She sleeps like the world never tried to break her. Curled into herself like a secret, bare shoulder rising with each slow breath, dark lashes casting shadows under her eyes. Her blanket, as usual, lies forgotten on the floor. Moscow’s merciless chill seeps through her windows, but she wouldn’t notice. She never notices.
If I didn’t cover her up every night, she’d probably catch her death.
But that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?
Not just to watch her. To protect her. To be the silence she never hears but always feels.
I stepped in, careful not to let the floorboards creak, though by now, I know which ones are safe. Her room smells like roses and ruin—her. Always her.
I picked the blanket up, covering her gently, fingers brushing her shoulder for a second longer than necessary. She shifted—just slightly. Not awake. She never wakes up when I’m here anymore. Her body has made peace with my presence before her mind ever could.
Funny how comfort grows in the dark.
And then… I sat. At the edge of her bed, just watching. Eyes roaming over her skin, her cheekbones, the hair that fanned across her pillow like a silk spill. I reached out, because I always do, and ran my fingers through the strands that never leave my memory.
My other reason for coming here?
Her skincare products.
Don’t laugh.
It started out as a joke. Curiosity.
I watched her do her nightly routine like it was a sacred ritual—layer after expensive layer, her fingers moving with mechanical precision like she was building armor no one could see. Even on the worst days, she never skipped it. Maybe that’s why I started doing it too. To feel close. To pretend.
To become the scent that lingered in her sheets.
Tabhi itni sahi skin hai iski, I muttered as I opened one of her $5000 creams.
Snail mucin? Snail ka excreta lagana hota hai?
Ab pata chala log kyun kehte hain beauty comes with a price.
I scooped a tiny bit. She once beat her cousin black and blue for touching this one. She’d destroy kingdoms if she knew her stalker used it like a lover’s gift.
After applying it like a pro—because yes, I learned—my eyes drifted back to her.
I couldn't resist. I laid down beside her. Not touching. Her body didn’t flinch. It leaned. Like it knew. She only wakes up from nightmares when I’m not here.
I traced her cheek with my gaze, memorizing every inch all over again. There was something maddening about the fact that the world got to see her—but didn’t know her. Didn’t deserve her.
She was mine.
Not because she said yes.
Not because she ever looked at me the way I looked at her.
But because the universe carved her from the chaos in my ribs—and then made the mistake of putting her in someone else’s world.
I’m just… correcting it.
Every week, without fail, I fly from Udaipur to Moscow.
No, not because I have to.
Because I want to.
Because this moment—right here, with her skin brushing the air beside me, her presence bleeding into my veins like poison I crave—is worth every sleepless mile.
People think obsession is loud. It's not.
It’s patient. Steady. Ritualistic.
A bed I’ll never be allowed in.
A girl who'd put a bullet through my skull if she knew I was here.
But it doesn't matter. Not when she’s the religion, and I’m the lunatic kneeling before her.
Sirentta.
That’s what I call her in my mind.
My little siren.
Beautiful, ruthless, untouchable.
A myth and madness wrapped in silk and danger.
She’ll never know how long I watched her before I ever spoke to her.
She doesn’t know how many parties I attended in the shadows.
How many men I've silenced for looking at her too long.
But that night—that masquerade—changed everything.
It was the first time I stepped into her world not as the monster in the corner, but as a man among masks.
She wore blood red. Of course she did.
The kind of red that whispered war and kissed like sin.
Her mask hid nothing—neither the venom in her smile nor the sorrow in her eyes.
And for the first time, I wasn’t watching her.
I was with her.
When our eyes met, something shifted.
She didn’t know who I was. She didn’t need to.
She looked at me like a challenge. A puzzle. A storm she wanted to dance with.
And I… I looked at her like prayer.
I remember the way her fingers felt in mine as we danced—
One step, two steps, like fate dared us to fall.
I remember the way her breath hitched when I leaned in and said,
"Careful, Sirenneta. You keep looking at me like that, and I might start believing you want something from me."
She rolled her eyes, spun away—
But I saw it.
The flicker.
That part of her that recognized the predator behind my eyes.
Not because she knew me.
But because she was me.
Predator meeting predator. Fire finding gasoline.
And when she twirled and I disappeared, it wasn’t a mistake.
It was foreplay.
Let her crave more. Let her chase a ghost.
Because the truth is—I already belonged to her.
Even before she knew my name.
Even before she looked into my eyes and saw her ruin.
I’m not here because I can’t stay away.
I’m here because this—she—is the only place I’ve ever truly belonged.
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Hey lovely readers, I hope I did justice to Abhimaan's character.
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