He led her from the bathing chamber, a thick shawl still wrapped around her, her skin glowing, freshly scrubbed of the filth that had defiled her. The maids, banished earlier, had left a tray of food—warm milk, soft bread, and a bowl of sweet, spiced rice. He watched her, a silent sentinel, as she sat on the edge of a low divan, her small hands trembling slightly as she took the offered bowl. She ate slowly, methodically, as if each bite was a step back from the precipice she had teetered on. He noted the way her throat worked, the soft sounds she made, every detail etching itself onto his soul. It was his food, his sustenance, now entering her body, binding her further to him.

After she had finished, he presented her with the clothes. Not the delicate silks of a woman, but his own—a simple, loose cotton shirt, still carrying the faint scent of him, and a crisp white dhoti. She took them without a word, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them. He turned his back, allowing her the privacy, though every fiber of his being yearned to watch her shed the last vestiges of her ordeal and don his garments.

When he turned back, she stood before him, a fragile silhouette in the oversized clothes. The shirt hung loosely on her, the sleeves too long, the collar wide, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone, and the angry bruise that still marred it. The dhoti, expertly wrapped, draped around her slender frame, its pure white a stark contrast to the dark storm in his own heart. She looked like a child swallowed by a man’s attire, yet paradoxically, it made her appear even more vulnerable, more utterly his. The sight of her, clothed in his essence, sent a fresh wave of possessive heat through him, tightening his groin with a familiar, insistent ache.

He led her to his bed, a vast expanse of soft mattresses and rich fabrics. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the opulent chamber, then over to him. He offered a slight nod, an unspoken command. She climbed onto the bed, her movements hesitant, and settled herself amidst the pillows. The exhaustion, a heavy cloak, finally claimed her. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed, her breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep.

He sat on the edge of the bed, a hand resting lightly on the mattress beside her hip, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric. He watched her, his gaze tracing the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft curve of her lips, the dark sweep of her lashes against her pale cheeks. The air in the room was thick with her scent, with the lingering ghost of her terror, and the potent, almost suffocating presence of his own desire. His cock remained hard, a relentless throb against his inner thigh, a constant reminder of the raw, animalistic need to bury himself inside her, to brand her, to make her scream his name until all other sounds were drowned out.

He wanted to strip her naked again, to explore every inch of her, to lick away every memory of pain, to make her body sing only for him. He wanted to plunge into her wet depths, to fuck her until she was senseless, until she was nothing but a trembling, panting mess beneath him, utterly consumed by his power, his fury, his claiming. The thought of it, the vivid image of her writhing beneath him, made his muscles clench, a tremor running through his powerful frame.

But not yet. Not while she was broken, not while the shadows of another man’s brutality still clung to her. His vengeance had to be absolute, a cleansing fire that would burn away every last trace of her suffering before he could begin to truly claim her.

He waited, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath, until he was certain she was in the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. Her face was peaceful now, the lines of fear smoothed away. He rose silently, his movements fluid, predator-like. He cast one last, lingering look at her, his eyes dark with a promise of both protection and ultimate possession.

Then, he turned and walked out of the chamber, leaving her safe in the fortress of his bed. The haveli was quiet, but outside, the night awaited. And somewhere in the village, the men who had dared to harm what was now his, were about to learn the true meaning of a Thakur’s wrath. He would hunt them down, tear them limb from limb, and ensure they paid for every single tear she had shed, every shudder that had run through her fragile body. The hunt had begun.

Thakur Veer Singh’s pov

The chill of the pre-dawn air bit at my skin, a stark contrast to the burning rage that consumed me. The paddy storage. Of course. Shivraj, the worthless dog, wouldn’t have dared to stray far, not after his pathetic attempt to seize what was mine. The reek of damp grain and stale fear grew stronger as I approached the crude shed. No guards. No resistance. Just the heavy silence of a world about to be rectified.

I kicked open the rickety door. The stench hit me first – a mix of sweat, fear, and the cloying sweetness of fermenting rice. He was there, huddled in a corner amidst sacks of paddy, a pathetic, unconscious lump. Shivraj. My fingers itched for the feel of his neck, to crush the life from him instantly, but that would be too quick. Too merciful. Meher’s terror, her whimpers, the bruise on her delicate skin – they demanded far more.

My foot connected with his ribs, a dull thud against flesh and bone. He groaned, a pathetic, animalistic sound, stirring. His eyes fluttered open, blinking against the faint light filtering in, then snapped wide with dawning horror as they fixated on me. Recognition, and then absolute, gut-wrenching terror, flooded his face. Good. Let him know. Let him feel.

He tried to scramble back, his movements clumsy, futile, trapped by the sacks. I grabbed a handful of his coarse hair, yanking his head back until his throat was exposed, taut and vulnerable. My other hand found the rusted sickle leaning against the wall, its edge dull but heavy.

“Tune meri cheez ko haath lagaya, bhosdike!” I snarled, my voice a low, guttural growl that even I barely recognized. “Tune Meher ko chhua, haramzaade!”

(You touched what was mine, motherfucker. You dared to put your filthy hands on Meher)

His eyes pleaded, desperate, but no sound escaped his constricted throat. I brought the dull edge of the sickle down, not to cut, but to bruise, to crush. It landed squarely on his hand, the one that had dared to graze her. A sickening crack echoed in the confined space, followed by a wet, strangled scream that Shivraj couldn’t hold back. His fingers contorted, bent at grotesque angles.

He thrashed, a pathetic fish on dry land, tears streaming down his face, snot mixing with the dust and paddy husks. It fueled me. I kicked him again, this time in the groin, a sickening squelch. He bucked, retching, his body convulsing in agony. I watched, dispassionate, my cock a hard, unyielding rod of fury, not of lust, but of pure, distilled vengeance. Each twitch of his tortured body was a measure of satisfaction.

I picked up a heavy sack of rice, dragging it over to him. His eyes widened, understanding dawning just before I let the full weight of it drop onto his leg. Another snap, another gurgling scream. I heard the bone splinter. He was broken. But not dead. Not yet.

I wasn’t done. Not until every single memory of Meher’s suffering was replaced by the spectacle of his. I drove my boot into his face, again and again, feeling the soft cartilage of his nose give way, hearing the sickening crunch of teeth. His cries were just wet gurgles now, a bloody mess in the dust. The air filled with the coppery tang of fresh blood, a scent that, tonight, was a perverse perfume.

Finally, when his body was little more than a shattered, twitching ruin, when his breath came in ragged, desperate gasps that slowly, agonizingly, faded into silence, I stepped back. The silence in the shed, now absolute, was punctuated only by the drip of blood onto the mud floor. It was done. One less stain on my world.

The sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky in hues of bruised purple and grey as I strode towards Meher’s bua’s humble dwelling. My clothes were smeared with dust and something darker, but I felt cleansed. Reborn in blood.

I didn’t bother knocking. The door, flimsy as a prayer, splintered under my heel. The old woman, startled from her sleep, shrieked, clutching her flimsy sari to her chest. Her eyes, wide and terrified, landed on my blood-stained figure. She knew. They always knew.

“Meher,” I stated, my voice flat, devoid of warmth, “is with me now.”

Her face contorted, a mixture of fear and something akin to greedy calculation. “Thakur-saab! But... she is my niece! Her place...”

I took a step closer, my shadow falling over her trembling form. The raw, animalistic fury I had just unleashed was still a coiled serpent beneath my skin, ready to strike. My eyes, I knew, must have been those of a demon.

“Her place is my home,” I snarled, each word a hammer blow. “Under my roof. Protected by me.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper that would haunt her nightmares. “You will never, ever, try to contact her. You will never speak her name. You will forget she ever existed.”

Her old eyes darted to my hands, stained crimson, then back to my face, recognizing the unyielding menace in my gaze. Her meager courage evaporated. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Only a faint whimper.

“Understand?” I pressed, my voice a low growl that resonated with the violence I had just inflicted.

She nodded frantically, her head bobbing like a terrified pigeon.

“Good,” I stated, the word a final, absolute decree. I turned and walked out, leaving her to the cold terror of the dawn. The world might whisper, but no one would dare challenge me. Meher was mine, and anyone who stood in my way would face a fate far worse than Shivraj’s. Let the fields drink the blood of those who defied me. My little Meher was safe now. And that was all that mattered.

The haveli slept, a hushed expanse of stone and shadow, but in the Thakur’s chambers, a new terror bloomed. Meher thrashed, caught in the suffocating grip of a nightmare, reliving the violation that had almost claimed her. Her soft whimpers escalated into desperate, raw screams that tore through the pre-dawn stillness. Her limbs flailed, tangling in the silk sheets, her body arching away from phantom hands. “No! Don’t! Leave me!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse with primal fear.

Downstairs, the first workers, stirring for the day’s tasks, froze. The raw, guttural sounds echoing from the Thakur’s private quarters were unmistakable. Fear, stark and cold, gripped them. Moments later, the heavy outer gates groaned open, and Thakur Veer , his face still set in the grim satisfaction of his night’s bloody work, stepped into the courtyard. His clothes were stained, his aura radiating a cold, deadly power.

Before he could even cross the threshold, a handful of servants, pale and trembling, rushed towards him, their voices a hushed, panicked chorus. ”Thakur-saab!" one stammered, wringing his hands. ”Woh... woh ladki.." Another choked out, ”Chilla rahi hain... bahut darr gayi hain!" (She... that girl... She’s screaming... very scared!)

Veer’s body, still charged with the aftermath of savage vengeance, went rigid. The cold satisfaction drained from him, replaced by a sudden, piercing dread that eclipsed even his recent fury. Meher. His own name for her. Her screams. He didn’t wait for more details. The blood on his hands felt irrelevant now, a mere precursor to this fresh agony.

He moved, not with the measured stride of a Thakur, but with the desperate, unthinking speed of a man facing his deepest fear. He burst into his chamber.

The sight twisted something vital in his gut. Meher was a tangle of limbs and hair on the vast bed, her delicate features contorted in terror, sweat plastering strands of hair to her forehead. Her eyes, though open, stared at something unseen, dilated with an absolute horror. She was tearing at the sheets, trying to pull away from invisible attackers, her screams tearing at the very fabric of the silence he had sought to impose on her world. ”Door raho! Mujhse door raho!" (Stay away! Stay away from me!) she shrieked, her voice shattering.

He was beside the bed in an instant, his large body radiating heat and presence. He didn’t hesitate. Reaching out, he carefully, firmly, captured her flailing wrists, avoiding any sudden movements that might worsen her terror. ”Meher!" he commanded, his voice deep and resonant, cutting through the nightmare’s hold. ”Meher, meri taraf dekho!" (Meher, look at me!)

Her struggles intensified for a moment, then, slowly, her unfocused gaze flickered, drawn by the raw power in his voice. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, finally landed on his face. She stilled, her breathing ragged, the screaming fading to ragged gasps. Confusion warred with the lingering fear in her eyes.

"Tum surakshit ho," (You are safe,) he murmured, his thumb stroking the pulse point on her wrist, a silent anchor. ”Koi nahi hai yahan. Sirf main hoon." (No one is here. Only me.) He leaned closer, his voice softening, yet retaining its absolute authority. ”Tum mere paas ho. Koi tumhe chhu nahi sakta." (You are with me. No one can touch you.)

Slowly, agonizingly, the terror in her eyes began to recede, replaced by a glimmer of recognition, then a fragile understanding. She blinked, once, twice, and the phantom horrors seemed to recede, chased away by the unwavering intensity of his gaze. Her body slumped, the fight draining out of her, and with a soft sob, she collapsed against him.

He gathered her close, pulling her onto his lap, her head resting against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, a fortress of muscle and bone. He could feel the rapid thrum of her heart against his own, gradually slowing, returning to a normal rhythm. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the clean scent of her, the lingering fear on her skin. He had cleansed the outside world of its filth, but the stains on her soul, he realized, would take far longer to erase. This was his new battle. And he would win.

TO BE CONTINUED...