Romance Family of Shadows 2

[sexonmind]

Chapter -2: Old Ties, New Lines

Few days later at the Office of the Additional Municipal Commissioner: 

Additional Municipal Commissioner, Raja Gopala Chari looked up from his desk and broke into a smile.

“Congratulations, Sunandha,” he said, standing up. “Deputy Municipal Commissioner. Well deserved.”

She accepted the handshake briefly. “Thank you.”

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair. “You’ve come with your joining report?”

She placed the file on his desk and sat, her posture composed.

Raja Gopal glanced at the cover, then looked back at her instead. “Narendra sir would have been proud of you,” he said simply.

Sunandha held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nodded.

“I miss him,” Raja Gopal went on, unguarded now. “I learned a lot working under him. The way he handled pressure, the way he treated people…” He smiled to himself. “Those lessons stay.”

“They do,” Sunandha said quietly.

Then a moment of silence followed

Sunandha broke the silence first. “How is everyone at home?” she asked.

His face softened immediately. “Good. Busy, but good.” He smiled, the kind that came from pride rather than politeness. “My eldest has become a doctor. Finished her internship recently. We’re getting her married soon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sunandha said. “You must be happy.”

“I am,” he replied. 

Then, after a pause, “And your children?” he asked

Sunandha glanced at her watch, deliberate, not hurried. “I’m getting late,” she said. “It’s my first day at the new office.”

Raja Gopal didn’t press. He picked up the file at last and signed it.

“Of course,” he said. “All the best.”

She stood, collected her bag, and turned toward the door.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you again.”

As she left, the congratulations lingered behind her—acknowledged, not absorbed.

Some things were easier to carry forward than to look back on.

Sunandha walked past the lift and turned toward the staircase instead. Her office was only a floor below. The sound of her footsteps echoed briefly as she descended, steady and unhurried. When she stepped into the corridor, the movement ahead of her slowed, then stopped altogether. Staff members had gathered—some stepping forward, others hanging back. A few faces were familiar, others new. Garlands rested on shoulders, bouquets were clutched uncertainly, congratulations already forming on lips. She took them in with a single glance. She recognized Srinu first, standing slightly to the side, expression attentive. Yedukondalu stood a little behind him, hands folded, eyes lowered. Sai was there too, posture straight, watching her carefully. All three had been working there for nearly a year now.

A woman from the front stepped forward, lifting a garland.

Sunandha raised her hand.

“No formalities,” she said.

The woman froze, then lowered it immediately.

Sunandha looked around the corridor. “Everyone, come to my cabin.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then chairs scbangd softly, files were gathered, and the group began to follow her.

She turned and walked ahead, not waiting to see if they came.

They did.

Inside the cabin, the room filled quickly.

People stood close to the walls, files pressed to their chests. One by one, they began introducing themselves—names, sections, years of service. Sunandha listened without interruption, her expression unreadable, her gaze steady.

When the last voice trailed off, she did not sit down.

She looked around the room once, slowly.

“I’m aware of how this office has been functioning,” she said.

The sentence landed heavily. No accusation, no explanation.

“From this moment,” she continued, “there will be no scope for corruption. None.” Her voice was even, almost conversational. “If something cannot be justified on paper, it will not move.”

No one shifted. No one spoke.

“All pending files,” she said, “will be brought to my desk. Section-wise. Immediately. I want to know exactly where this office stands.”

She paused, letting the instruction settle.

“If you cooperate with me,” Sunandha added, “your life here will be easy.”

The word easy did not sound comforting.

“That’s all.”

She took her seat and opened the file in front of her.

The meeting was over.

People filed out quietly, introductions already forgotten, replaced by urgency. Outside, the corridor came alive again—footsteps quickening, voices lowered, systems adjusting themselves around a new center of gravity.

Inside the cabin, Sunandha began reading.

Work had started.

When the last of them left the chamber, Sai remained.

He stood there for a moment, unsure whether to speak or leave. Sunandha continued reading the file in front of her, as if unaware of him. Then she looked up and gave a small nod—permission, not invitation.

“Not everyone here is corrupt,” Sai said quietly. It was not defensive, just factual. He was including himself without saying so.

Sunandha studied him for a second. Then she said, “Close the door.”

Sai turned, shut it gently, and came back to stand where he was.

Her tone changed when she spoke again. “How are you doing, Sai?”

This time, there was warmth in her voice. A softness that hadn’t been there outside.

He seemed momentarily taken aback. “I’m good, madam.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And your family?”

“They’re doing well,” he said. “My parents are fine. My sister…” He paused, a hint of a smile appearing. “She had a baby girl. Three months ago.”

Sunandha looked up fully now. “Already?”

“Yes,” Sai said. “I invited you to the baby shower. You didn’t come.”

She said nothing.

Sai went on, not accusing, just observing. “Actually, you don’t come to any social events anymore.”

The words hung in the room, gentle but unmistakable.

Sunandha lowered her gaze back to the file, the faint smile still lingering—unanswered, unfinished.

Sai hesitated, then spoke, his voice careful.

“Madam… I know you were hurt about Babu.” He paused. “And maybe you’re still hurting. But you can’t ignore everyone else.”

Sunandha did not respond.

She only smiled—a small, contained smile that neither agreed nor denied anything. Then she set the file aside and looked at him with deliberate ease.

“What is this with you and Gita?” she asked. “You’ve been engaged for almost four years now. When are you planning to tie the knot?”

Sai exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“She just finished her post-graduation,” he said. “Got a job in another city.”

Sunandha nodded, listening.

“We talk every day,” he continued. “Mostly over the phone. Sometimes about nothing.” A faint smile crossed his face. “When she comes home—for vacations, festivals—we spend time together. Proper time.”

There was no hurry in the way he said it. No defensiveness either.

Sunandha watched him quietly, as if noting something that had not been said aloud but was clear all the same.

Sai fell silent then, waiting.

“Gita is a good girl,” Sunandha said. “You have to take care of her.”

“I will,” Sai replied without hesitation. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’m a good person too.”

She smiled at that. “I know.”
A pause.
“That’s why I matched you two. And that’s why I’m speaking to you like this.”

Sai nodded, a little relieved. “Thank you for your confidence in me.” He hesitated, then said, “I also know you’re very honest in your work, madam. But calling the entire office corrupt…” He searched for the right word. “That felt a bit harsh.”

The change in Sunandha was immediate.

The smile faded—not abruptly, but completely. She straightened slightly in her chair, her voice settling into something firmer, sharper.

“You are not the only Assistant Municipal Commissioner in this wing,” she said. “And this is not about personal feelings.”

Sai stood still.

“Things need to change here,” Sunandha continued. “And I intend to change them.” Her gaze held him now, steady and unflinching. “I don’t care what people think of me—especially those who have something to hide.”

The room fell quiet again.

Sunandha reached for the file she had set aside earlier and opened it, the conversation closed as decisively as it had begun.

“You may go,” she said.

Sai nodded once and turned toward the door, the warmth of the earlier moments giving way to a renewed understanding of who she was—and what she had come here to do.

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Bhaskar stood at the balcony, his hands resting on the railing, eyes fixed on the road below.

Traffic moved in uneven bursts—buses slowing, bikes cutting through, an autorickshaw pulling away from the curb. Bhaskar watched as his daughter climbed into it, adjusting the strap of her bag before settling inside. The vehicle lurched forward and merged into the stream, carrying her with it.

He kept his eyes on the road a moment longer, until the autorickshaw disappeared into the traffic.

Then Vani came up behind him. “What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t turn immediately. “I was thinking… maybe it’s time I start working again. Or do something on my own.”

Vani leaned against the doorframe, listening.

“Aruna vadina has been taking care of everything for years now,” Bhaskar continued. “Our expenses, the house, my medical bills.” He paused. “MBBS is expensive. Fees, books, coaching… it doesn’t end. It wouldn’t be right to keep asking her for more.”

Vani was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You’re right.” After a beat, she added, softer, “But your health is more important to me.”

He turned to look at her. “I know.”

“We still have some money left,” Vani said. “From my share of my father’s property. Even after your surgery, there’s something.”

Bhaskar shook his head gently. “My health has improved a lot. I can manage.” He looked back at the road. “And we shouldn’t just keep spending what we got. What will we leave for the kids?”

Vani’s eyes followed his.

“If I can’t find a job,” he went on, “then maybe we can think about investing it. Some small business. At least it will grow instead of disappearing.”

Vani didn’t smile. She didn’t object either.

After a moment, she nodded. “We can think about it.”

Below them, another autorickshaw slowed near the gate, someone else stepping into another day shaped by decisions like theirs.

They stood there together, neither relieved nor anxious—just aware that depending forever was no longer an option.

That evening, Vani found Aruna in the living room, sorting through a stack of papers.

“Bhaskar was talking today,” Vani said, sitting down across from her. “He wants to start working again.”

Aruna looked up. “Already?”

“He says his health has improved,” Vani replied. “And that it’s not right to keep depending on you.”

Aruna leaned back slightly, considering it.

After a moment, she said, “Why don’t you talk to Sundhar Rao mama?”

Vani frowned. “Mama?”

“He’s in the same line of work Bhaskar was in before,” Aruna said. “He’ll know what’s possible and what’s not.”

Vani nodded slowly.

“And his daughter is doing MBBS, isn’t she?” Aruna added. “She might be able to guide Adithi. About colleges, books, what to expect.”

Vani looked relieved. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Talk to him,” Aruna said, already returning to her papers. “See what he says.”

The conversation ended there.

Some decisions, Aruna knew, didn’t need encouragement—just the right direction.

That night, after the house slipped into its familiar stillness, Aruna lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep came and went without asking permission.Her thoughts moved backward. Twenty-eight years ago. She was seventeen. They had come to her grandfather’s house to get away.

By then, Aruna already knew about her father’s affair. The knowledge had settled into her like a dull ache—no longer sharp enough to cry over, but heavy enough to carry everywhere. Nagamani had brought her there without much explanation, as if distance itself might soften what words could not.

The house was old, spacious in the way village houses were, with a wide verandah and rooms that held echoes longer than voices. Relatives moved in and out, offering food, asking nothing directly.

Sundhar Rao was there.

He was twenty then. Always around. Always finding reasons to be nearby.

Aruna remembered sitting in the courtyard that evening, watching the light fade, her thoughts fixed on nothing in particular. Sundhar Rao had taken the seat across from her, close enough to be noticed.

“You’ll be fine here,” he said.

She nodded, without looking at him.

He watched her then—not hurriedly, not boldly—but with the attention of someone too young to hide interest behind courtesy. His eyes lingered on her face, her hands, the way she sat slightly turned inward, as if protecting something fragile.

“You don’t have to worry anymore,” he added.

Aruna shifted, uneasy. She sensed it even then—the difference between concern and curiosity, between comfort and attention that asked for something in return.

He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I’m here, Aruna.”

She stopped instead of walking away.

“I just want to forget everything,” Aruna said, her voice low. “At least for tonight. I just want to sleep.”

Sundhar Rao looked at her, surprised by the honesty more than the words. They had grown up together—shared summers, shared silences. This wasn’t new territory between them.

“When my head feels heavy,” he said after a moment, “I usually have a beer.”

She smiled faintly. “You and your solutions.”

“It works,” he said, almost defensively.

She considered it for a second longer than she intended to. The idea of something dulling the edges, even briefly, was tempting.

“Alright,” she said finally. “One.”

He hesitated this time.

“Not here,” he said quickly. “It’s not safe.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“This is a village,” he continued. “People talk. Your family is here. If anyone sees you drinking, it won’t be taken lightly.” He shook his head. “They won’t see it the way we do.”

Aruna nodded slowly. She understood that part without explanation.

“Let’s not do anything that becomes another problem,” he added.

They sat there for a moment longer, the offer still hanging between them—accepted, but postponed.

Some nights, even comfort needed to be careful.

He told her to come to their farm later that night.

“After everyone sleeps,” he said. “We’ll go to the fields.”

She hesitated, only for a moment, then nodded.

That night the house had been quieter than usual that evening, the kind of quiet that followed rituals done out of habit rather than celebration. When the lights went out one by one, Aruna wrapped a shawl around herself and slipped out.

Sundhar Rao was already waiting.

They walked together without speaking, the path familiar, their steps unhurried. At the field, they climbed onto a haystack that rose gently above the ground, the smell of dry grass sharp and comforting.

The moon was full.

A cool breeze moved through the crops, brushing past them like something alive.

He handed her the bottle. “Slowly,” he said.

She took a small sip, then another. It burned, then softened. Her head felt lighter than she expected, her thoughts less orderly. She laughed once, surprised at herself.

He watched her closely, smiling—not triumphantly, but with a kind of wonder.

They sat close. Closer than before. When she leaned back against the hay, he turned toward her, hesitating just long enough for her to notice.

Their lips met—tentative at first, uncertain, then lingering. The world seemed to narrow to that single moment, to the warmth of closeness and the steady rhythm of breath.

The boy in her biology class had pressed her against the locker bank after college, his palms sweaty, his mouth tasting of spearmint gum and nervousness. It lasted three seconds—maybe four—before Aruna shoved him away with a laugh that was half surprise, half disgust. "What was *that*?" she'd asked, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. He stammered something about practice. She told him to practice on his pillow instead.

That was two years ago. She hadn't kissed anyone since. Not because she was waiting, not because she cared about virtue or tradition—those were her mother's words, heavy with expectation—but because no one had made her want to. Until tonight.

Sundhar Rao smelled like woodsmoke and the faintest hint of stolen whisky. His fingers, rough from working his father's fields, brushed against hers as he passed her the bottle. "Slowly," he warned, his voice low. She didn't need the warning. She knew how to drink. Knew how to hold her liquor too, though the warmth pooling in her stomach made her reckless in a way that felt new.

When she leaned back, the hay prickled through her thin shawl. He turned toward her, his knee bumping against hers. She saw the question in his eyes before he asked it. A beat passed. Then another. She didn't hesitate.

The kiss deepened—slow, deliberate—as if they had all the time in the world. His hand moved, hesitating again before settling over her left breast, pressing through the fabric of her Kameez. His palm was rough, warm. She gasped against his mouth, her breath hitching, and his fingers tightened instinctively. Then—too soon—he pulled back, searching her face.

Aruna's lips were parted, trembling slightly. Her dark eyes, wide and unguarded, held something he hadn't seen before—not just desire, but a raw hunger that matched his own. The moonlight caught the flush spreading across her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The sight of her like that, undone and wanting, sent a sharp jolt of heat straight through him. He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how tight his own clothes had become.

Neither spoke. The silence between them thrummed, thick with unspoken questions. She glanced down once, briefly, then back up—a flicker of boldness in her gaze. His breath caught. The wind shifted, rustling through the haystack, carrying the scent of earth and distant rain. Somewhere, far off, a dog barked. Neither noticed.

Then she reached for his hand—slow, deliberate—and guided it back to where it had been. His exhale shuddered out of him. This time, he didn't pull away.

The kameez slipped upward with little resistance, the fabric whispering over her skin as she arched to help him. She even pulled down her bra. Cool night air rushed across newly exposed flesh, raising goosebumps in its wake. Her breasts—full, heavy—caught the moonlight like carved alabaster, the dusky nipples already pebbled tight. Sundhar's breath hitched audibly.

His thumbs brushed over those taut peaks once, twice, circling with a reverence that made her stomach clench. Then, as if unable to resist, his palms closed over her completely. The groan that escaped him was raw, unfiltered. She wasn't soft—she was *warm*, impossibly so, the weight of her perfect in his calloused hands. When he squeezed experimentally, her head fell back with a gasp, her fingers knotting in his shirt.

"Harder," she breathed, and the word unraveled him. His grip tightened, kneading with a desperation that bordered on rough. The way her body responded—arching into every touch, her breath coming faster—sent another jolt of heat straight to his groin. He ducked his head, mouth closing over one peaked nipple, and her answering moan was muffled only by the vast, open sky above them.

Her hands found his hair, tugging as his tongue flicked over her. Every noise she made—every shudder, every bitten-off whimper—was a revelation. He'd imagined this before, in stolen moments, but the reality was better. So much better. The taste of her skin, the way her hips rocked up against his thigh, the little sounds she couldn't seem to stop—all of it threatened to undo him completely.

When she suddenly pulled him up by his collar, her eyes were wild. "Don't stop," she demanded, her voice thick. Then her mouth crashed into his again, hungry and insistent.

The haystack creaked beneath them. Neither noticed.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt—too slow, too clumsy—until she batted his hands away with a noise of impatience. "Let me," she muttered, her own fingers surprisingly steady despite the beer humming in her veins. The fabric parted beneath her touch, revealing sun-darkened skin stretched taut over lean muscle. A thin scar ran diagonally across his ribs—some childhood mishap, never explained—and she traced it lightly before pushing the shirt off his shoulders. It caught briefly on his wrists before falling into the hay.

Her bra followed—not with ceremony, but with a single, decisive flick of the clasp. The straps slid down her arms, the lace pooling between them like a forgotten secret. For a heartbeat, they simply stared. Then, with a shared inhale, they pressed together—skin to skin, heat to heat—and Sundhar's groan vibrated against her collarbone. Her breasts flattened against his chest, the friction exquisite, the warmth between their bodies dizzying. She hooked one leg over his hip, pulling him closer still, and he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in.

Somewhere beyond the haystack, the world kept turning. Crickets chirped. A lone bullock cart creaked down a distant path. None of it mattered. Here, in this stolen pocket of night, there was only this: the rasp of calloused palms sliding up her bare back, the hitch in his breath when she nipped at his earlobe, the delicious drag of his torso against hers as they shifted together.

His hands found her waist, then her hips, gripping with a possessiveness that sent a fresh wave of heat through her. When he rolled them suddenly—her back against the hay, his body caging hers—she didn't protest. The dry stalks prickled, but the discomfort was distant, secondary to the weight of him between her thighs, to the way his hips settled against hers with unmistakable intent. She arched up instinctively, and the sound he made—low, ragged—was the best thing she'd ever heard.

Her fingers skimmed down his stomach, following the trail of coarse hair leading south. He tensed beneath her touch, his breath stuttering. "Aruna—" he warned, or maybe begged. She didn't let him finish.

The strings of her salwar loosened with a soft tug, the fabric pooling around her hips before Sundhar yanked it down impatiently. Cool air ghosted over her thick and toned thigh and she watched his gaze darken at the sight of purple cotton stretched taut between them. The panties were soft and lacy made of silk. Then his thumbs hooked into the waistband, dragging them down in one rough motion, and the night air hit her fully.

A thatch of dark curls greeted him, glistening faintly in the moonlight. Sundhar exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing against her inner thighs. The callouses rasped against softer skin as he spread her wider, his gaze ravenous. Aruna bit her lip, suddenly self-conscious—then gasped as he ducked his head without warning, his mouth hot against her navel before descending lower. His tongue dragged a wet stripe upward, slow and deliberate, and her hips jerked off the haystack.

"*Wait—*" she choked out, fingers scrabbling at his hair. But when he glanced up, pupils blown black with want, the protest died in her throat. His breath fogged against her damp skin as he murmured something crude in Telugu—a filthy, half-formed phrase about tasting her—and her entire body clenched in response. The first lick stole her breath. The second had her arching off the hay with a cry that startled a nightjar into flight.

She barely registered the lungi loosening around his hips—only the sudden press of him cock against her thigh, thick and insistent. When her fingers found him, he swore violently, his hips bucking into her grip. The skin was silken over steel, hotter than she'd imagined, the vein along the underside pulsing against her palm. A bead of moisture smeared across her thumb when she stroked upward, and the sound he made—guttural, almost pained—sent liquid heat pooling between her own legs.

"Enough," she panted, tugging him up by the shoulders. Their mouths crashed together, tasting of shared beer and salt. His knee nudged her thighs wider as he settled over her, the blunt head of him catching at her entrance. For a suspended moment, they both froze—breaths mingling, hearts hammering.

Her nod was slight, almost imperceptible, but he caught it. The first push stole her breath; the stretch burned, unfamiliar and sharp. A sound tore from her throat—half gasp, half whimper—her nails scoring his back. Sundhar stilled instantly, his forehead pressed to hers, his whole body trembling with restraint. "Tell me," he gritted out, voice ragged. 

She exhaled, unclenched, rolled her hips experimentally. The pain ebbed, replaced by a fullness that made her shudder. "Move," she ordered against his lips.

He obeyed. The drag was slow at first, deliberate, each thrust measured to let her adjust. Hay prickled her shoulders as her legs locked around his hips, pulling him deeper. The stretch became something else—a throbbing pressure that coiled tight in her belly with every snap of his hips. Her moan tangled with his groan when he bottomed out, their bodies flush. 

"Fuck," he hissed, hips stuttering. Her walls fluttered around him, hot and impossibly tight. His rhythm faltered—too fast, too rough—but she arched into it, meeting him thrust for thrust. The haystack creaked beneath them, dry stalks snapping under their weight. 

Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him harder. The slap of skin grew louder, wetter. Sundhar's mouth found her throat, teeth scbanging as he muttered filthy praises against her damp skin—how good she felt, how perfect, how he'd dreamed of this. His hand slid between them, thumb circling her clit in rough, erratic strokes. 

The orgasm hit like a lightning strike—her back bowing off the hay, a cry ripped from her lungs. He followed moments later, his groan muffled against her shoulder as he spilled deep inside her, hips jerking erratically. 

They lay tangled in the aftermath, breaths ragged, sweat cooling on overheated skin. The moon hung low now, painting them in silver. 

What followed was quiet, unspoken, carried by moonlight and the shelter of the field. The night folded around them, offering privacy without judgment.

Sundhar Rao looked up at the sky, his chest full in a way it had never been before. This was not just closeness to him. This was confirmation. Acceptance.

In his mind, everything aligned.

She had come to him.
She had trusted him.
She had given him what she had never given anyone else.

That could only mean one thing.

As the breeze moved gently across the field, Sundhar Rao smiled to himself, already imagining a future that, to him, now felt inevitable—marriage, belonging, a life finally corrected.

He did not notice how quiet Aruna had become.

Some moments change two people in very different ways.

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End of part - 1 of chapter 2