Vikram carried her through the pre-dawn streets like a broken trophy—her naked body wrapped only in his torn kurta, blood from shallow cuts seeping through the fabric, drying cum flaking off her inner thighs with every step. She was limp, half-conscious, mind fractured between horror at what Karan’s men had done and the sick, pulsing afterglow that still throbbed in her abused cunt. He didn’t speak. His breathing was ragged, knuckles white, fresh blood—someone else’s—smeared across his forearms.

He brought her back to the haveli through a secret side gate only the oldest servants knew. Straight to the deepest, most forgotten chamber: a small stone room beneath the main courtyard, once used for secret Rajput rituals centuries ago. Thick walls, no windows, single iron door. A low stone altar in the center, stained dark from gods-know-what. Flickering oil lamps cast long shadows. The air smelled of old sandalwood, iron, and sex.