The soft, grey light of the Mumbai morning filtered into the master bedroom, illuminating the scene of a battle fought and won. The air was thick with the primal scent of sweat, sex, and the faint, sweet perfume of Amyra’s hair.

She was still completely passed out, curled up like a baby on Aman’s massive, scarred chest. Her breathing was deep and even, a stark contrast to the wild, frantic pants of an hour ago. She looked so small, so innocent, her face peaceful in the aftermath of her desperate revolt.