The scent of jasmine and sandalwood clung to Khyaati’s skin, a delicate counterpoint to the heavy, musky aroma of Rudra Singh Rathore. He stood before her, a silhouette framed by the arched doorway, the setting sun painting his formidable form in hues of burnt orange and deep violet. His eyes, dark as obsidian, fixed on her, a silent command in their depths. The air thickened, charged with an unspoken promise, a tension that hummed between them like a taut wire.
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