Morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of Ather’s bedroom, casting a soft golden glow over the massive bed. Asra woke up slowly, body aching all over—especially between her legs. The soreness was deep and constant, a brutal reminder of how roughly he had taken her last night.
She was still naked under the sheets, curled up in a small ball. When she shifted, a sharp sting made her wince and fresh tears prickled her eyes.
Ather was already awake.
He sat at the edge of the bed, fully dressed in a crisp black shirt and trousers, looking as dangerously handsome and composed as ever. In his hand was a glass of water and two painkillers. He turned when he heard her small movement.
“Take these,” he ordered calmly, holding the pills out to her. His voice was the same cold, authoritative tone as always. “It will help with the pain.”
Asra stared at the pills, then at him. Her lower lip trembled. The memories of last night flooded back — his roughness, her crying, the way he had pinned her down and used her without mercy. Her big brown eyes filled with tears again.
She pushed his hand away weakly.
“No,” she whispered.
Ather’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Asra.”
“You are so so so so bad!” she burst out suddenly, her voice cracking with emotion. Tears spilled down her cheeks as her childish side took over completely. “I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want anything from you!”
She sat up, clutching the sheet tightly to her chest, wincing at the pain the movement caused. Her messy hair fell around her flushed, tear-streaked face as she glared at him — a tiny, defiant glare that looked more adorable than threatening.
“You hurt me so much last night… I was crying and crying and you didn’t even stop! You’re mean and rude and scary and… and I hate you right now!” Her voice rose with every word, trembling but determined. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to look at you. Go away!”
Ather stared at her in silence for a few seconds. Most people who dared speak to him like this would be dead or begging for mercy within minutes. But this small 18-year-old girl was sitting in his bed, wrapped in his sheets, pouting and crying and telling him she didn’t want to talk to him.
Something almost like amusement flickered in his cold eyes, though his face remained stern.
He placed the water and pills on the bedside table and leaned closer. Asra immediately tried to scoot back, but he caught her ankle gently and pulled her toward him.
“Stop moving. You’ll hurt yourself more,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
Asra shook her head, fresh tears falling. “I don’t care! You are so so bad, Sir… I really don’t want to talk to you today. Please leave me alone…”
She turned her face away stubbornly, refusing to meet his eyes, even as her small shoulders shook with quiet sobs.
Ather watched her for a long moment. The arrogant, ruthless mafia boss who ruled empires with an iron fist was facing a teary, childish rebellion from the one person who feared him most.
He gripped her chin firmly and turned her face back to him.
“You can cry. You can be angry. You can even say you hate me,” he murmured, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek. “But you will take the medicine. And you will stay in this bed until I say you can leave.”
His eyes darkened as he leaned in closer, lips brushing her ear.
“And tonight, when I come back, you will spread your legs for me again like a good girl… even if you don’t want to talk.”
Asra’s breath hitched, a mix of fear and unwanted heat flooding through her at his words. She turned her face away again, muttering under her breath between sniffles:
“…So so so bad".
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