Romance Family of Shadows 2

[sexonmind]

Hey everyone!  


This is a continuation of my previous story, *Family of Shadows*. I know it’s been quite a while since the first part, so thank you all for your patience and the amazing support you gave me back then — it really meant a lot!  

I’ve finally started working on the second part, and I’ve tried my best to keep the characters, plots, and subplots consistent with the original. It’s been a long gap, so please forgive me if there are any small continuity slips.  

Hope you enjoy reading this new chapter of *Family of Shadows 2*!  
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Chapter - 1: Routine Shadows 

6:00 A.M.

Sunandha woke up before the alarm. She always did.

At exactly six, her eyes opened—not startled, not heavy with sleep, but alert, as if her body had been waiting for permission. The ceiling fan turned slowly above her, cutting the silence into measured intervals. For a few seconds, she lay still, staring at the faint crack on the ceiling that ran like an old scar from one corner to the other.

The other side of the bed was untouched. Neat. Cold.

She got up.

The house received her without resistance. No creaking floors, no distant coughs, no sleepy voices asking for tea. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the muted echo of her footsteps as she walked into the kitchen.

Sunandha poured herself a glass of milk.

She did not heat it. She never did.

The milk was plain, unflavoured, efficient—something to be consumed, not enjoyed. She drank it standing by the counter, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The calendar on the wall still showed last month. She knew this. She chose not to change it.

When the glass was empty, she washed it immediately, wiped it dry, and placed it upside down in its exact spot.

Everything in the house had a spot.

She moved to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and selected her gym clothes—dark, unassuming, practical. There was a time when colours had mattered to her. There was also a time when someone had noticed.

She tied her hair back tightly, the way she had learned to do years ago when time had become something to control rather than feel. In the mirror, her face looked composed. Strong. Almost severe. The lines near her eyes were faint but honest, earned not by laughter but by restraint.

She did not look away.

At the gym, Sunandha arrived before most of the regulars. The trainer nodded at her with familiarity, the kind reserved for people who never skipped a day, never asked for excuses.

Her workout was punishing.

Weights heavier than what women her age usually attempted. Repetitions pushed beyond comfort. Sweat ran down her temples, soaked into her clothes, blurred her vision—but she welcomed it. Pain had clarity. It demanded attention. It left no space for memory.

Around her, younger bodies moved, laughed, complained.

Sunandha did not.

Her breathing remained steady, controlled, deliberate. Each movement was precise, as if she were proving something—to herself, to time, to the invisible audience of people who were no longer there.

When her muscles finally burned and her lungs protested, she did not stop immediately. She waited a few seconds longer. Always a few seconds longer.

Only then did she step away, wipe her face, and look at her reflection in the mirrored wall.

She was extremely fit for her age.

People told her that often.

What they did not see was that strength had become her language—the only one left that did not betray her. The body, unlike people, responded predictably. You gave it discipline, and it gave you results. No manipulation. No abandonment. No silence that needed interpretation.

She was finishing her last set when she heard it.

“Aunty.”

Sunandha did not turn immediately.

The voice came from behind—unhurried, certain of being heard. It carried the rhythm of someone who had timed his breath to effort, someone who understood this place.

She released the bar, wiped her hands on the towel, and then turned.

Jean stood there, leaning slightly against the machine beside him, towel dbangd around his neck, skin still warm from exertion. There was nothing tentative in his presence. He smiled, not as an introduction, but as a continuation.

“You’re late today,” he said.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “By three minutes.”

“Still counts,” he replied. “I was starting to think you’d changed your routine.”

Sunandha reached for her water bottle. “I don’t change routines.”

Jean nodded, as if this confirmed something he already knew.

They moved toward the cooler together, falling into step without adjusting their pace. Around them, the gym had begun to fill—voices overlapping, machines clanking—but their conversation stayed low, economical.

“You increased the weight again,” he observed.

She took a sip of water. “It felt manageable.”

“That’s usually when you overdo it,” he said, not accusing, merely stating a pattern.

She looked at him briefly, a faint curve at the corner of her mouth. “And yet I’m still standing.”

“For now.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t require explanation. Jean checked his phone, frowned lightly, then slipped it back into his pocket.

“Looks like I’m done for the day,” he said. “No evening calls.”

Sunandha nodded, already stretching her shoulders. “That’s rare.”

“Enjoyable, though.”

She hesitated—not long enough to be noticed by anyone else. Then she said, “You can come by later, if you want. Dinner should be ready by eight.”

Jean’s expression didn’t change, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. “Alright.”

“Don’t be late,” she added, already turning away.

“I never am,” he said.

They parted without ceremony—no waves, no goodbyes. Sunandha walked toward the exit, her movements as composed as ever. Outside, the sun had climbed higher, the day asserting itself with its usual insistence.

Nothing about her routine had altered.

Except that the evening, once again, had a shape.

That night the house had settled into its night silence by the time they finished dinner.

The plates were cleared, the table wiped down, the faint smell of cooked food still lingering in the air. Jean remained near the kitchen counter, scrolling absently through his phone, while Sunandha moved with practiced efficiency—stacking dishes, rinsing them, placing them on the rack in neat alignment.

The tap ran softly.

“You know,” Jean said, without looking up, “you still have government-appointed servants. You don’t really need to do all this.”

She smiled, her back to him.

“They’ll come in the morning,” he continued. “They always do.”

Sunandha turned off the tap and wiped her hands on the towel. “I know.”

Then, after a brief pause, she said, “I like keeping everything clean.”

There was no defensiveness in her tone. No explanation either. Just a statement, complete on its own.

Jean watched her for a moment, as if considering saying something more, then thought better of it. He slipped his phone into his pocket and stepped aside as she finished arranging the last dish.

Sunandha switched off the kitchen light and walked down the corridor straight into the attached bathroom of the main bedroom.

Jean followed a few moments later, his footsteps unannounced, unhesitating. He entered the bedroom and sat on the edge of the king-sized bed as if it were a place he had occupied before—not claiming it, not questioning it either. His elbows rested lightly on his knees, his gaze moving around the room, taking in what little had changed.

Inside the bathroom Sunandha peeled her saree. Cool air prickled against her sweat-slicked torso—her nipples hardened instantly, dark peaks against the warm bronze of her skin. She didn’t glance at the mirror; she already knew what it would show: the tight ridges of her abdomen, the deep cut of her obliques, the way her muscles flexed under her skin like live wires.  

Water hissed from the showerhead, steaming up the tiles within seconds. She stepped under the spray without hesitation, tipping her head back as it sluiced down her neck, over the tight cords of her shoulders. Her hands followed the path of the water, fingers dragging down her collarbone, over the swell of her breasts—firm, high, defying gravity as much as they defied expectation. She palmed one, thumb brushing a nipple, and exhaled through her nose. Not now. But the heat between her legs pulsed anyway, a low, persistent throb.  

Soap slid over her ribs, her waist, the hard curve of her hip. She scrubbed methodically, as if polishing armor. The lather clung to the dip of her navel, the sharp V of her pelvis, the trimmed strip of hair below. She rinsed off with the same efficiency she used for everything else—no lingering, no indulgence. But when she twisted to wash her back, her fingers traced the ridges of muscle there, the way they flared into the tight globes of her ass. Water cascaded down the cleft, and for the first time, she paused.  

From the attached bathroom came the muted sound of running water.

When the door opened, steam followed her out.

Sunandha stepped into the room wrapped in a towel, her hair damp, her skin still warm from the bath. She did not pause or look away. Jean lifted his eyes to her and then stayed very still, as though any movement might break something fragile and unspoken.

For a brief second, they simply looked at each other.

There was no hesitation left between them—only timing.

Sunandha crossed the distance in two steps. The towel slipped away almost as an afterthought, forgetting the moment she reached him. She leaned into him with suddenness that surprised even herself, her hands finding his shoulders, her mouth pressing into his with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

Jean caught his breath but did not pull back. His hands came up instinctively, steadying her, anchoring her as the kiss deepened—quiet, intense, stripped of urgency but full of intent.

Nothing was said.

There was no need to explain what had already been understood for a long time.

Outside the room, the house remained silent, its walls holding their peace, as the night closed gently around them.

The air between them crackled with something unspoken long before their lips finally met. Jean's breath hitched as Sunandha closed the distance, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The first touch of her mouth was electric—hot, insistent, her tongue sliding against his with a hunger that made his pulse stutter. Her hands moved lower, slipping beneath his waistband before he could even process the shift, her nails scbanging lightly against his hips as she pulled him closer.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t hesitate. With a sharp tug, she undid his zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Jean barely had time to groan before her fingers wrapped around him, already hard, already aching cock. Her grip was firm, practiced—she knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to twist her wrist just so as she stroked him once, twice, then leaned down without breaking eye contact.

Her tongue flicked over the head first, teasing, tasting the salt of him before she took him deeper. The wet heat of her mouth—Christ. Jean’s fingers tangled in her damp hair, not guiding, just holding on as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked him in slow, deliberate pulls. She hummed around him, the vibration sending a jolt down his spine. Every movement was calculated, relentless: the way her lips stretched tight around his length, the way her teeth grazed just enough to make him shudder. 

He could feel her watching him, dark eyes flickering up to catch every twitch of his jaw, every ragged breath. It was filthy, the way she worked him—like she’d mapped out every sensitive spot and was determined to exploit them all. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple when she suddenly pulled off with a wet pop, her thumb swiping over the slick tip. “Still with me?” she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. 

Her question was rhetorical. She knew. The flush crawling up his chest, the way his hips jerked when she dragged her nails down his thighs—she’d always known exactly what she was doing to him. She took him in again and her pace turned ruthless, her fingers digging into his hips as she swallowed him down to the root. Jean cursed, his grip tightening in her hair as pleasure coiled white-hot in his gut. He didn’t let her finish. Not like this. Not when every nerve in his body screamed for her skin against his. With a growl, he hauled her up by the arms, swallowing her startled gasp with a kiss that tasted of salt and sin. Her lips parted instantly, her body arching into him as he spun them both toward the bed. The backs of her knees hit the edge, and he didn’t give her time to brace—just shoved her down onto the mattress in one fluid motion. His shirt hit the floor before she could blink, followed by the rough yank of his belt, the impatient shove of his pants past his hips.  

Sunandha barely had time to spread her legs before he was on her, his weight pinning her into the sheets, his cock sliding wet and heavy against her thigh. She hooked an ankle around his waist, urging him closer, but he didn’t need direction. Not now. Not when every ragged breath between them was a demand. He lined himself up and pushed in with a single, relentless thrust, her body yielding to him with a sharp, shuddering gasp.  

The stretch burned—perfect, dizzying—her nails raking down his back as he buried himself to the hilt. He didn’t pause, didn’t give her time to adjust. The first pullout was slow, deliberate, just enough to make her whine before he slammed back in, setting a pace that had her heels digging into the mattress. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, the bitten-off moans she couldn’t stifle—it was obscene, how good she felt around him. How right.  

Her thighs trembled as he drove into her, each thrust deeper, harder, until the headboard rattled against the wall. He watched her unravel beneath him—the hitch in her breath, the way her back arched when he angled his hips just so, hitting that spot that made her swear in broken Thai. Her hand fisted in the sheets, the other clutching at his shoulder as pleasure coiled tight, urgent. “Jean—” His name was a plea, a warning, a demand. He growled against her throat, biting down as her walls clenched around him.

Then he shifted, rolling her onto her knees into doggystyle. The sudden change punched a gasp from her lungs as he gripped her hips, hauling her back onto his cock with a snap of his pelvis. The new angle was brutal—deeper, sharper, the slap of their bodies loud in the quiet room. Sunandha braced herself on her elbows, her hair wild around her shoulders, her moans muffled against the mattress. Jean’s fingers dug into her flesh as he fucked her into the sheets, his rhythm relentless, his breath hot against her spine.

She was tight—so fucking tight— perhaps from all the pelvic exercise at the gym and the way she clenched around him when he thumbed her clit nearly undid him. A whine tore from her throat as he circled that swollen bud, his pace never faltering even as her legs shook. “Come for me,” he ground out, his voice rough with need. She did, with a cry he felt more than heard, her body convulsing around him, wet and desperate.Jean didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when she was still quivering from her climax, not when the heat of her was pulling him deeper. He gripped her hips tighter, driving into her with a growl that bordered on feral, the slap of skin echoing off the walls. Sunandha’s breath hitched, her fingers twisting into the sheets as he fucked her through the aftershocks, her moans pitched higher, broken. “J-Jean—!”

Then his hands were on her shoulders, shoving her flat against the mattress with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. She didn’t resist, her body pliant under his, her chest pressed to the sheets as he loomed over her, his cock still buried deep. “Open,” he ordered, voice dark, fingers digging into the swell of her ass. A shudder ran through her, but she obeyed, spreading herself without hesitation, her thighs trembling as she presented herself to him fully. 

The first press of his cock against her asshole was electric—unforgiving. She gasped, her fingers clawing at the sheets as he pushed in slow, relentless, the stretch burning in the best way. He didn’t stop until he was seated fully, her body gripping him like a vise, her choked moan muffled against the mattress. “Fuck,” he hissed, his hips jerking forward instinctively, driving himself deeper. 

Sunandha arched beneath him, her back a taut curve as he withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm that had her gasping with every thrust. The wet slap of skin, the way her body yielded to him—god, it was obscene. He watched, rapt, as her ass jolted with each snap of his hips, her hands fisting the sheets, her cries growing louder, more ragged. “Harder—” she managed, the word half-muffled, but he heard it. 

Jean obeyed, his grip bruising as he fucked her ass in deep, piston-like strokes, his own breath coming in sharp bursts. The headboard rattled against the wall, the sheets twisted beneath them, damp with sweat. She was so fucking tight, so responsive—every noise she made, every twitch of her body, only drove him closer to the edge. 

And finally an orgasm ripped through him with a groan, his release hitting him like a fucking freight train. He collapsed over her, his chest heaving, his fingers still tangled in her hair, both of them wrecked, spent—and utterly, shamelessly satisfied.