Tears of hunger

As Myra settled onto the intricately carved chair, the soft murmurs of conversation around her faded into a distant hum. The golden platters before her shimmered under the dim lights, each dish more exquisite than the last. The aroma of rich curries, fragrant rice, and freshly baked bread filled the air, making her stomach churn with both hunger and unease.

She blinked, taking in the royal feast laid out before her. The delicate silverware, the polished glasses filled with wine, the ornate bowls brimming with dishes she had never seen before—it was all so different from the meager meals she had grown up with. But instead of excitement, a cold wave of discomfort washed over her.

A single tear slid down her cheek, unnoticed by the bustling servants or the guests. It was a momentary lapse, a split second of vulnerability she couldn't hide. Myra quickly wiped it away, but the memories surged back, uninvited.

She saw her stepmother's furious face again, the angry red of her palm as she slapped Myra's hands away from the food. "You'll eat when I say you can," she'd hissed, the threat clear in her voice. That night, Myra had been so hungry, so desperate for warmth and comfort, but her stepmother had made sure she never ate before her. The punishment had been swift—burning her palms on the candle flames, the pain searing through her, a constant reminder of her place in the household.

The memory stung, the harshness of her stepmother's cruelty still lingering in her mind like an open wound. Here, surrounded by luxury, she felt guilty for even thinking about it. She was in Rajgarh now, with Ranvijay, and she should be grateful, shouldn't she?

But the fear, the shame—those feelings clung to her, even now.

"Is everything to your liking, Rajkumari sa?" a servant asked gently, but Myra flinched at the question. She forced a smile, nodding quickly, but her eyes were distant, lost in a past she couldn't outrun.

Ranvijay, who had been watching her closely, leaned in slightly, his gaze intense but softening as he caught the flicker of sadness in her eyes. He didn't ask, not yet. But the moment she reached for a dish, her fingers trembling, he acted.

His large hand reached out, his fingers brushing against hers with deliberate slowness. His touch, possessive and firm, lingered a moment too long, making Myra's pulse quicken in a way that left her both trembling and captivated.

"Don't touch the food just yet," Ranvijay's voice was low, rough, but laced with an unmistakable possessiveness. "You're mine to feed, Myra."

The words were simple, but the way he said them—so certain, so commanding—made the air feel thick with tension. His fingers lingered on hers, as though he were marking his territory in the most subtle of ways.

Her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to pull her hand away, to hide the vulnerability she felt, but his grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that she was not just here as a guest—she was his.

His thumb gently traced the back of her hand, a quiet caress that spoke volumes more than his words ever could. "You're not like the others, Myra," he murmured, eyes locked on hers. "And I won't allow anyone to make you feel small, not even yourself."

Myra's chest tightened, her heart racing. The way his eyes bore into her, the heat radiating off his body—it was almost too much to bear. His touch was possessive, demanding, and yet, there was an underlying tenderness to it that made her feel both trapped and cherished.

When she dared to glance up at him, she saw the dark gleam of obsession in his gaze. He was entranced, hypnotized by the simple sensation of her skin beneath his fingertips. He wasn't just touching her; he was claiming her in a way that sent shivers racing up her spine.

And though the walls of Rajgarh surrounded her, and the weight of the world seemed to press down on her shoulders, there was something in that touch—something in the way he owned the space around them—that made Myra feel both terrified and protected.

His words were a silent vow, a claim she could feel seeping deep into her bones, making her question whether she truly wanted to escape his grasp.

Ranvijay's eyes darkened as he surveyed the room, the tension between them palpable. Without a word, he straightened, his posture imposing as he addressed the gathering with a single, commanding gesture. "Everyone, leave." His voice was steady and absolute.

The servants and guests didn't hesitate; they rose immediately and left the room, the doors closing behind them with a soft thud, leaving only Ranvijay and Myra in the vast, opulent space.

The moment the last footstep faded, Myra's breath hitched. The air grew thick, charged with an intensity she couldn't escape. Her heart raced in her chest, and the pulse in her throat hammered against the confines of her skin. She couldn't help but feel exposed, the vast room suddenly too small, too intimate.

She stood abruptly, her legs shaking beneath her, and took a step back. "I... I should go," she stammered.

But before she could move, Ranvijay was on his feet. In a flash, his hand shot out and grasped her wrist with unyielding force, pulling her toward him with such strength that she stumbled.

Her breath caught as he guided her to sit on his lap, forcing her to face him.

"Ranvijay, no," she whispered, her voice trembling. But her protest was cut off when he adjusted his hold, pulling her closer, his body entirely enveloping hers.

"Shh," he murmured against her ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck. "No one will interrupt us now, Myra." His voice was smooth, almost possessive, as though he was savoring every second of having her this close.

Myra's breath was shallow, her mind spinning with disbelief. She had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed in her life. His hands moved gently, one resting on her back, the other on her waist, his grip never loosening.

"Don't try to run from me," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "You're mine, Myra. And I will take care of you. Let me feed you."

Her heart raced as he brought a delicate bite of food to her lips. The soft sweetness of the dessert barely touched her tongue before he gently coaxed her to swallow. The sensation of his hand guiding her mouth, of him feeding her in such an intimate way, was too much.

"I won't let you go," he whispered, his voice low and possessive. "You belong to me now, and nothing will change that."

Myra's eyes fluttered shut, the weight of his words sinking in. The overwhelming sensation of being so close to him, of being fed by him, left her breathless.

"I don't belong to you!" she shot back suddenly, trying to push away.

Ranvijay didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips grazing her ear as he murmured, "You may not see it now, but you are mine. And no one, not even you, can take that away."

She pushed against his chest, but his grip tightened.

His voice dropped, cold and threatening. "Whoever made you feel small because of food… I will make their life hell."

Myra stopped, breath catching in her throat. His words sent a chill through her, but they also sparked something deep inside—a fear of the power he wielded, and a twisted sense of security.

"I will never let anyone make you feel less than you are," he vowed, his lips brushing against her temple. "You will always be the queen in this world I'm building, Myra. And no one will ever dare make you cry again."

And Myra knew then—she was trapped in his world, whether she wanted to be or not.