Page 2 of Knot Their Arrangement

The movement causes my Maang Tikka to shift, its delicate golden chains dragging across my forehead as crystals tinkle softly.

The heavy jewelry my mother insisted I wear — layers of golden necklaces, intricate bangles, and the priceless family heirloom choker — now feels like chains weighing me down.

All these symbols of a bride, of a woman ready to be claimed, when all I want is freedom.

Freedom that I got a glimpse of for so long, and yet I’ve finally been captured like an animal who is destined to return and be slaughtered…

His scent hits me then, cutting through the petrichor like a blade — leather and cedar mixed with something wilder and untamed.

There's a hint of expensive cologne underneath it all, Madagascar vanilla perhaps, but it's overshadowed by pure Alpha pheromones that make my head spin.

It's intoxicating in a way that terrifies me, how my Omega instincts want to lean into it despite every rational thought screaming at me to run.

The slick gathering between my thighs betrays my body's reaction to his proximity. My inner Omega purrs at the dominance radiating from him in waves, at how easily he could overpower me if he wanted to.

The rational part of my brain fights against these primal urges— he could be one of my father's men, sent to drag me back to a marriage I never wanted.

Or worse, he could be something far more dangerous.

My carefully applied bridal makeup runs in rivulets down my face, kohl-lined eyes surely creating dark streams along my cheeks.

The sindoor powder my mother had so lovingly applied to my hair part — meant to mark me as a claimed woman — bleeds red like an open wound.

I can feel my dupatta slipping from my shoulder, the wet silk threatening to expose more skin to his hungry gaze.

"P-please," I manage to whisper, hating how my voice shakes.

How it comes out breathy and wanting instead of terrified like I should be. My body betrays me further as another wave of his scent washes over me, making me bite back a whimper.

He’s just doing this on purpose. A tactic to weaken me before I’m picked up and dragged back home where I belong…

He moves closer, one gloved hand coming up to grip my chin.

Despite the firm hold, his touch isn't cruel.

If anything, it's almost gentle, which somehow makes this worse. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, a sharp contrast to my rain-chilled skin.

At my full height of 5'2", I barely reach his chest. He has to be at least 6'3", his frame caging me against the tree with practiced ease.

Through the mask's glowing pattern, I swear I can feel his gaze roaming over me — taking in my drenched form, the way my Saree clings to every curve, how my chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. My nipples harden against the wet fabric, and I know he notices by the way his head tilts slightly.

A low growl rumbles from his chest, the sound so deeply Alpha that my knees nearly buckle. Only his proximity keeps me upright, trapped between his heat and the rough bark at my back.

My hands press against the tree, fingers digging into the wet wood as I fight the urge to reach for him instead.

"The little runaway bride," he murmurs, and even through the mask's modulation, his voice drips with dark promise. His thumb traces my bottom lip, smearing what's left of my lipstick. "Did you really think you could escape?"

I want to be strong.

To show defiance.

But my Omega instincts are screaming at me to submit, to bare my neck, and let this powerful Alpha claim me. The conflicting desires leave me trembling, caught between fight and flight.

Or something far more primal.

"I won't go back," I manage to say, though it lacks conviction.

I know my expression shows a glimpse of that hardness.

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