The water in the pool was no longer white; it was a murky, thickened mixture of milk, rose petals, and the sweat dripping from Riya’s trembling body. The Dewan-ji was now kneeling in the water, his eyes fixed on the gap between Riya’s legs, which were visible through the soaking, transparent muslin.

​"Bahu, the front is clean, but the Zamindar’s mark must be everywhere," the Sasur Pratap Singh barked from the side, his voice thick with lust. "Squat down. Show Dewan-ji the entrance to your palace."