The haveli had become a tomb by midnight. Servants long fled after hearing the first screams from below. Arjun—weak, trembling Arjun—had finally broken. He’d gone to the police with blurry photos from the dunes, stammering accusations of criminal conspiracy and “that whore defiling our honor.” But Karan moved faster. His men stormed the house under cover of a sudden sandstorm, blades drawn, guns silenced. They dragged Arjun to the central courtyard, bound him to one of the ancient marble pillars, stripped him naked except for the thin cloth around his waist. His small cock shriveled in terror as Karan’s crew laughed.

She and Vikram watched from the shadows of the upper balcony, hidden behind carved jali screens. Vikram’s hand was clamped over her mouth to keep her silent; his other arm locked around her waist, fingers already between her thighs, slowly circling her clit through the thin remnant of her blood-stained saree. The fresh tattoo on her mound throbbed under his touch—sun symbol now crusted with dried ink and scab—every brush sending sharp stings that made her cunt clench.