The rain outside had turned into a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to pulse in time with the blood roaring in Shivom’s ears. Inside the small house, the air was a thick, cloying cocktail of sweat, salt, and the iron-rich scent of a desire that had crossed the line into something primal. The single, flickering lamp was now nothing more than a dying ember, casting long, monstrous shadows of Shivom’s powerful frame against the peeling walls.

Shivom didn't let her rest. He was twenty-nine, a man who had built his life with his own two hands, and he looked at the seventeen-year-old girl beneath him not just as a wife, but as a territory he had finally, violently conquered.