“Kisne kiya yeh, Meher?”

 His voice was a low growl in her ear. A voice dipped in quiet rage, wrapped in smoke and something darker.

(Who did this, Meher?)

Her breath hitched.

Her name had never sounded like that.

No one had ever spoken it like that—like it was sacred. Like it didn’t belong to filth.

Her knees buckled beneath her. She didn’t even realize she was crying until his thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away the tear mingled with blood and dust. Her lips parted to speak, to lie maybe, to deny—but only a choked whimper escaped.

She should’ve pulled back. She should’ve feared him.

But she didn’t. Not at that moment.
Not with his hands gripping her arms firmly—but not painfully.
Not with his warmth seeping through the torn fabric of her blouse, chasing away the chill of fear still clinging to her spine.

“Yeh kisne kiya, bol Meher.”

His voice came again. Rougher. Edged with a storm he hadn’t unleashed yet.

(Who did this, tell me Meher)

Her lips trembled. She hadn't spoken to him before. Not once. Not even when she’d catch his shadow watching her from behind temple pillars.
Not even when she knew those eyes followed her every evening.

But now… words tumbled out like broken glass from a wound.

“M-Mera… Phupha. Aur… bua bhi.”

 Her voice was so small it almost got lost in the wind.

(My uncle, and… aunt)

She felt it then—his body stiffen against hers. The heat rising off him turned violent. His jaw clenched like he was grinding down bones between his teeth.

“Aur?”

A whisper. Dangerous.

(And?)

“Ek aadmi... gaon ka… Budhe Shivraj…” She shut her eyes. “Usne... usne mere kapde kheench liye… muh pe… muh pe chooma… chati… chati mein...”

(A man... from the village... old Shivraj… He... he pulled my clothes off... he kissed me on the face... on the chest... on the chest…)

She couldn’t say more. Her voice cracked. Shame threatened to drown her. Her bruised chest heaved against his, and she expected the usual—disgust, blame, maybe even punishment.

But what she got… was silence.

A terrifying silence.

Then—his hand moved. Just one. Not to grope. Not to claim.

But to cup the back of her head, burying her face in his neck.

“Main maar dunga un sabko.”

(I will kill them all)

Three words. Whispered like a vow.
Low. Vicious. Intimate.

And that was when she shattered.

Her fists clutched the front of his black kurta like a child clinging to a banyan tree in a storm. Her tears wet his throat, her body trembling, her bruises burning as they pressed against him. But she didn’t care.

She sobbed—ugly, raw sobs that tore out of her gut.
She wasn’t afraid anymore. Just tired. So tired.

He didn’t hush her. He didn’t speak.

He just stood there. Unmoving. Like a mountain holding her broken sky together.

He held her.

So small in his arms. So fragile, like a porcelain doll cracked in all the wrong places. Her sobs soaked through his kurta, scalding his skin, searing into the marrow of his bones.

He had seen bruised women before. Screaming ones. Cowering ones.

But Meher—
She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight.
She clung.

And that ruined him.

Her face was swollen, lower lip split, a faint line of dried blood tracing the edge of her nose. Her blouse was torn near the neckline, exposing a glimpse of skin—reddened, bruised, bitten.

That bastard had put his mouth there.

His fists clenched.

He wanted to dig up Shivraj’s corpse—if he was dead—and kill him again. Slower. More painful. Break every tooth he used to press on her, burn every finger he laid on her.

She didn’t even realize her hips were pressed to him. Or that his palm was splayed low on her spine, fingers curling slightly into the torn waistband of her ghagra.

She wasn’t thinking of modesty.

She was surviving.

And he...
He was losing his mind.

"Meri chhoti si Meher… kisne haqdaar banaya tujhe dard ka?"

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But the words bled out. Like everything else inside him.

He tilted her face up, slow and gentle, not wanting to scare her.

She winced.

His jaw ticked.

That bastard had hit her. Her cheekbone was swelling, and faint bluish marks ran down the side of her neck. Her dupatta was long gone, one sleeve ripped, one breast half-cradled in the blouse—he saw the edge of a bite there.

He was going to kill them all.

But first… he needed to make her breathe.

“Meher,” he said again, quieter this time. “Dekh mujhe.”

Her lashes lifted. Wet. Muddied.

That was when he saw it—
Not just pain. Not just fear.
But trust.

She was looking at him.
Not through him. Not past him.
At him.

And that broke something inside his dark, cursed soul.

He wanted to kiss the corner of her eye, right where the tears were drying. He wanted to press his lips to her wrist, where the bangles had cut too deep. He wanted to bend down and wrap his arms around her waist—trace each bruise with his mouth until she forgot they existed.

But she was trembling.

So he stayed still. Let her cling. Let her cry.

He could wait.

Let the village burn, let her abusers rot, let the world point fingers at him for being a beast.

But for her—
He would become a goddamn shield.

She didn’t know it yet… but the moment she ran into his arms, trembling and bleeding, her fate had been sealed.

Meher wasn't going back to that filthy house.
Not to her bua.
Not to her phupha.

She was coming to his haveli.

She was going to sleep under his roof, wear silks from his chest, and eat food served from his hands.

And one day soon, when her tears stopped…

She was going to scream his name in that same broken voice.

Thakur Veer Singh's POV

Minutes passed.
Or was it an hour?

Time blurred as I held her against me, her soft whimpers slowly fading into the howl of the wind. Her face was buried in my chest, her breath warm and erratic through the fabric. She hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to.

She chose to stay in my arms.

The sky had turned cruel. Wind slapped through the trees like a warning, and the first drop of rain fell on her shoulder—bare, cold, already marked by the bastard's grimy touch.

She shivered. Not just from fear this time.

She was barely dressed—her blouse half torn, pallu hanging limp from her waist, one side of her ghagra slipping down dangerously. Her soft, flushed breast was still peeking out, wet now from the drizzle, her nipple hardening with every shaky breath she took. A bruise had begun to bloom near her collarbone—purple, angry, and mine to erase.

I tightened my grip around her waist, pulling her flush against my body, letting her feel the heat of me, the straining hardness she unknowingly caused, the rage and hunger pulsing just beneath my skin.

She gasped, maybe at the pressure of my grip… maybe because she felt what she did to me.

“Chale…” I whispered into her hair, my voice thick with something I hadn’t felt in years. “Aaj se… humare ghar mein rahengi tum.”

(Shall we? From today onwards, you’re going to stay in my home)

My fingers tangled into her rain-drenched curls, brushing them away from her face as I tilted her chin up. Her lips—bitten, swollen, slightly parted—called to me like a sin I was ready to commit, a dark invitation to plunder. 

Her eyes widened just slightly, but she didn’t back away.

Good girl.

“You’re mine now,” I said, my thumb grazing her lower lip. “Whoever hurt you… they’ll die before sunrise.”

She trembled again, but this time, it wasn’t just fear.
It was surrender. Confusion. A fragile sense of safety.
And that made my cock twitch violently with restraint.

I could fuck the world raw for ever letting her feel unsafe. But not her. Not yet.

Instead, I slipped my shawl off and wrapped it tight around her shoulders. Her body, petite and soft, sank into me like she was meant to live in my shadow.

“You’ll sleep in my bed,” I murmured against her forehead, voice dark and reverent. “Under my roof. Eat my food. Breathe my air.”

Her lashes fluttered. I don’t know if she understood what that meant. But she nodded.

That was enough.

I scooped her up into my arms.

Her breast pressed against my chest. Her thigh, bare from the torn ghagra, brushed my waist.

I didn’t flinch.
But I burned.

As I began walking toward the haveli, rain soaking us both, I whispered,

“No one will touch you again, Meher. Unless it’s me.”

▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️

The haveli air, thick with the scent of old stone and night-blooming jasmine, felt like a cage around the wild storm raging inside me. I’d carried Meher through the downpour, her slight weight a burning brand against my chest. My body still thrummed with a primal hunger, every nerve alive to the feel of her.

“Call the maids,” I barked at a trembling servant who appeared as I entered, my voice rough, more command than request. "Prepare a bath. Clean clothes."

He scurried away, and I turned to Meher, still clutched against me. Her face was hidden in my neck, her breath hitching. I could feel the tremor that ran through her, a raw, fragile thing. The thought of those other women, their hands on her, their eyes taking in the evidence of what had been done, made something cold and ugly curdle in my gut.

"No," she whispered, her voice so soft I almost missed it against the growing patter of rain on the courtyard outside. It was a faint, almost imperceptible sound, yet it ripped through the haze of my own fury.

I looked down. Her head lifted slowly, her eyes—wide, glistening, and shadowed with a plea that sliced through me like a blade—met mine. "Please," she choked out, her fingers tightening, digging into the fabric of my wet kurta. "Mujhe… mujhe un log nahi chahiye. Be... be with me."

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. My entire body locked. Her hands, her touch, not those of strangers. She wanted me. To bathe her. To see her. To tend to the bruises I’d sworn to erase.

A feral growl rumbled deep in my chest. Every instinct screamed to grant her wish, to claim that intimate space, to wash away every trace of the bastards who’d dared to lay hands on her. My cock pulsed against the confines of my dhoti, a hard, aching testament to the raw need that surged through me. It was a test, a surrender, a desperate, unspoken plea for a different kind of claiming.

My gaze devoured her, from the bruised curve of her collarbone to the still-exposed curve of her breast, the torn fabric barely clinging to her. Her plea was a key turning in a lock I hadn't even known existed within me. It wasn't just about protection anymore. It was about possession, about imprinting myself on every inch of her, leaving no space for the ghosts of others.

The maids appeared, hovering uncertainly in the archway, their faces a mix of curiosity and fear. My eyes, I knew, must have been blazing with a dangerous light.

"Go," I rasped, my voice laced with a venom that made them flinch and scatter like startled sparrows.

Then, I turned back to Meher, pulling her closer still. My thumb brushed over her quivering lip, feeling the slight swelling from where she'd bitten it. "As you wish, little one," I murmured, the words a dark promise. "Only me."

▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️▫️▪️

The marble floor of the bathing chamber was cool beneath my bare feet, a stark contrast to the inferno raging within me. I set Meher down gently, her feet barely touching the ground before I moved to secure the heavy wooden door. No one would disturb us. Not now. Not ever again.

The large brass tub was already filled, steam rising in a lazy coil, carrying the scent of rosewater and something primal—her fear, her vulnerability, my escalating desire. She stood rigid, her eyes still fixed on mine, a silent question in their depths. The torn remnants of her clothes clung to her, soaked and heavy, mocking me with their presence.

My hands, usually so decisive, felt clumsy as I reached for the frayed edges of her blouse. Her breath hitched. I could feel her tremble as I slowly, deliberately, pulled the wet fabric from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a sodden heap. Her back was a landscape of pale, unblemished skin, until I saw the angry red marks, faint but undeniable, near her shoulder blade. My jaw clenched, a low growl escaping my throat. The urge to hunt, to utterly destroy whoever had dared, clawed at me.

Then I turned her. Her ghagra, already precarious, slipped further. Her breasts, full and soft, were exposed, the dark tips of her nipples prominent from the chill of the air and the lingering terror. My gaze dropped, drawn to the purple bruise blooming on her collarbone, a testament to another man's brutal touch. My fingers itched to reach out, to soothe, to possess.

"Come," I murmured, my voice a rough whisper. I guided her to the tub, helping her step in. The warm water embraced her, rising to her waist, covering the torn ghagra. I knelt beside the tub, taking the soft, damp cloth. My eyes met hers again, seeking permission, offering solace. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

My hand trembled as I dipped the cloth into the water, then slowly, so slowly, began to clean her. Each stroke was an act of worship, a promise. I moved over her shoulders, her arms, feeling the delicate curve of her bones beneath the soft skin. The smell of her—clean now, mingled with rose and something inherently her—filled my senses, intoxicating me.

When I reached her chest, my breath caught. The water swirled around her breasts, making them appear even more enticing, more vulnerable. My eyes lingered on the bruise, my thumb brushing over it, a silent vow of vengeance. I wanted to drag my mouth over that bruised skin, to lick away the memory of pain, to mark her with my own possessive heat. My cock was rock hard, throbbing with a desperate ache, a constant, insistent reminder of what I desired. Every fiber of my being screamed to push her against the porcelain, to thrust into her raw and deep, to claim her with the savagery that her innocence awakened in me.

But not yet. Not like this.

I forced my hands to continue, cleansing her skin with painstaking care, my movements almost reverent despite the raging inferno within. I washed her back, her slender waist, feeling the subtle arch of her spine, the dip of her navel. When I reached for the torn ghagra, she tensed.

"Let me," I said, my voice barely audible, thick with suppressed hunger. I carefully untied the knot, letting the wet fabric fall away, revealing her slender legs, her thighs, the dark triangle between them, now submerged in the water. My gaze lingered, dark and possessive, on the soft skin of her inner thigh, so close, so vulnerable. I could feel the heat radiating from her.

I washed her legs, her feet, every movement a deliberate act of control, a brutal exercise in restraint. The tension in the room was palpable, a live wire humming between us. Her eyes, though still wide, held a new awareness, a dawning understanding of the potent desire I was barely containing. She knew. She felt it. And still, she didn't flinch away.

When I was done, I wrapped her in a thick, soft towel, pulling her gently from the tub. Her body, still glistening with moisture, pressed against mine as I held her close, drying her with painstaking slowness. My hard-on pressed against her thigh, a blatant declaration of my need. The scent of clean skin and damp hair filled my nostrils, driving me to the brink.

"No one," I whispered into her hair, my voice strained, hoarse with the effort of control, "will ever hurt you again, Meher. You are mine."