Meher wandered through the halls like a ghost in silk. Every guard’s eyes followed her, not with lust—but fear. Kabir’s new wife was off-limits. Touched only by him.
The house was silent, polished, and cold. Like him.
She entered the library, hoping for peace. But the moment she opened a book, his voice slithered in behind her.
“Curious little dove.”
She froze.
Kabir stepped in, wearing black again—always black, like mourning something long dead. He moved closer, slowly, like a hunter with time to kill.
“Do you enjoy reading?” he asked, plucking the book from her hand without looking at the title.
“I enjoy quiet. Something you don’t seem to allow.”
He smirked, jaw tightening. “You’ll learn to like the sound of my voice.”
She glared. “I’ll never like anything about you.”
Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist—not rough, but firm. Possessive. His thumb brushed a fading bruise from where he’d held her the night before.
“I could’ve hurt you worse,” he murmured, voice low. “But I didn’t.”
Her voice cracked. “Do you want praise for that?”
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. “I want you to remember it.”
He released her and walked away, leaving her heart hammering and her soul burning with fury.
In his world, kindness came wrapped in bruises.
And Meher refused to let herself soften.
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