The morning after Anirudh left her chamber with those words—the words that had unsettled her more than any threat he had ever whispered—Aayat woke with a heaviness in her chest. His voice echoed in her ears, a strange mixture of rage and tenderness, obsession and confession.
"If I wanted only to satisfy myself, you'd already be carrying my child. But I didn't touch you, Aayat. I gave you time. I gave you the choice. And maybe I was wrong to use Ishika's name, but I… I cannot live without you."
She sat up slowly, pressing her palm against her forehead. It wasn't the threat that haunted her—it was the confession. Those weren't words of a monster, were they? Or had she grown so used to his darkness that she had started confusing it with care?
The sun filtered through the palace windows, warm against her skin. Servants bustled outside, the sounds of preparations for another day in the Rathore palace echoing faintly. She breathed in and reminded herself—this was her life now. His wife. His prisoner. Or maybe something else entirely.
---
The first few days passed in an almost unbearable awkwardness. At breakfast, Anirudh sat beside her as always, regal and silent, but he never once let his fingers brush hers. His gaze would burn into her, but his hands… his hands stayed still, wrapped around his glass or his fork.
She noticed it everywhere. When he passed her a file she needed to sign for palace charity work, he placed it deliberately on the table without touching her fingers. When she stumbled slightly on the marble staircase, he steadied her by catching the edge of her dupatta rather than her arm. Even when she poured water into his glass at dinner, his hand waited until she had set the jug down before he reached for it.
The same man who once couldn't resist pulling her into his lap, couldn't resist claiming her lips with bruising need—was now behaving as though even the brush of her skin would burn him.
At first, it gave her relief. Space. Breathing room. The very thing she had begged for.
But slowly, it began to gnaw at her.
Because while his touch was absent, his presence was everywhere. His eyes followed her across the room, dark and unreadable. His shadow stretched across her whenever she entered the hall, his voice commanded the entire palace, and yet with her—he was distant.
It made her restless.
---
One evening, nearly a week later, she reached across the table to pass him a file Rajmata had asked her to hand over. Their fingers almost brushed, but before they could, he pulled his hand back. His lips curved into something sharp, cruel even, and he murmured just loud enough for her to hear,
"Careful, Aayat. Even this… this little touch might be enough to satisfy me now."
Her heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. His voice carried no warmth—only a bitter taunt. And yet beneath the words, she saw the tension in his jaw, the way he clenched the pen too tightly, as though restraining himself took more out of him than indulging ever had.
She wanted to retort, to tell him she wasn't some toy to be satisfied by the brush of a hand. But the words died on her lips. Because deep down, she knew what he meant. He was fighting himself, fighting the hunger that had once consumed him every night.
And he was winning. For her.
---
Yet his care never left her.
The next morning, she woke with a mild fever, her body aching from the cold air that slipped through the palace corridors at night. She had thought she would have to ask a maid for tea, but before she even stirred from bed, Anirudh walked in with a tray himself.
Not a servant. Not an attendant. Him.
"Drink this," he ordered softly, setting the steaming cup by her side.
Her lips parted. "You… made this?"
His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "I can take care of my wife without a palace full of servants."
Her chest ached at his words, though she quickly looked away, hiding the warmth that spread in her cheeks.
The fever faded by noon, and by evening she convinced herself it meant nothing. He was a man who had built an empire. Making tea was hardly proof of love.
And yet, when he adjusted her blanket later that night while he thought she was asleep, tucking it gently under her chin, she felt something shift inside her. Something she couldn't explain.
---
Days blended into each other. The palace was alive with festivals and preparations—always some ritual, always some feast. Aayat began walking in the gardens with Rajmata, sitting with Rajveer's new bride, even helping organize charitable donations. On the surface, she was settling into the role of a queen.
But every night, when the palace fell silent, it was just her and Anirudh.
He never kissed her lips again. Not once. He would sit beside her, sometimes let his fingers graze her wrist as though by accident, but he never claimed more. Their makeout rituals that had once consumed nights were gone. In their place was silence, distance, and the unbearable tension of what he wasn't doing.
And to her horror, she began missing it.
The heat of his breath against her skin, the fire of his hands gripping her waist, the way his lips stole the very air from her lungs—she had hated it then. Hated being trapped, claimed, possessed. But now… now she caught herself staring at his mouth when he read in silence beside her, wondering why he didn't claim what had once been his without hesitation.
---
On the tenth day, she nearly broke.
She had been trying on jewelry for an upcoming festival, struggling to fix the clasp of a heavy necklace. The servants had left to fetch bangles, and she cursed under her breath as the hook refused to catch.
"Here," his voice rumbled behind her.
She froze. He stood there, tall and broad in his simple kurta, watching her with eyes that pierced through her every defense. Slowly, he stepped forward. For a heartbeat, she thought—he's going to touch me.
But instead, he took the necklace from her hands, fastened it carefully without brushing her skin, and stepped back.
Her chest tightened. Her lips trembled.
"You won't even help me with this properly?" she whispered before she could stop herself.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his jaw clenched, and his voice cut low, sharp.
"Don't tempt me, Aayat. You don't know what it costs me not to touch you."
She turned away quickly, but her heart raced, her cheeks burned, and she hated that her body betrayed her so easily.
---
By the end of the second week, she no longer knew where she stood.
Every night she told herself he was dangerous, that his love was obsession dressed in silk. Every morning, she caught herself watching the way he carried his responsibilities, the way he shielded her from curious eyes, the way he ensured her comfort before his own.
One evening, as she stood by the balcony watching the sun sink behind the desert, she felt his presence behind her.
"Cold?" he asked.
She nodded, though she hadn't realized it until he spoke. Without a word, he draped his shawl over her shoulders, his hand barely brushing her arm. It was the lightest touch, the kindest gesture—and it broke something inside her.
Her eyes stung. Her lips trembled.
Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe he wasn't the monster she had painted him to be.
Maybe, just maybe… he truly loved her.
And for the first time, she admitted to herself that her heart was beginning to betray her. Because even in his silence, even in his restraint, Anirudh Singh Rathore was slowly becoming the man her soul couldn't ignore.