“Not a single sound,” he whispered. His voice wasn’t the weak, raspy tone of a reclusive invalid. It was a low, commanding baritone, vibrating with absolute authority.
His grip on my waist tightened, not with the clumsy desperation of a falling man, but with the terrifying strength of a seasoned fighter. With a seamless, fluid motion that defied everything the world knew about him, Arnav rolled us over. In less than a heartbeat, the tables turned. I was pinned flat against the cold, polished hardwood floor, and my paralyzed, wheelchair-bound husband was looming over me, his knees pinning my heavy, gold-embroidered red sari to the ground.
The candlelight flickered, casting long, menacing shadows across his sharp jawline. The silver barrel of the gun glinted in the dim light, aimed directly at the hollow of my throat.
“Who sent you?” Arnav demanded, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of deception. “Was it the Garcia cartel? Or did my uncle finally lose his patience and hire a pretty little Indian bride to finish what he started five years ago?“
