Devotion And wrath

A girl, barely in her twenties, ran through the desolate streets, her red lehenga heavy and cumbersome, a vibrant contrast to the encroaching darkness. Her breath hitched, ragged and desperate, as she mumbled, "I have to go far from here, or else he will make my life a living hell."

Headlights sliced through the inky black, illuminating the road's edge. She raised a trembling hand, a silent plea for rescue. A car screeched to a halt, and four shadowy figures emerged, their voices slurred and menacing. "Lift chahiye, madam ji?" one sneered.

Her refusal was met with a brutal grip on her wrist. Panic clawed at her throat as she struggled, the cheap bangles shattering, digging into her skin. "Oo, pakad usse, wo bhagri hai!" they yelled, giving chase.

She plunged into the oppressive darkness of the forest, the trees looming like monstrous sentinels. Sharp leaves lashed at her arms, drawing blood, and her heels, an impractical burden, were flung away. The world blurred around her, tears long dry but lashes wet, her smudged lipstick a grotesque mask.

Then, a sharp pain in her foot, and she fell, crying out. As she struggled to rise, a horrifying sight materialized: a tall figure, hanging from a tree, blood dripping fresh from his neck. Her scream caught in her throat as she saw them—the men who had pursued her, now lifeless and dismembered, their hands missing. "He came," she whispered, the words barely audible as a soft, chilling whisper brushed her ear. "Takaya krasivaya."

His lips hovered, then kissed her collarbone, sending a shiver down her spine. "I have the only right to hurt you because you're Moya, Vse Moya." He whispered, before a sharp prick in her neck, and the world dissolved into darkness. "You belong to me, Red."