silently across the table.

Her voice wavered. “Did you really… kill someone?”

I didn’t answer.

My silence was louder than any confession.

And as she stared at me, realization flickering in her face, she understood that the game was over.

She had stopped playing with cards — now she was playing with something darker.