The eighth night the haveli felt like it was holding its breath. The air was thick, still, and heavy with the smell of old stone, neem leaves, and the faint trace of whiskey that always seemed to cling to Vikram. Priya had spent the entire day in a state of low, constant arousal. Every time she sat she felt the lingering soreness in her ass. Every time she walked the soft fabric of her salwar brushed against her tender holes and reminded her of the thick loads she had already taken. By evening her cunt was already wet, the thin cotton between her legs faintly damp.

Rohan had recovered from his mild fever but still retired early, claiming he wanted a full night’s sleep before a long day at the office. He kissed Priya on the cheek—soft, dry, completely unaware—and disappeared into their bedroom. This time, following the quiet instruction Vikram had given her that afternoon, she left the bedroom door wide open. The dark rectangle of the doorway faced directly into the large sitting room. From the bed, if Rohan woke and sat up, he would see everything.