Vikram’s patience had evaporated like morning mist under the scorching Indian sun. He didn't want words; he wanted the raw, pulsating reality of her. With a sudden, explosive movement, he hooked his powerful arms under her knees and around her back, hoisting her up. Meera let out a startled cry, her wet arms instinctively locking around his thick neck as he carried her into the dim, cool interior of the house.

He marched into the living room, where a sturdy wooden cot—a traditional charpai—stood covered with a thin cotton sheet. He threw her onto it with a controlled violence that made the wooden frame creak and her heavy body bounce. Before she could even draw a breath to protest, Vikram was over her, his massive shadow devouring her.