'There's a strange thrill in falling for someone who could ruin you with just a smile.'

But with Rhea, even her smirks carried shrapnel--sharp-edged and deliberate, like she wanted to see what bled.

She was the kind of woman who made everything burn brighter, hotter--especially the parts of Vikram that should've stayed numb. The parts that knew better. The parts that had buried desire under logic and self-preservation long ago, only to watch her drag them, kicking, into the light.

He first saw her in a bar that smelled like rain-soaked pavement, stale beer, and the kind of secrets that stick to your skin. The lighting was low, flickering, like the place itself was trying to forget its own stories. It didn't serve cocktails--just poured liquor into scratched glasses without questions or judgment. No names, no pleasantries. Just escape.

She sat near the jukebox, alone. Ripped jeans and a black tank top clung to her like second skin. Her boots were spread wide, heels planted with the kind of confidence that said this floor is mine. A leather jacket hung off the back of her chair like a warning. Her hair--haphazardly twisted into a knot--revealed the curve of her neck, unbothered by the stares she drew. She drank her whiskey neat, with the ease of someone who wasn't trying to forget but trying to feel.

She didn't glance at Vikram when he took the stool beside her. But she noticed.

"You're in my space," she said, voice low, smoky--like an invitation wrapped around a knife. Her eyes stayed fixed on her glass, as if he wasn't even worth turning toward.

He smirked, leaning in slightly. "It's a bar."

"It's my bar tonight."

Then--finally--she turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And when her gaze met his, something sharp lodged in his chest. His breath caught.

Her eyes were a dare before her lips ever moved. "So unless you've got something to say, or something to offer--move."

He stayed.

That was his first mistake.

Or maybe the best one he ever made.

What followed wasn't a date. It wasn't even a conversation. It was instinct.

They didn't make it to her apartment that night.

They barely made it past the bar's back door before Rhea shoved him into the alley--her mouth crashing against his like she wanted to bruise him. The night was thick with humidity, the air tasting of wet asphalt and rust. Neon light from the bar's flickering sign painted the puddles red and gold as her boots splashed through them, uncaring, focused only on the man she was dragging by the collar.

She looked like she belonged to danger.

The black tank top clung to her like a second skin, damp from the heat and her sweat. Her ripped jeans sat low on hips that moved with raw, unapologetic confidence. The leather jacket she'd worn inside now hung limp in one hand, like she might use it to tie him up or toss it away depending on her mood. Her lips were smeared with fading burgundy lipstick, her eyes lined in kohl that had slightly smudged--yet somehow made her look even more dangerous.

There was a touch of dirty glamour about her. Her face held that sharp, defiant beauty--high cheekbones, full lips parted slightly from the heat of the moment, and eyes that glittered like dark honey under neon light. Her body was a study in contrast--soft in all the right places but moving like a storm. Her hips flared wide from a narrow waist, thighs thick and strong beneath fraying denim, her ass full and firm, built for power, for sin. Her curves didn't whisper; they dared. Her skin, a rich golden brown, glowed under the moonlight, sweat catching at her collarbone and lower back like jewels. She wasn't delicate. She was devastating.

Rhea slammed Vikram against the damp brick wall, her breath hitching with urgency. His hands instinctively found her waist, fingers grazing the exposed skin between her jeans and top, heat radiating off her like a fever.

"You sure you want this?" he asked, barely able to get the words out before she yanked his belt open.

"Too late to ask questions," she growled, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Unless you want me to stop."

He didn't.

Their mouths collided again--her kiss wild, consuming, full of teeth and tongue. She climbed him like a huntress mounting her kill, thighs wrapping around his hips with practiced ease. Her back scraped against the cold, wet wall as he pinned her there, one hand gripping under her thigh, the other buried in her mess of black curls.

Her scent was intoxicating--sweat, tobacco, whiskey, and something maddeningly feminine. His mouth dropped to her throat, where her pulse thundered. She tilted her head back, giving him more, always giving--but only on her terms.

"Harder," she hissed into his ear. "Don't be gentle with me. I don't want gentle."

Her voice was smoke and gravel, like she was daring him to break her--and promising to break him first.

And he listened.

Vikram hoisted her higher, the brick biting into his knuckles as he braced them both. Then he drove into her--rough, deep, frantic. The alley echoed with the slap of bodies and her ragged moans, sharp as claws in the quiet. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him gasp. Her boots dug into the small of his back, forcing him deeper, again and again.

Each thrust felt like unraveling.

She didn't whimper. She growled, low and guttural, like an animal surrendering only to its equal.

When her orgasm hit, it wasn't pretty. It wasn't quiet. Her body spasmed, clenched tight around him as she bit down on his shoulder hard enough to leave teeth marks. She moaned into his skin, trembling violently, like something raw and buried had torn free.

He came seconds after--buried in her heat, her smell, the storm of her. It was too much and not enough, and he knew--knew--this wouldn't be the last time.

For a moment, they stayed like that. Tangled. Breathing hard. The air heavy with sweat, sex, and a kind of electricity that didn't burn out with climax.

Then Rhea pulled back.

No kiss. No thank you. Just the rustle of fabric as she slid down, adjusted her jeans, and flicked open a cigarette like nothing had happened.

She leaned against the wall beside him, one boot kicked up behind her, watching the smoke curl into the night.

"You're not bad," she said, glancing sideways at him with a lopsided smirk that said she'd already forgotten his name.

Vikram, still catching his breath, leaned his head back against the wall, heart still hammering.

"Can I see you again?" he asked, voice hoarse.

She took a drag, then exhaled slow, lazy smoke rings into the air.

"You're a glutton for pain, aren't you?" She smiled.

The weeks that followed blurred into a fever dream--madness wrapped in sex.

Rhea came and went like a ghost with unfinished business. She would show up at 2 a.m. without warning, kiss him like it was punishment, and disappear before sunrise. No explanation. No routine. Just hunger.

She liked fucking in unusual places. The cold surface of his kitchen counter, where she bent over and demanded his hands stay behind his back. The floor of her shower, where water scalded and her nails left trails across his spine. Even her fire escape--knees bruised, hair wild in the wind, one hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the sounds he made.

One night, they barely made it through her door.

She pushed him inside, slammed him against the wall, and dropped to her knees without ceremony. Her fingers were already tugging open his zipper, but it was her eyes--dark, wild, steady--that stole his breath.

"Don't talk," she said, voice low, dangerous. "Don't even breathe loud."

Then her mouth was on him--hot, ravenous, relentless. There was no teasing, no gentle buildup. She went down on him like she was starving, like something inside her needed to be fed. Her lips locked around him with feral intent, her cheeks hollowing with each drag, each desperate pull. Her tongue licked and flicked with a precision that bordered on violent devotion, curling beneath the head and pressing upward in rhythm with the suction that seemed to hollow him out.

Her hand gripped the base, tight and possessive, guiding every thrust of her mouth like she was orchestrating his destruction. The other dug into his hip, nails pressing hard enough to bruise, holding him there like she wouldn't let him escape even if he begged.

Her eyes stayed locked on his--dark, dilated, gleaming. Not with seduction. With purpose. As if she was trying to pull something out of him, draw it from the root of his spine, rip it through him until he shattered.

And he did. With a choked, strangled groan, he came so hard his knees buckled. She didn't flinch. She didn't stop. She took it all--every twitch, every drop--until he was shaking, clinging to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

When she finally pulled away, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looked at him like nothing had happened, and walked toward the bedroom like a queen exiting a battlefield.

Later, when he could move again, Vikram wandered through her apartment and noticed what he hadn't before.

Her place was cold. Not the temperature--though it always was a little too cool--but the energy. Sparse. Minimalist. No photos. No warmth. One toothbrush. One towel. A bed that never looked slept in, even after the chaos they caused in it.

He noticed it after the third visit--how impersonal everything was. She never let him open drawers. Kept her phone face-down. If he wandered too far into her space, if he touched something she hadn't offered, she'd stop him--not with anger, but with precision.

"Not that one," she'd say quietly. And he obeyed.

Rhea never spoke of her past. She claimed to be an only child, and he believed her. She said it like a door slamming shut. Like a story she'd buried alive.

Sex with her wasn't making love. It wasn't even affection. It was an exorcism. She fucked him like she was trying to obliterate herself. Like his body was a weapon she needed to be struck with, over and over again. And he let her. God, he begged for it.

But the aftermath was always the same.

She'd lie there beside him--naked, limbs stretched, breathing calmly--and stare up at the ceiling with hollow eyes, like she was counting cracks only she could see.

"You okay?" he'd ask, his voice always softer than he meant it to be.

She'd turn her head, just slightly, and say, "Better now."

Then she'd roll over and go silent. Like he was never there to begin with.

---

There was a man.

Vikram saw him first outside her building. Balding, with tufts of greasy hair clinging to his scalp. Heavy--not just overweight, but thick in the neck and shoulders, like someone who carried his dominance in flesh. He looked to be in his late forties, though his bloated features made him seem both older and more petulant. His eyes were small, sunken, and calculating--set in a face that always looked like it was on the verge of a smirk. There was a sickly sheen to his skin, the kind that comes from rich food and unearned power.

He stood with a smug stillness, arms folded over a belly that pushed against the buttons of his shirt, his posture radiating entitlement. He didn't bother to fidget or look away, didn't pretend to scroll through a phone or feign distraction. He just watched--leisurely, intently--as if he had all the time in the world to wait for people to make mistakes.

"Friend of yours?" Vikram asked one night, when they passed him again on their way in.

Rhea lit a cigarette with a steady hand. "Family contact. Used to help out my mom. Devraj Malhotra. Harmless."

She said it quickly. Too quickly. The kind of answer that felt rehearsed, preloaded.

Vikram didn't press.

But he noticed the way she always looked over her shoulder after that. How she double-locked the door. How her laughter was just a little more forced when she caught him glancing at her phone.

---

One night, after she'd screamed his name into her pillow and collapsed on his chest, skin slick and heartbeat frantic, he held her quietly and whispered, "Why me?"

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Then she looked up, strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead, and met his eyes with something sharp--something just barely veiled.

"Because you're the only one dumb enough to stay," she said. She smiled.

But it wasn't a joke. She didn't say it like a joke.