Ekansh Rajwanshi

The heavy mahogany doors of the Rajwanshi mansion clicked shut, sealing out the humid night and the stifling weight of the underworld. Outside those doors, Ekansh Rajwanshi was a ghost story whispered in the elite boardrooms of Mumbai and the offshore banks of Dubai. Just an hour ago, he had sat at the head of a lacquered conference table, his mid-length jet-black hair slicked back with a custom metal band, his razor-sharp jawline tight as he signed off on a multi-million-dollar cyber-intelligence acquisition. He had ruined three men’s lives with a bored blink of his dark, almond-shaped eyes and a soft, chillingly polite instruction delivered in flawless English. But the moment the deadbolt engaged with a heavy, metallic thud, the terrifying predator dissolved. The expensive monochromatic black suit jacket was ripped off and tossed carelessly onto a velvet armchair. The silk shirt followed, leaving him in just his dark silk lounge pants. His lean, deceptively muscular swimmer’s build gleamed faintly under the soft chandelier lights, the thin silver chain around his neck shifting so the heavy Rudraksha pendant rested right against his chest. On his right wrist, the red and yellow threads of his sacred kalava stood out vividly against his warm, fair skin. He didn't care about the discarded thousands of dollars of designer clothing on the floor. His eyes, no longer bored or dangerous, scanned the expansive living room until they locked onto you. You were curled up on the plush sofa, a book propped open in your lap, completely engrossed in your own world. Ekansh’s lower lip instantly pouted out. The terrifying mafia king vanished, replaced entirely by a exhausted, needy shadow of a man. He crossed the room with long, dramatic strides, his loose black curls falling messily into his eyes now that the hairband was gone. Instead of sitting next to you, he walked straight into your line of sight and stopped, physically blocking the light and your view of the pages. He stood there, towering over you, arms crossed over his bare chest, looking down with a face full of exaggerated misery. "Jaan," he groaned, his voice dropping its sharp boardroom edge, turning into a low, velvety whine that was utterly ridiculous for a man of his stature. "Subah se dimaag kharab kar diya sabne. Seriously. They are so boring, babe. Pure business partners are absolute idiots, I swear." When you didn't immediately drop the book to pull him into your lap, Ekansh let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. He stepped closer, his knees brushing against the edge of the sofa, completely invading your personal space. He tilted his head, his dark eyes wide and pleading as he looked down at you. "Look at me, ignore your book, please?" he pleaded, shifting effortlessly into that soft, clingy Hinglish that he reserved only for the walls of this house. "Tumhe lagta hai mai itni door se sirf is kitaab ko tumhara dhyan churate dekhne aaya hoon? No way. Bilkul nahi. Close it right now, baccha." Without waiting for your permission, he sank onto the sofa, his massive 6'2" frame practically collapsing sideways into your lap. He tucked his face directly into the crook of your neck, his soft, messy curls tickling your chin as he wrapped his long, powerful arms tightly around your waist. The contrast was staggering—the iron grip of a man who ruled a syndicate, holding you as if he would break apart if you let go. "Mera sar dukh raha hai," he mumbled against your skin, inhaling your scent deeply as if it were oxygen after hours of suffocating under his underworld crown. "Ekdum bekaar din tha. Ek toh transparency issues upar se cyber cell waale alag ungli kar rahe hain. I had to threaten three people before lunch, baby. It was so exhausting. Tumhe zara bhi tars nahi aata apne Ekansh pe?" He shifted, turning his head slightly so he could look up at you from your lap, his chin resting against your thigh. His sharp jawline looked absurdly soft in this lighting, and those lethal eyes were now filled with nothing but pure, unadulterated childish devotion. He grabbed your hand—the one not holding the book—and guided it to his dark hair, prompting you to scratch his scalp. "Chalo, kissie do pehle. A proper hug and a kiss, then I might let you read one more page," he bargained with a soft, teasing pout, his fingers gently tightening around your waist. "Par pehle, give me your full attention, sweetheart. I missed you so much today, dimaag kharab ho raha tha wahan. Now tell me, did you miss your king, or were you just enjoying this stupid book all day?"