Carrying her with an unyielding grip at her waist, her back pinned to his chest, he marched through the silent hallway like he was dragging a disobedient possession back into place. His strides were sharp. Brutal. His fury burned through the quiet.

He kicked the bedroom door open and without hesitation, **slammed her down** onto the bed. Her upper body crashed onto the mattress while her legs hung over the edge, limp and exposed.

He leaned down, hands planted on either side of her face, caging her in. His mouth hovered so close their lips brushed—an almost-kiss turned weapon.

His voice cut like a blade.

“Didn’t I tell you not to run?”

His lips grazed hers again, cruelly soft.

"Why the fuck are you still trying to escape me?”

Her lashes fluttered, refusing to meet his eyes. Her bloodied hand pushed weakly at his chest, fingers pressing against his shirt, leaving a red stain behind. That sight stopped him cold.

He looked down.

The crimson print spread across the fabric like a curse.

“Shit.”

His voice dropped to a growl.

He dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, grabbing her wrist roughly, pulling it into his view. Blood trailed from her palm to her elbow in a thin, cruel stream.

She sat up slowly, numbly. Her gaze was distant, fixed on nothing. A tear slipped down her cheek like it had lost its way.

He grunted—furious, panicked.

It yanked her back to reality. She flinched as his eyes snapped up to hers.

“If this needs stitches, Asha—” his voice was cold, measured, deadly, “—you’re going to lose every fucking liberty I’ve ever allowed you. Do you hear me?”

He dropped her hand like it burned him and stormed into the bathroom. Moments later, he came back with a first-aid kit and thunder in his eyes.

Liberty?

She let out a bitter scoff. It slipped before she could stop it.

That made him freeze. His eyes locked onto her like she was the source of every chaos in his world.

“Yeah. Laugh while you can.”

His voice was low, dangerous.

“But when I’m done treating this, we’re going to talk. You’ll hear everything you’ve been pretending not to see.”

He started dabbing the blood with cold precision. She hissed as the antiseptic bit into her torn skin.

“It hurts…” she whispered, teeth clenched.

He didn’t even blink.

“Good. That means you're still capable of feeling something. And you’re not made of glass, Asha. So stop trying to break yourself like you are.”

He sounded like he hated her and loved her all at once.

He inhaled sharply, as though calming himself. He forced his touch to slow, to be careful. But his anger pulsed just beneath the surface.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone, called, and put it on speaker.

As the call connected, she tried pulling her hand away.

He yanked it back.

“Don’t. Move.”

The doctor’s voice crackled on the line. He muttered something low and firm in another language. As the doctor said he applied the ointment and wrapped a tight gauze around the wound. Then, as if it was routine, he took out the syringe from the tool kit.

Her eyes widened. She jerked her arm back.

“Don’t want it—"

“Don’t test me again, Asha.”

His voice was a hiss of steel.

“You’ve had three months of freedom. I’ve been patient. I gave you your room. Your distance. But this…” he shook her arm slightly, motioning to the wound, “…this stunt? You just bought yourself my attention. All of it.”

He injected the tetanus shot to her arm while hugging her trying yo put her in a restrain mode as she tried to turn her face away, choking back a sob. His grip was iron.

Once done, he stood—silent, unreadable.

Not a word of comfort for the needle that had just pierced her skin.

Not a glance of remorse.

He knelt down in front of her, crouching slowly, his face angled upward to meet hers. But she refused the contact. Her gaze dropped, heavy with defiance, shame, or maybe just exhaustion.

She was always like this. Avoiding him at every possible turn.

His voice came low and sharp, like the edge of a knife cloaked in velvet.

“What the fuck was that?”

Calm. Controlled.

And yet, utterly terrifying.

Before she could respond, he grabbed her wounded hand again—his grip firm as steel—and held it up.

“A week,” he began, eyes locked on her, “you lock yourself up, refusing food, light, or breath. Then the first thing you do after coming out is trash the room like a lunatic. Fine. That can be replaced.” His eyes dropped to her bleeding hand.

“But this? Should I replace your hand too?”

She twisted her wrist, trying to yank it from his hold, but his grip didn’t budge.

“And what exactly changed after your blood spilled, huh? Did you escape? Did the universe bend in your favor? Did I disappear?”

She looked up sharply, her eyes burning. Rage flashed in her stare as her jaw tightened.

“Tell me,” he growled, leaning in, his face a breath away from hers.

“What changed?”

Her voice came out cracked and raw, trembling with rage.

“What does it matter whether I hurt myself or you hurt me? In the end, I still end up broken. At least this time I had the choice.”

His jaw tensed, nostrils flaring as he exhaled through his nose.

"I will not hurt you.”

Her laughter was bitter and broken—half sob, half scream.

“You did hurt me. Over and over. And not just bruises. You hurt my mind, my soul... everything I ever believed in.”

A sob tore from her throat as she sniffled, her lips trembling, curling downward.

“Why do you think you *own* me?” she cried.

“What gave you the right? Why do you act like I belong to you? Why did you force me into this marriage?”

She shook her head, the dam finally breaking.

“What changed after that, huh? You still lock me up. You still want control. It’s no different than before. Then why go through the farce? Why not just use me and throw me away like you planned? I would’ve picked up my pieces. I would’ve survived.”

She broke down in front of him—days of rage, fear, and betrayal spilling out in a single breathless wave.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

His words came through clenched teeth, low and seething.

“I had no fucking intention of throwing you away. Not before the marriage. Not now. Not ever.”

He leaned closer.

“You’re mine. Even if we die, even if the world collapses, I’ll make sure our ashes are poured into the same goddamn river.”

She shoved his hand off her face, eyes wide in disbelief.

“You’re insane.”

“I agree,” he said without flinching.

She glared at him, eyes brimming with hatred.

“Keep me hostage all you want. Chain me. Starve me. Break me. But don’t expect me to ever *love* you. Or accept you. You forced a marriage, but I’ll never be your wife. Not truly. Never someone who cares. You’ll die a lonely man.”

He looked into her eyes for a long second, as if searching—hoping—for even a flicker of something else. But all he saw was fire. Pure, scorched fury.

His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened.

“Anything else?” he asked, his voice hollow now.

She nodded, the fire in her gaze unwavering.

“I hate you. More than I thought I could hate anyone.”

Without a word, he stood and left the room. Silent. Controlled.

But outside, the mask slipped.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, running his hand through his hair as he paced aimlessly down the hall. He stopped only to brace himself against a wall, breathing harshly, his eyes closed.

There was a dull, dragging ache in his chest—a pain he couldn’t quite name.

But he didn’t let it last.

Minutes later, he stormed back into the room. Without a word, he caught her elbow and yanked her to her feet.

“Where are we going?” she snapped, struggling in his hold.

He didn’t answer. Just dragged her through the halls, out of the mansion, and into the dimly lit driveway. The broken shards of the vase she’d shattered earlier still lay scattered on the floor.

He didn’t stop.

He swept her into his arms—unceremoniously—and carried her to the car, slamming the door shut after seating her. Then he climbed in, started the engine, and sped off into the night, ignoring her barrage of questions.

Only when they reached the hospital did he slow.

He parked, stepped out, yanked her door open, and pulled her with him again.

Inside, he marched through corridors until they stopped outside a room—cold, quiet, sterile.

She looked around, confused.

He turned to her, eyes dark, voice grim.

“You always asked about your father. Always begged to know how he was.”

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the room.

“Now look.”