The village air was heavy with the fragrance of crushed marigolds, camphor, and the distant, rhythmic thumping of temple drums. It was Mahashivratri, the night of the Great Union, but inside the white villa, the atmosphere remained cold enough to freeze the blood.

Arjun kicked open the door to the master suite at the crack of dawn. He looked sharp, his presence commanding in a crisp, white cotton kurta-pyjama that contrasted dangerously with his tanned skin and the dark, restless energy in his eyes.