Chapter 7 Where do you think you're going, princess?

Bia's POV

When I woke, it was the sunlight that did it, sneaking in like an unwelcome intruder. A soft, golden shaft streamed through the narrow gap in the curtains, landing right across my face, warm and insistent, pulling me from the hazy depths of sleep. My eyelids fluttered open, and for a blissful second, everything felt normal— just another morning in this unfamiliar house, with its high ceilings and the faint scent of fresh paint still lingering in the air.

But then I shifted, and the dull ache bloomed deep in my muscles, a sore reminder that echoed between my thighs, in the tenderness of my hips. It wasn't a dream. The heat of his body pressed against mine, the way his voice had wrapped around me like thick smoke, the way I'd come apart under him, against him, because of him— it all crashed back, vivid and unrelenting. My skin prickled with the ghost of his touch, and I could still feel the faint bruises from where his fingers had gripped me too tightly, too perfectly.

Reality hit like a bucket of ice water, chilling me to the core.

I was still tangled in his sheets— crisp, expensive cotton that smelled like him, like sandalwood and something darker, more masculine. Still naked, my body humming with the aftershocks of what we'd done. And he was still there, right beside me. Asher Malhotra. My stepfather. His arm was draped lazily over my waist, possessive even in sleep, his bare chest rising and falling steadily against my back. His face, softened by slumber, looked almost boyish— but those sharp features, the strong jawline shadowed with stubble, the dark lashes fanning over his cheeks— they were still devastating, still capable of making my chest twist with a painful mix of longing and regret.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as everything flooded back in a rush. The dare in his eyes last night when he'd leaned back against the headboard, that smirk playing on his lips as he said, "Wanna bet?" The way I'd climbed onto his lap, fueled by some reckless need to prove him wrong, to win whatever stupid game we'd started. The way I'd whispered "please" to him, over and over, until my voice cracked and broke. The way he'd called me "good girl" while breaking me apart with his hands, his mouth, his everything.

It all came back, sharp and unfiltered. And with it came the shame— a heavy, suffocating wave that made my stomach churn. Oh God, what had I done? This was never supposed to happen. We were supposed to be family, in some twisted, forced way. He was married to my mother, for Christ's sake. And I'd let him— no, I'd begged him— to take me like that, in the dead of night while she slept just down the hall.

This was my fault. All because of that fucking bet. Because I was too proud, too stubborn to back down when he challenged me. "You won't last five minutes in my bed without begging for it," he'd said, his voice low and teasing, like he already knew the outcome. And I'd taken the bait, sliding under the covers with him, thinking I could handle it, thinking I could tease him right back. But he was right. I hadn't lasted. Worse, I'd wanted him to win. I'd wanted every second of it— the way he'd pinned me down, the way he'd made me feel alive, desired, seen in a way no one else ever had.

Now, lying here with his scent clinging to my skin, his warmth still seeping into me, everything had changed. Because he wasn't just Asher, the enigmatic man with the dangerous smile and eyes that could strip me bare with a single glance. He was my mother's husband. My stepfather. The word alone made bile rise in my throat. I choked on the thought, my hands clutching the sheet tightly against my chest, as if the thin fabric could shield me from the weight of our betrayal.

I couldn't even blame him entirely. No, this was on me. I stayed. I bet. I begged. He'd warned me, in that quiet, wicked voice of his, that I was playing with fire. And even now, remembering the way he'd touched me— his fingers tracing fire along my skin, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered filthy promises— my body betrayed me. Heat pooled low in my stomach, my breath hitched, and I hated it. Hated how much I'd wanted him then, and worse, how much I still did, even in the harsh light of morning.

I had to get out. Carefully, I shifted again, trying to ease out from under his arm without disturbing him. My heart pounded as I inched away, the sheet whispering against the mattress. But the moment I moved, his fingers tightened around my waist, pulling me back just a fraction. His voice, still low and thick with sleep, rumbled behind me, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Where do you think you're going, princess?"

I froze again, my pulse racing. His lips brushed against my shoulder, a feather-light touch that made my breath hitch despite everything. The nickname— princess— it still carried that mocking edge, but now it felt intimate, laced with memories of how he'd growled it last night while buried inside me.

"You think you can sneak out without saying good morning?" he murmured, his tone playful, almost lazy, as if this was just another casual morning for him.