༺Chapter7: The Change ༻

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧁༒༻༺༒꧂

The door slamming on his way out, was of no concern to Zayne. He was already reaching for his phone, his fingers shaking, a visceral response to everything all at once, as he was filled with urgency and some unknown feeling - something that felt kind of bad.

His thumbs sat above the keyboard before present-ing two simple words.

"Come over."

Without any hesitation he pressed send.

He waited.

Seconds passed. Then minutes.

Nothing.

The message he sent was delivered. But not seen by her…

His jaw clenched. He was not used to not receiving a response - being ignored. It was never like this, female attention was always in droves. Zayne had practically spent the last few years circling in and out of relationships with models and escorts, and women that were throwing themselves at him because of his power, and money, and presence.

But Priya?

Priya was busy. On duty. She had better things to do than entertain a foreign goon.

Still, he didn’t let it go. His fingers were moving before he could think.

"Kalu misses you. And…so do I."

He looked at the text, and his own words made his chest heavy. He hit send before he could second guess himself.

Again, she didn’t reply.

A bitter chuckle escaped him as he tossed his phone onto the couch. Running a hand through his dark hair he exhaled loudly.

“Damn Indians ” He muttered under his breath.

He could hear Masha’s words in his head.

"They don’t like white men."

"They’re too dark. They have small tits. No man likes them."

His expression darkened and his thoughts began to spiral.

Maybe Priya didn’t like him because he’s Korean.

Perhaps she’s like the others; conceited. Too good for me. Prefers her own people.

The denigrating thoughts seeped into his mind like poison.

Then, it dawned on him.

Wait…Priya is fair. Like me.

His brow furrowed, jaw tightened. He felt stupid all of a sudden.

The weight of his own hypocrisy struck him like a punch to the gut.

"Fuck, I'm just as racist as Masha."

Disgust twisted in his stomach. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, as he tried to clear his mind.

The rest of the day was frustrating. He ignored Masha’s text messages. He ignored the men asking him about business. He couldn’t concentrate and hated that the reason was Priya.

As the sun dipped below the skyline in hues of orange and purple, his phone buzzed.

Priya. 

His heart nearly stopped.

He grabbed it so fast he almost dropped it. He pressed accept and swallowed before speaking.

"Hello?"

Her voice was calm, professional. "Zayne, I was busy. Why did you message me?"

His tongue darted out to lick his lips. Suddenly he felt shy.

"I...I know. I didn't mean to insistent bother you while you're working," he confessed. "I just...I wanted to talk to you. About something."

A beat of silence.

He forced himself to ask, "Can I see you tonight? After your shift?" 

Priya's response was immediate. "I can't. I have to go home. Parents time." 

Zayne nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Right. Of course. Family is important." 

He paused before adding, "It's impressive how much you prioritize them. Tell them I said hello… if you want." 

Her answer was short. "Okay. Say love you." 

Zayne sucked in a breath. His fingers clenched around the phone. 

"What?" 

Priya kept it casual. "Say love you to Kalu." 

Zayne stared at the phone before letting out a soft laugh. 

"Oh, Priya." His tone was warm, amused. "I'll tell Kalu you said ‘love you’ too." 

He looked down at the tiny dog curled up on his lap. "Hey, buddy. Priya says love you." 

Kalu barely lifted his head before falling right back to sleep. 

Before Zayne could say anything else, Priya hung up. 

Zayne pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen as though he thought she might call him again. 

She didn't. 

Instead, he just sat there, feeling… weak. 

Something in his chest felt tight. Something stupid. Something childish.

He thought she had said "I love you" to him.

He held the phone loosely and let out a deep sigh.

"Idiot... What made you think that?"

🔥❥✦✧✦❥🔥

⚡ Warning: This Chapter is Spicy and Fiery ⚡

🔥 You are in for Heat. Reader Discretion is Strongly Advised. 🔥

❥✦✧✦❥

He stood up and walked toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He looked in the mirror at his face, jaw clenched and unreadable.

"Get a grip Zayne. She wasn’t talking to you."

His fingers balled in on themselves against the sink.

I’m mafia. Be hard. 

His dark eyes narrowed.

But 

Zayne was leaning against the cool marble wall of his bathroom, the glow of the chandelier bathing his bare body in golden hues. The air was heavy—too hot, too still—but he was on fire. 

"I love you too," he said.

He couldn't prevent his mouth from forming the three words, and had said them with an incredible Russian accent that impacted. His mind was still saying that she had said it first—Priya, that Indian officer with angry eyes and a spine of steel. He must have misunderstood her or maybe he just wanted to.

But that little phrase? To him, it wasn't just words.

It had meant destruction.

He was a man trained to kill without fear. Built like a lion—muscle hardened by bar fights, chase, and torture missions. He had broken bones with his hands, pulled triggers with his hands, created destruction with his hands. Now, those hands could not stop shaking.

Because of her.

Priya Thakur.

The woman who had never even touched him—never kissed him, never even looked at him with lust in her eyes. And yet, her voice, her presence, her existence was able to turn the sternest man in the Eastern mafia into a shaking, turned-on animal.

His jaw clenched, and he paced the room like an animal in a cage. His cock strained against his pants—hard, aching, painful. He cursed under his breath, dragging the palm of his hand over the bulge that pulsed with wanting.

Control it, Zayne. 

He'd had women before. Women more than one can count. Beautiful women. Desperate women. Filthy women. Some begged. Some screamed. Some tried to beat their time.

But, none mattered. 

None made him feel like this.

This want.

This obsession.

This goddamn weakness.

Why her? Why a woman in khaki fatigues, impervious to the ironies of life; with fire in her voice and defiance in her posture? Why'd he imagine the way she look if she made love to him more than any other? Why did imagining her smiling and laughing with another man light his blood with jealousy?

He groaned and grabbed his phone, his fingers paying the price for his limiting restraint; moving a mile a minute. 

Priya Thakur IAS -- he typed, breathless.

Instantaneously, a rush of images flooded the screen.

Official portraits--her with the national crest behind, hair in a tight bun and eyes that were bullets pointed at the man. Half on pictures from paparazzi--her with the black sarees, sleeveless blouses, waist any useful shapewear peeked out! Event pictures--her laughing; commandeering attention without the strain of even having to try.

He leaned back on the bathroom sink again, legs wide apart, phone in one hand, his eyes devouring the screen. His other hand wrapped around his erection again—slow, and hungry. 

“Fucking hell...” he said to himself. 

He quickly pulled on his belt, and the click was so loud in the silence. He undid the zipper, and he dropped his pants to his thighs, his boxers were dripping with need at the tip. He pushed them down just enough to free himself. His cock slapped against his abdomen—thick, veined, throbbing.

His hand curled around it naturally. He gasped at the touch. 

“Priya...” he whispered, as if uttering her name would appear her next to him. 

He started out slow, stroking from base to tip, and teased the sensitive underside with his thumb. His hips jerked slightly as he imagined her—on her knees, in uniform, hair down for once. Her strict, controlled mask slipping as she licked her lips and leaned forward.

His breaths shuttered. He quickened his stroke, the pressure inside him becoming unbearable. 

“Sit still. Let me taste you," he imagined her voice say softly, but commanding, perfectly Priya.

His fist pumped more quickly. He could envision it entirely in his head--her lips wrapped around his cock, taking him deep, her eyes locked on his as she hollowed her cheeks. A guttural, low moan slipped free.

"Fuck... you're dangerous," he groaned.

He imagined gripping her hair at her scalp and thrusting into her mouth. Gagging slightly, only to smile again, knowing she had him wrapped around her little finger.

His thighs tightened. His abdomen tightened.

He was close--too close. Faster than he had ever been.

“Shit—Priya—” he growled, bucking into his hand. Toes curling. Back arching slightly as release ripped through him--violent, messy, overwhelming.

Hot seed spilled out over his fingers and his stomach, dripping out over his hand.

He fell back, panting, like he just survived a war. His forehead beaded with sweat. His cock twitched again, still semi-hard, unsatisfied still after coming.

Because it wasn’t her hand. 

Because it wasn’t her mouth.

He wiped quickly, angrily, the towel nearby and not doing anything to cool the fire still burning within him.

He trembled. He never trembled.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” he silently repeated, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m losing it." 

He stand up slowly licking his lips still tasting the fantasy that never happened.

And she hasn't even touched me yet.

There was no stopping the images of her—bare skin under his hands, her thighs parted, her nails digging into his back. Her voice moaning his name over and over as he made her come.

He groaned again and leaned forward to rest between his knees. His fingers touched his still sensitive cock. Even that slight contact jolted him like an electric shock.

I need to see her. Immediately.

Then—

Rrrrring.

His phone lit up on the bed beside him.

Unknown Number.

He frowned. Everything in him told him to put it down, but something pulled him to pick it up.

"Yes," he rasped. His voice was still heavy with lust.

A moment of silence.

This time, it wasn’t Priya.

It was his soldiers.

He walked back to his penthouse office, where the large map of Old Delhi was laid across his desk. Red circles highlighted Jama Masjid, which sat in the center of the rival Muslim mafia territory.

His most trusted soldiers stood behind him, waiting for him to give them orders.

His heart hardened. His mind sharpened.

He took a red marker, and drew a thick X around the mosque.

"Tomorrow morning, we strike. No mercy." 

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂ ꧁༒༻༺༒꧂

          ༶•┈┈┈༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓༓┈┈┈•༶

            ༺ To be continued… ༻ 

꧁༒༻༺༒꧂꧂༒༻༺༒꧂

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