Asra stood outside the heavy oak doors of Ather’s private wing, her small hands clutching a first-aid kit like a shield. Her heart was beating so violently she felt dizzy. The cut on her palm still stung, but that pain was nothing compared to the fear crawling up her spine.
One of the maids had come to her room ten minutes ago with a message:
“Sir wants you in his chambers. Now.”
She hadn’t even changed out of her wine-stained dress. Her bare feet were cold against the marble as she hesitated in front of the doors. She never came here. This part of the mansion was forbidden unless he explicitly called for her. And tonight… tonight she had already angered him.
With a trembling breath, Asra raised her small fist and knocked softly.
“Enter.”
His voice was low and commanding, even through the thick wood.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Ather’s room was massive and intimidating—just like him. Dark tones of black, charcoal, and deep emerald dominated the space. A huge king-sized bed stood against one wall, its sheets perfectly made. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lit gardens. The only light came from a single lamp on his desk and the moonlight streaming in.
Ather stood near the windows, his suit jacket discarded, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing powerful forearms. He looked even more dangerously handsome in this dim lighting—sharp jaw clenched, dark hair slightly tousled, eyes colder than the night outside. At forty, he still looked unfairly young, like a man in his prime who had made a deal with the devil.
Asra kept her head lowered, fingers twisting nervously in front of her.
“You… you called for me, Sir?” Her voice came out small and shaky.
Ather turned slowly. His gaze dragged over her form—bare feet, stained dress, bandaged hand she had poorly wrapped herself. Something dark flickered in his eyes.
“Come closer.”
She obeyed instantly, stopping just two feet away from him. The scent of his cologne mixed with whiskey wrapped around her. She could feel the heat radiating from his tall, muscular body. At 164 cm, she barely reached his chest. Standing this close made her feel like prey.
Ather’s hand shot out and caught her injured wrist, pulling her even closer. Asra gasped but didn’t pull away. His touch was firm, almost bruising.
“Why are you still bleeding?” he asked, voice dangerously low. “I told you to get it treated.”
“I-I did, Sir. It’s not deep,” she whispered quickly, her free hand clutching the first-aid kit. “I… I came to apologize properly. For the glass. For disappointing you again. I know I’m clumsy and talk too much and I’m not what you—” She stopped herself, realizing she was rambling. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
Ather stared down at her. For a moment, the mask slipped.
Flash of memory — his mother’s blood on his hands. A soft voice begging him to run. The weight of weakness.
His grip tightened on her wrist.
“You think a broken glass matters to me?” he said, voice rough. “What matters is that you disobeyed. I gave you rules for a reason, Asra. This world is not kind to soft, careless little girls like you.”
Asra’s eyes filled with tears, but she forced herself to look up at him like he had ordered earlier. “I’m sorry, Sir. I won’t do it again. Please don’t be angry with me…”
Her voice cracked on the last word. Childish. Fearful. So painfully innocent.
Ather’s jaw flexed. He hated how her tears affected him. How the sight of her trembling in front of him awakened both the monster and something far more dangerous. He released her wrist only to cup her chin, forcing her to keep looking at him. His thumb brushed her lower lip almost possessively.
“You fear me,” he stated coldly. It wasn’t a question.
Asra nodded slightly, unable to lie. “Y-yes, Sir. Very much.”
“Good.” His eyes darkened. “You should.”
Yet he didn’t let her go. The air between them grew thick, heavy with tension. Asra’s breath quickened. She could see the storm raging behind his beautiful, ruthless face—the same face that haunted her every night.
Ather leaned down slightly, his breath brushing her forehead. “Go sit on the bed.”
Her eyes widened in panic. “S-Sir…?”
“Now, Asra.”
She obeyed on shaky legs, perching at the very edge of his massive bed like a frightened kitten. Ather walked over, took the first-aid kit from her hands, and knelt in front of her—something she never imagined the great Don doing.
He cleaned her wound in silence, his touch surprisingly careful, though his expression remained icy. Every brush of his fingers sent electricity through her body.
When he was done wrapping it properly, he looked up at her from his kneeling position. For the first time, Asra saw something raw and haunted in his eyes. A darkness that went far deeper than his usual cruelty.
“You have no idea what kind of man I am, little one,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The things I’ve done… the blood I’ve spilled to stay alive.”
Asra’s heart clenched. She didn’t understand everything, but she felt it—the weight he carried. Without thinking, her small, bandaged hand reached out and gently touched his cheek.
Ather froze.
For one dangerous second, he leaned into her touch. Then his eyes hardened again. He caught her hand and placed it firmly back on her lap.
“Never touch me without permission,” he warned, voice like ice. But his breathing was slightly uneven.
He stood up abruptly, towering over her once more.
“Sleep here tonight. I have work to do.”
Asra’s eyes widened. “Here…? But Sir—”
“You will sleep in my bed, Asra. End of discussion.” His tone left no room for argument. “And if you break anything in this room… I won’t be as forgiving.”
He turned and walked toward his study attached to the room, leaving her sitting on his bed, heart racing, fear and a strange warmth battling inside her chest.
Asra curled up on the far edge of the enormous bed, pulling the cold sheets over herself. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her chin.
In the darkness, she whispered to herself, “What happened to you, Sir… to make you like this?”
She didn’t know it yet, but Ather was asking himself the same question on the other side of the door—why this small, clumsy girl was slowly becoming the only thing that could make the ice in his veins crack.
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