7| "Crimson Obsession"

THE UNKNOWN POV : !!!

The candlelight cast eerie shadows across the grand study, illuminating the walls covered in countless sketches—each one depicting her.

Some were tattered from being touched too much, traced over again and again with obsessive reverence. Others were new, freshly drawn with feverish hands that couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop.

A single figure sat hunched over the massive mahogany desk, his breath shallow, his fingers darkened with smudges of graphite.

The latest sketch was nearly finished—her delicate features, her soft lips, the slight furrow of her brows when she was deep in thought.

Perfect.

His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed over the paper, smudging the charcoal along the edge of her jaw.

"Mine," he whispered, voice barely audible, yet filled with something dangerous, something twisted.

The thought of anyone else looking at her, speaking to her, touching her, sent a sharp, nauseating rage coursing through his veins.

She was too careless. Too trusting.

She laughed with people who didn’t deserve to hear her voice, let them stand too close, let them see glimpses of her that only he should see.

His grip on the pencil tightened until it snapped in half.

A slow, breathless chuckle escaped his lips.

Poor, clueless thing.

Did she even know how long he had watched her?

How many nights he had spent outside her window, memorizing the way she moved, the way she slept, the rhythm of her breathing?

Did she ever feel it—that strange prickling at the back of her neck when he was near?

The thought sent a deep, shuddering pleasure through him.

His fingers curled, nails digging into the sketchbook as his darkened eyes traced the curve of her lips, the arch of her throat.

She would understand soon.

Understand that her life—her choices—were never really hers.

He had been patient. So unbearably patient.

But patience had limits.

And he was so tired of waiting.

His voice was nothing but a whisper, sick with devotion, with hunger.

“You’ll see, my love.”

A slow grin stretched across his lips, his head tilting as he stared down at her face on the page, his breath coming out ragged.

“You’ll see that you were never meant to belong to anyone else.”

His fingers pressed against the page, his thumb brushing over the lips he had drawn.

“And when you finally realize it…”

He let out a shuddering sigh, his eyes dark, wild.

“…you’ll never leave again.”

The dim glow of the chandelier cast eerie shadows across the grand, suffocatingly empty study. The room was filled with her—only her.

Sketches of her face, her eyes, the way her lips curled when she smiled. Dozens, hundreds of drawings cluttered his desk, pinned to the walls, scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

And in the center of it all, he sat.

His fingers trembled as he dragged the charcoal across the paper, each stroke delicate, obsessive, reverent. The sketch in front of him was her—his Aaradhya.

Every detail was perfect, just as he had memorized. The softness of her gaze, the way her hair framed her face.

But no matter how many times he drew her, it wasn’t enough. The paper was too cold. Too lifeless.

His grip tightened.

His Aaradhya wasn’t meant for this lifeless world of ink and paper. She was meant to be his. Wrapped in his arms. Breathing only his air. Looking at only him.

But instead, she walked freely, laughed with people who didn’t deserve her, existed beyond his reach.

His pulse pounded against his skull. A sharp, dizzying ache of possessiveness crashed into him like a tidal wave, and his breaths grew ragged.

She was being reckless. She was hurting him.

Did she even realize what she was doing to him?

A hollow chuckle escaped his lips as his gaze flickered to the small blade resting beside his sketchbook.

If she wouldn’t see his pain—if she wouldn’t understand—then he would carve his devotion into his own skin, a silent promise, a vow written in crimson.

With slow, deliberate movements, he picked up the blade, his fingers steady despite the storm raging inside him.

His other hand pushed up his sleeve, revealing the pale stretch of his forearm, already littered with faint, healing cuts.

Marks of love. Marks of her.

A sharp inhale. A quiet exhale. And then—

A thin line of red bloomed as the blade kissed his skin, dragging slowly, methodically.

A quiet gasp left his lips, but the pain was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.

His lips curled into a soft, twisted smile.

“This,” he murmured, watching the crimson bead along the cut, “this is what you do to me, sweetheart.”

Another shallow cut. A little deeper this time.

His breath trembled, but his voice remained steady.

“Every time you talk to someone else, every time you ignore me…” He let out a dark chuckle, tilting his head. “Do you even know how much it hurts?”

His fingers smeared the blood lightly, tracing his own wound as if painting a masterpiece.

“But it’s okay.” His eyes darkened, gaze flickering back to the sketch. “Because soon, you’ll understand. I’ll make you understand.”

A shuddering exhale left his lips as he pressed his forehead against the drawing, his fingers curling around the paper with near-religious devotion.

“I won’t let you run,” he whispered, voice thick with obsession. “I won’t let you forget me.”

His grip on the blade tightened.

“And when the time comes, my love…” His lips brushed against the paper, mimicking a kiss.

“You’ll never escape me.”

His breathing became more erratic as his thoughts twisted deeper into obsession. The sting of the blade felt like nothing now.

It was merely a distraction, a way to keep the madness at bay. His body craved more, needed more to prove to himself that he could feel something. Anything.

His fingers trembled as they slid down his arm, smearing the blood over his skin. He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping the drawing until it tore.

A jagged rip along the corner. His heart skipped a beat, his mind snapping back to reality for a split second. But only for a moment.

The paper, the drawings—they were just things. She was the only one that mattered. And this—this—was his way of keeping her, of making her belong to him.

His eyes flickered back to the sketches surrounding him, the dozens of images of her face. How he had studied her—how he had memorized every inch of her. And yet, it still wasn’t enough.

He could still feel her slipping away, out of his reach, like sand through his fingers. The thought made his chest tighten painfully, as if his heart itself was being pulled from his body.

He moved another sheet, revealing the next drawing beneath it. The image of her laughing, carefree, surrounded by other people.

They didn’t deserve her.

His fingers dug into the paper, crumpling it violently, the sound of tearing paper like a scream in the silence.

His bloodied hand traced the edges of the crumpled drawing, as if trying to erase those moments of her with anyone but him.

“No one else can have you,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “You’re mine. Only mine.”

He could already hear her laugh, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke. It was like a sweet melody, but it was fading. Fading further from his grasp.

But not for long.

Not when he was done.

His gaze shot back to the knife, its cold, unforgiving steel glinting in the soft light. He picked it up again, eyes locked onto the reflection of his bloodied hand in its surface.

He brought the blade closer to his skin, his thumb pressing against the wound, as the blood pooled along the surface. The sting was sharper now, a welcomed reminder of his devotion.

"I’ll mark you," he whispered, his voice dripping with twisted affection. "I’ll leave my mark on you, forever."

He sliced another thin line, deeper this time, biting back a groan as the pain surged through him. His blood was nothing. It was her absence that truly hurt.

His thoughts twisted as he stared at his arm, the blood flowing in thick rivulets down his forearm, the pattern forming in his mind.

He was creating something—creating a piece of himself, a piece of his madness, a piece of the love he felt for her.

"Do you understand now?" he murmured, his eyes glistening with insanity. "Do you understand what you do to me, Aaradhya?"

His mind spiraled as he gazed at the blood, his obsession growing, thickening in his chest, in his veins.

He couldn’t stop now.

He wouldn’t stop.

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