Thakur Veer Singh

One month. Thirty days, seven hundred and twenty hours, forty-three thousand two hundred minutes. Every second of it, a battle. The haveli, once my fortress of silent power, had become a cage of her fear. I’d hunted down and pulverized every man who’d ever laid a hand on her, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered wills that served as a grim monument to my fury. But their ghosts, I quickly learned, lived in her head.

The first week was a living hell. She was a frightened mouse, flinching at every sound, every shadow. The maids, simple, kind women, meant her no harm, but their approaching footsteps sent a visible tremor through her slender frame. The male servants were a different story. The sight of a man, any man, was enough to make her gasp and scramble away, her eyes wide with a deep, primal terror. I had to ban all male staff from the wing of the haveli she inhabited, their absence a silent acknowledgment of the wreckage left in her wake.

Her nights were worse. The nightmares came like clockwork, shattering the silence with her desperate screams. I would lie awake, my body rigid, listening for the first sign of her torment. ”Door raho!" (Stay away!) she would shriek, her voice tearing at my soul. ”Nahi! Mat chhuo!" (No! Don’t touch!) I’d rush to her room, find her thrashing in the sheets, her face a mask of pure horror, her small hands clawing at unseen attackers. The memory of the day I first tried to kiss her, of her fleeing from my touch, was a constant, aching wound. I had to restrain myself, to teach myself a new kind of control, to simply sit on the edge of her bed and murmur her name, my voice a low, steady anchor in the storm of her fear.

Slowly, agonizingly, the tide began to turn. It started with small things. She stopped flinching when I walked past her door. She no longer averted her gaze when I looked at her. Her nightmares, while still frequent, became less violent. She would still scream, but my voice, my presence, began to reach her faster. I would find her curled on the bed, her small body shaking, and I would simply sit there, my hand resting on the mattress, not touching her, but close enough for her to feel the warmth, the solid, unmoving presence of me.

One night, the screams started again. I rushed in, my heart a hammer in my chest. But this time, when she finally came out of her nightmare, her eyes, filled with tears, met mine and she didn’t flinch. Instead, a choked sob escaped her lips and she reached out. Her hand, so small and fragile, found mine. Her fingers, trembling with lingering fear, tightened around mine. The contact was a jolt, a release of thirty days of pent-up restraint. I didn’t move. I simply let her hold on, her touch a fragile tether to the reality I had created for her.

From that day, everything changed. She started seeking me out. I would find her in my study, sitting silently in a corner, just content to be in the same room. She would follow me in the gardens, a small shadow in my wake. The nightmares still came, but she no longer screamed for others to stay away. Now, in her terror, she would reach for me, her tiny hands grabbing at my shirt, her voice a desperate plea for me to hold her. My hard-on, a constant, throbbing reminder of my desire for her, would ache with the unbearable restraint of it all. I wanted to claim her, to possess her, to fill her with me until there was no room for the ghosts of other men.

The haveli was steeped in the quiet darkness of the hour before dawn. I found her awake, sitting by the open window in her room, the cool night air raising goosebumps on her skin. She was wrapped in the shawl I had given her that first night, a stark reminder of where we began.

I didn’t make a sound. I simply walked over and stood behind her, my presence a solid wall against the terrors of the night. Her head didn’t turn, but her body stilled, a fragile awareness of me.

“Aap ne unhe saza di?” (Did you punish them?) she whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound in the silent room.

The question hit me like a blow. I had never spoken to her of my hunt, of the blood on my hands. I’d kept that world separate from her, a brutal reality she didn’t need to know.

"Haan," I replied, my voice a low, gravelly rasp. ”Woh sab khatam ho gaye." (Yes. They are all finished.)

I saw her shoulders tremble, a faint shudder of emotion I couldn’t decipher. Fear? Relief? She was silent for a long moment, then her small hand, still wrapped in the shawl, reached back and found my arm, her fingers curling around the muscle. The touch was like a brand, a raw, electric current that shot straight through me. My body, always coiled and ready for her, hardened instantly. My rock-hard lund strained against my dhoti, a desperate, aching testament to the months of restraint.

“Par woh yahan hain,” (But they are here,) she said, the words a heartbroken whisper, her hand still clutching my arm. “Mere sapnon mein. Ravi ke haath... us aadmi ka chehra...” (In my dreams. Ravi’s hands... that man’s face...)

I knelt behind her, my hands, which had dealt out so much punishment, now resting on her shoulders with a brutal, aching tenderness. I knew the ghosts she spoke of. I saw them in her eyes. The constant fear, the flinching from every shadow, the silent screams that haunted my nights as much as they haunted hers.

“Ravi ka kya haal kiya, aap ne?” (What did you do to Ravi?) she asked, her voice trembling.

A cold, vicious smile touched my lips, a phantom of the man I had been before she came into my world. “Us haramzaade ko zinda jalana chahiye tha,” (That bastard should have been burned alive,) I murmured, my voice thick with suppressed violence. “Par usse bhi gandi maut di.” (But I gave him a death worse than that.) I had watched the life drain from his worthless body, a slow, agonizing process. I had made him feel every bit of her terror, amplified a thousand times.

I leaned in, my breath stirring the hair at her temple. “Unki yaadein bhi jala dunga, Meher,” (I will burn those memories too, Meher,) I whispered, my voice a solemn, dark vow. “Jab tak tu mujhe nahi chhu legi, tab tak yeh dar khatam nahi hoga." (Until you touch me, this fear will not end.)

Her hand tightened on my arm. She knew what I was saying. I wasn’t just talking about a touch. I was talking about the deepest, most primal fear within her, the fear of male hands on her body. I was telling her that I was the only one who could truly cleanse her of that terror.

She slowly, trembling, turned in her seat. The look in her eyes was a mix of a terrified fawn and a fragile trust that had bloomed in the last month. She looked down at my hands, resting on my knees, then back up at my face. She reached out, her small hand covering mine, her thumb moving hesitantly over the faded, dark smears still clinging to my knuckles.

Then, with a sudden, desperate surge of courage, she leaned forward and buried her face in my chest, her body shaking with a silent sob. I didn’t move for a long moment, my entire body locked, my mind reeling. My lund was a throbbing, painful testament to the years I’d waited, the months I’d restrained myself. I wanted to claim her right there, to prove that my hands were not meant for hurting her, but for possessing her. To show her that my body was a sanctuary, not a cage.

Instead, I slowly, deliberately, brought my arms up, wrapping them around her small, shaking frame. The scent of her, clean and fragile, filled my lungs, and I held her, a fortress of muscle and bone against the darkness. This was not a victory. This was just the beginning. I had to teach her that my touch was meant to heal, to possess, to claim, not to destroy. I had to prove to her that her fear was the only thing I would ever break.

Meher

His embrace was a fortress. For a month, I had been a ship lost at sea, buffeted by waves of terror and the ghosts of memory. But in his arms, in the quiet darkness of the haveli, I felt the first glimmer of a shoreline. His touch wasn’t just an anchor; it was a promise. I was still shaking, my body a battlefield of old fear and new, confusing emotions, but the rhythm of his heart against my ear was a slow, steady drumbeat that soothed the storm within me.

I craved his touch even as I feared it. It was a contradiction that made my mind reel. Every man I had ever known—my cousin, the man in the fields—their touch had been a violation, a reminder of my own helplessness. Their hands were dirty, their intentions crude and possessive in a way that made my skin crawl. But his hands… they had held me, they had cleaned me with a reverence that felt like a prayer. They were the same hands that had meted out a terrifying justice, yet when they held me, they felt like the safest place in the world.

When he whispered his dark promises of vengeance, I should have been afraid of his rage, but instead, I felt a deep, fierce sense of protection. The anger that had terrified me in other men, in him, it was for me. It was for my safety, for my honor. It was a kind of love, a brutal, possessive love that was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

I knew he desired me. The silent, straining hardness of his body against mine, the hunger in his eyes, it was all there, raw and unfiltered. My own body, which had become a source of shame and fear, reacted to him in a way that scared me more than anything. A strange, unfamiliar heat would bloom within me, a soft ache that was a stark contrast to the cold terror I had come to associate with men. I was a broken vessel, yet he looked at me like I was something precious, something to be claimed, not taken.

He was the Thakur, a man of power and violence. He had made me his property, his cheez, and I was supposed to be afraid. But in the hollow spaces left by my fear, in the stillness after the storm, a different feeling had begun to grow. It was a terrifying, fragile intimacy that felt like coming home. I was still scared, yes, but for the first time in my life, I was not alone in the dark. I was with him. And that, I was slowly beginning to realize, was enough.

THIRD PERSON'S POV...!

The haveli, once a sanctuary of silent protection, now felt like a gilded cage full of hostile eyes. Meher, seeking an escape from the suffocating intimacy of the Thakur’s presence and the tumultuous thoughts in her own head, decided to take a walk. She moved through the corridors, her body still feeling bruised by memory, the weight of the Thakur’s shirt a constant, heavy reminder of her new reality.

She passed a group of maids in a courtyard, their hands busy with laundry, their heads bowed low. As she drew near, their hushed whispers faded into a sudden, tense silence. She didn’t look at them, but she could feel their eyes on her back, a physical weight that made her skin prickle. As she moved past, a low, vicious murmur reached her ears.

"Dekho, Thakur-sa ki nayi randi jaa rahi hai," one woman hissed, the word a venomous dart. (Look, Thakur’s new whore is going.)

Another snickered. ”Gaon ki saali ko kya mil gaya, ki seedha Thakur-sa ke bistar pe aa gayi?" (What did this village bitch get that she came straight to Thakur’s bed?)

A third woman, a crone with a face as hard as stone, spat on the ground. ”Kutiya! Usne toh haveli ki izzat mitti mein mila di." (Slut! She has ruined the honor of the haveli.)

The words were like stones thrown at her, each one hitting a raw nerve. Her steps faltered. The insults, crude and vicious, were a far worse assault than anything she had faced in the fields. She could still feel the phantom weight of the Thakur’s arm around her, his hand so possessive, so gentle, yet in their words, it was all reduced to filth. She was not a victim, not a survivor; she was just a ”randi,” a ”kutiya,” a slut who had used her body to climb into Thakur-sa’s bed.

Tears, hot and stinging, welled in her eyes. The safety she had found with him, the fragile trust that had just begun to grow, shattered into a million pieces. The intimacy she had craved, the protection she had clung to, was just a new form of shame, a different kind of imprisonment. She had thought she was safe, but the whispers of the haveli were a new kind of violence, one that stripped her of her dignity and left her feeling as violated as she had been in the fields. She clutched the long kurta, her knuckles white, and without a word, she turned and fled back towards the sanctuary of her room, the cruel laughter of the maids echoing in her ears.

The whispers were a physical thing, a vile, seeping poison in the clean haveli air. Veer had been walking towards the study, his thoughts a dark whirlwind of vengeance and possessive love for the fragile girl now under his care. He hadn’t heard the soft patter of Meher’s footsteps, but the vicious words of the maids cut through the morning stillness like a knife.

"Dekho, Thakur ki nayi randi jaa rahi hai," one woman hissed.

"Gaon ki saali ko kya mil gaya, ki seedha Thakur ke bistar pe aa gayi?" another snickered.

Then, the crone’s cruel voice, sharp and unforgiving: ”Kutiya! Usne toh haveli ki izzat mitti mein mila di."

The blood in Veer’s veins turned to ice. He stopped dead in his tracks, a silent, unmoving storm. His fists, still bearing the faint, dark smears of a more righteous violence, clenched until his knuckles turned white. He hadn’t heard Meher’s footsteps retreat, but he didn’t need to. He could feel her fear, a fresh, sharp pain in his gut. The women had not just insulted her; they had violated the sanctuary he had built around her. They had dared to touch his possession, to defile her name with their filthy tongues.

His rage, a beast he had only just managed to contain, broke free. He strode into the courtyard, his presence a physical force that made the women freeze, their laughter dying in their throats. Their faces, a moment ago filled with cruel glee, paled with dawning horror.

“Tum logon ne kya kaha?” (What did you women say?) he growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.

They scrambled to their feet, bowing, stammering apologies. The crone, bolder than the rest, tried to protest, her mouth already open with lies. But Veer didn’t wait. He grabbed her by her hair, yanking her head back, her neck stretched taut and vulnerable.

"Meri haveli mein, meri Meher ki izzat pe ungli uthaoge?" (In my haveli, you will point a finger at my Meher’s honor?) he snarled, his voice a mix of venom and power. ”Tumhari zubaan kaat ke kutte ko khila dunga!" (I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs!)

The woman shrieked, a high-pitched wail of terror. He didn’t release her. Instead, he turned his dark gaze on the other two. ”Aur tum? Thakur ki cheez ko randi kaha?" (And you? You called Thakur’s property a whore?) He released the crone, who collapsed to the ground, sobbing, and grabbed the other two by their shoulders, his grip a merciless vise.

"Bhari haveli ke saamne, main tumhe nanga karwa ke gaon ke baahar phenkwaunga," (In front of the entire haveli, I will have you stripped naked and thrown out of the village,) he declared, his voice cold and final. ”Yeh jo zubaan hai, isse harami ke lund ka swad chakhwaunga." (This tongue of yours, I will make it taste the cock of a bastard.)

His words were a raw, brutal, public execution of their dignity. The women shrieked, begging for mercy, their terror a satisfying balm to the white-hot fury in his gut. He didn’t care about their pleas. They had tainted his world, and they would pay for it with their humiliation and their very honor. He had them whipped, then thrown out of the haveli to the jeers of the other servants, a stark warning to all who dared to defy him.

But as he watched their broken bodies dragged away, his rage, for the first time, felt insufficient. Violence and public shaming could silence the voices, but it couldn’t stop the thoughts. He couldn’t kill every person who looked at her with pity or disgust. He couldn’t stand guard over every thought in the village. Her fear, he knew, was born not just from an assault, but from the shame society had placed on her.

He walked back into the haveli, his mind clear, his purpose solidified. There was only one way to truly give her the respect, the security, and the title that would silence every mouth in the village. He would make her his lawfully. He would make her his rani, his queen, his wife.

He would marry her.

Veer’s mouth set in a grim, determined line. The village would have its scandal, but it would be on his terms. He would stand before the whole world and declare her his. The whispers would become vows. The insults would become blessings.

He summoned his most trusted aide. ”Gaon mein elaan kar do," (Announce it in the village,) he commanded, his voice as unyielding as stone. ”Agale do din mein, main Meher se vivah karunga. Poore riti-rivaaz ke saath." (In two days, I will marry Meher. With full rituals.)

The deed was done. The village, the haveli, the world—they could whisper all they wanted. In two days, they would witness the truth. He would make her his, not just by claim, but by law. And no one, absolutely no one, would ever dare to call her a randi again.

Except him— as he hovered over her on his bed, slamming into her dripping cunt with ruthless, unrelenting force