The rituals were finally over.

I couldn’t believe it. I was married to Viktor Schwarz. The Mafia king. The man whose name struck fear into the hearts of men. And yet, here I was, sitting in his estate. My new house. His room. Our room—on the large, luxurious bed adorned with countless rose petals, looking like something straight out of a fairytale. Only this wasn’t a fairytale—it was reality.

The room was grand, just like the rest of his estate—dark wood furnishings, intricate carvings on the headboard, and floor-to-ceiling windows draped with heavy, dark curtains. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books, and there was a faint scent of leather and something unmistakably masculine. It was intimidating, just like him. Everything was neat and organized, almost as if he barely spent time here.

I sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, my fingers nervously tracing the patterns on the crimson bedsheet. My heart pounded, and my thoughts were a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. Was he going to force himself on me like every other man in his world would? Was I going to lose my virginity tonight? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I hugged my knees closer to my chest, trying to calm my racing heart and I fought back the urge to cry.

I couldn’t stop thinking about when the baraat had arrived at my house. He looked... handsome. Breathtakingly, I couldn’t stop staring, shocked by how well the traditional attire suited him despite his German roots. There was something almost magnetic about him, a kind of raw, untamed power hidden beneath that calm, unyielding mask. Despite not being Indian, he pulled off the traditional attire with an effortless grace that left me speechless. A strange flutter had stirred in my stomach, almost like butterflies, but I crushed it down, convincing myself it was just nerves and I hated that I’d felt that way. Hated how his presence made my heart race even when I knew I should despise him

Papa had announced during the farewell that I wouldn’t be joining the company for another month—he’d handle everything until then. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that—part of me was relieved not to dive into work right away, but another part of me dreaded being alone with Viktor for so long.. ‘Newlyweds need time to get closer,’ he had said, smiling proudly. If only he knew how forced this was—how much it felt like a cruel twist of fate.  This wasn’t love—this was duty. An agreement. Nothing more. But the way he had looked at me during the pheras... I couldn’t shake it from my mind. His gaze had burned, intense and possessive, as if daring anyone to challenge his claim.

But now, alone in this room, waiting for Viktor to come, all I could think about was how terrified I was. What would he do to me? Would he demand his rights as my husband? Would he hurt me if I resisted? My mind was drowning in fear and unanswered questions. I couldn’t help but feel a chill crawling down my spine despite the warmth of the room.

The door creaked open, and I flinched, my heart hammering in my chest as I looked up to see him entering. Viktor Schwarz—my husband.

I pushed open the door, stepping inside. After the Indian wedding, we had the Christian one too—exchanging vows and accepting each other as husband and wife. There wasn’t enough time due to the traditional Indian farewell, so we took our vows while still dressed in those intricate Indian clothes.

I couldn’t shake off the feeling that tugged at my chest when I saw her during the farewell—crying her heart out, clinging to her parents, Riya, and that bastard Aryan too. I wanted to comfort her, hold her close, tell her it was going to be okay. But it didn’t feel right to interrupt that moment.

A bitter scoff left my lips. I felt bad for him. For Aryan. What the fuck is wrong with me? He was touching my woman, holding her like she belonged to him. Am I becoming soft? Hell no. That’s not going to happen.

My gaze landed on her—sitting in the middle of my bed, knees pulled to her chest, wearing my ring on her finger. She looked so small, so vulnerable, Scared. Pride, possession, and something else creept me I couldn’t put into words. I felt something twist in my chest at the sight.

I clenched my jaw, trying to swallow down whatever was clawing its way up my throat. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now. Not ever.

I walked closer and sat on the bed, watching her tense up even more. Her hands gripped the fabric of her lehenga, knuckles white. Slowly, I reached out to touch her shoulder, but she flinched and pulled back.

My jaw tightened. I wasn’t going to hurt her. Didn’t she understand that? I moved my hand again, trying to cup her cheek this time, but she pulled back once more, her eyes wide and frightened.

Frustration bubbled inside me. I just wanted to console her, to tell her she didn’t have to be afraid of me. Clearing my throat, I broke the suffocating silence.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” I muttered, forcing my voice to be calm, even though I wasn’t sure why it bothered me so much.

Her gaze dropped to her lap, and for a moment, I just looked at her. She looked stunning in that red lehenga—like a goddess draped in fire. The intricate embroidery caught the soft glow of the lights, and her dark hair tied in a bun, her hairline filled with vermilion of mine name as I could see the nuptial chain around her neck and the locket hanging near the valley of her breasts in that deep blouse. My eyes drifted down, and I caught sight of the thin silver anklet wrapped around her delicate ankle—the one she always wore.

It made a soft, chiming sound when she shifted, and for some reason, it did something to me—something that made the possessiveness in my chest flare hotter—sitting on my bed, wearing my ring, clutching her knees to her chest like I was some kind of monster.

Something inside me snapped. I leaned forward, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, my fingers brushing her cheek as I tilted her face up to mine. Her breath hitched, and I felt her tense under my touch, but I couldn’t stop myself. My other hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer, and she stiffened, her eyes widening. I wanted to devour her, to make her realize that no one else would ever have her—especially not that bastard Aryan.

I took a moment to drink in her beauty—the way her dark, doe eyes looked up at me with a mix of fear and confusion, her red lips parted just enough to let out shallow breaths. My gaze drifted lower to the graceful curve of her neck, where her pulse hammered against her skin, and I couldn’t help but notice the soft jingling of her bangles as she shifted nervously. That sound—it was like a taunt, reminding me she was mine, my wife, my woman, and no one else would ever have her.

Without thinking I leaned down and captured her lips on mine. 

****

Well well well… the wedding's over, the rituals are done, and guess who’s finally alone in a room full of rose petals and red flags?

Avira’s terrified, Viktor’s possessive, and that kiss? Oh honey, it’s not just lips that collided—it’s trauma, tension, and a truckload of unresolved feelings.

Was it romance? Was it rage?
Even I’m sweating.

Buckle up, Schwarzlings—because this marriage just got real.

💌 Hey my precious Schwarzlings,
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