Arjun stirred slowly, consciousness returning in fragments: the steady rise and fall of a broad chest beneath his cheek, the heavy arm draped across his lower back like an anchor, the faint scent of smoke and sweat and something deeply familiar—Veera.
His eyes fluttered open.
For a heartbeat, everything was soft confusion. Warm skin against his, the low hum of Veera’s heartbeat in his ear, the sheet tangled around their naked bodies. Then memory flooded back in a rush: the kisses, the hands, the stretch and burn and pleasure, the way Veera had groaned his name like a prayer, the final shuddering release that left them both trembling.
He was still here. Still wrapped in Veera’s arms. Still held like he belonged.
A wave of emotions crashed through him all at once.
First came a quiet, trembling wonder. He lifted his head just enough to look at Veera’s face—eyes closed, scarred cheek relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted. This rough, dangerous man who had kidnapped him, who had licked a rat bite on his toe, who had fucked him with raw need and then held him like something precious—this man was still here, still holding him. Arjun’s throat tightened. No one had ever held him through the night. Not like this. Not without expecting something in return.
Relief followed, warm and sweet, loosening the knot that had lived in his chest since the abduction. He hadn’t been discarded. Veera hadn’t rolled away, hadn’t muttered something gruff and left him alone on the cot. The rowdy’s arm was still locked around him, possessive even in sleep. Arjun felt wanted. Needed. Safe. The word felt foreign on his tongue, but it fit. For the first time in days—maybe years—he felt safe.
Then came the shyness, sudden and hot, flooding his cheeks. He was naked. Completely. Pressed skin-to-skin against Veera’s bulk. The evidence of last night was everywhere: faint bruises on his hips from gripping fingers, a tender ache between his legs, the faint stickiness where Veera had come inside him. Arjun’s breath hitched. He had begged. He had moaned anna like it was the only word he knew. Heat crept up his neck. Part of him wanted to hide his face in Veera’s chest and never look up again.
But beneath the shyness was joy—bright, fragile, almost painful. Because it had been good. More than good. It had felt right. Veera had been rough at first, yes, but careful too—watching his face, slowing when Arjun tensed, kissing him through the stretch until pleasure overtook pain. And afterward… the way Veera had kissed his temple, murmured mine, held him like he was something breakable and irreplaceable. Arjun’s heart stuttered at the memory. No one had ever looked at him like that. Like he mattered.
Fear flickered at the edges—small, but real. What now? The three days were nearly up. His father would expect him back, obedient, broken. What would happen when he wasn’t? What would Veera do when the job ended? Would he let Arjun go? Or would he keep him—here, in this filthy room, forever? The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it sent a strange thrill through his chest. Part of him didn’t want to leave. Part of him wanted to stay right here, in Veera’s arms, forever.
Arjun shifted slightly, pressing closer. Veera stirred, arm tightening reflexively.
“Mm?” Veera’s voice was rough with sleep.
Arjun swallowed, voice barely a whisper.
“I… I’m still here.”
Veera’s eyes opened slowly, dark and searching. He studied Arjun’s face for a long moment—taking in the flush, the wide eyes, the faint tremble in his lip.
“Yeah,” Veera murmured, thumb brushing Arjun’s cheek. “You are.”
Arjun’s breath caught. He searched Veera’s gaze, looking for regret, for distance, for anything that would shatter this fragile new thing between them.
He found none.
Only warmth. Only possession. Only something that looked dangerously close to love.
Arjun let out a shaky laugh—half sob, half joy—and buried his face in Veera’s neck.
“I don’t want to go,” he whispered.
Veera’s hand slid into his hair, cradling the back of his head.
“Then don’t,” he said simply.
Arjun closed his eyes, tears slipping free.
For the first time in his life, he believed someone might actually keep him.
Arjun lay awake in the dim room long after Veera had fallen asleep beside him, the rowdy's heavy arm a comforting weight across his chest. The events of the night—raw, transformative—had left his body sated but his mind restless. As he stared at the flickering bulb, memories surfaced unbidden, pulling him back to the life he had lived before this filthy farmhouse became his world. A life that now felt distant, like a half-forgotten song, yet one that shaped every beat of his heart.
Arjun Reddy had been born into privilege, the only child of Raghav Reddy and his late wife, Priya. His mother had died when he was five—a car accident on the rain-slick roads of Chennai, leaving behind fragments of memories: soft lullabies in Tamil, the scent of jasmine in her hair, warm hugs that smelled of cardamom and home. Raghav had never remarried, channeling his grief into building his empire, Reddy Constructions, into a behemoth. Arjun grew up in the shadow of that loss and that success, in the sprawling Poes Garden mansion where every room echoed with emptiness.
From the start, Raghav had molded Arjun as his heir. Private tutors drilled him in math and business from age seven; weekends were spent at construction sites, watching cranes lift beams under the scorching sun. "This will be yours one day," Raghav would say, his voice stern, eyes distant. But Arjun hated it—the noise, the dust, the endless talk of deals and profits. He was a quiet child, drawn to the old guitar his mother had left behind, hidden in a dusty attic corner. Late at night, he'd sneak up there, strumming clumsy chords that made his small fingers ache, composing melodies that spoke of the love he no longer felt.
As he grew, the rift widened. Teenage Arjun rebelled in small ways: skipping business classes for music lessons in Mylapore, blasting indie tracks through headphones during family dinners. Raghav saw it as weakness. "Music is for dreamers, not leaders," he'd thunder, smashing Arjun's first guitar in a fit of rage when the boy was fifteen. Arjun had cried that night, not just for the instrument, but for the piece of his mother it represented. From then on, he hid his passion—buying a new guitar with saved allowance, practicing in secret at friends' homes or late-night cafes in Besant Nagar.
College brought fleeting freedom. At a prestigious arts school in Chennai, Arjun majored in sound engineering, surrounding himself with like-minded souls who dreamed of film scores and concert halls. He dated casually—a girl from class once, stolen kisses that felt nice but empty. Deep down, he knew something was missing. His attractions wandered—fleeting crushes on male classmates with strong jaws or kind eyes—but he buried them, terrified of what they meant in his father's traditional world.
The arranged marriage was the breaking point. At 22, fresh from graduation, Raghav announced the match: the daughter of a rival builder, a union to merge empires. "It's your duty," Raghav said coldly. Arjun refused, voice shaking but firm. "I don't love her, Appa. I need to find my own way—music, freedom." The argument escalated; Raghav's face twisted in disgust. "You're weak. Like your mother." The words cut deeper than any blow.
That night, Arjun had stormed out, heading to Brew & Beats for solace in his guitar. He never made it home.
Lying here now, in Veera's arms, Arjun's backstory felt like chains he had finally begun to shed. The kidnapping, meant to break him, had instead revealed him—to himself, to Veera. The rowdy's protection, his tenderness, filled the voids his father had carved: love without conditions, strength that lifted rather than crushed. Tears slipped down Arjun's cheeks silently. He wasn't the heir anymore. He was just Arjun—loved, desired, free in ways he never imagined.
He turned his face into Veera's neck, breathing him in.
The past was behind him.
Whatever came next, he was ready.
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