"So, we meet again, little stepsister."
Myra's breath hitched. That voice—sharp, smug, dripping with the same arrogance it had carried years ago.
She turned slowly, her heart pounding.
For a moment, time rewound. She wasn't standing in the grand halls of Rajgarh—she was back in that suffocating house, her hands gripping the rusted bars of her window while she laughed, tossing her new jewelry in front of her, showing off all the privileges Myra was denied.
The years between them melted away, and yet, she stood the same—perfectly dressed, full of self-importance, her eyes glinting with the satisfaction of finding Myra after so long.
She tilted her head, studying her with an amused smirk. "You've changed." Her gaze flickered to Myra's attire, her delicate jewelry, the elegance she carried now. "Almost unrecognizable. But—" she stepped closer, lowering her voice, "—deep down, you're still the same helpless little girl, aren't you?"
Myra's throat tightened. No, not anymore.
But she had always known how to poke wounds that never fully healed.
Standing at the entrance of the courtyard was Niyati, her stepmother's daughter from her first marriage. Dressed in an expensive designer suit, adorned with heavy jewelry that screamed wealth rather than elegance, she stood with an air of entitlement, looking down at everything around her as if it were beneath her.
Rajeshwari Maa and Anika exchanged glances, clearly displeased by the unexpected visitor. Shiv, always observant, shifted slightly, positioning himself near Myra as if anticipating trouble.
Myra's voice was calm but cold. "What are you doing here?"
Niyati smirked, stepping forward. "I was in Jaipur for some business and thought, why not visit my dear little stepsister?" Her gaze swept over Myra's attire, and she let out a mocking laugh. "Look at you, playing the role of a royal princess. I almost didn't recognize you."
Myra met her gaze without flinching. "Why are you really here, Niyati?"
Niyati's smirk didn't fade. "Always so suspicious. I simply wanted to see how you're adjusting to this life. It must be quite an upgrade from being locked away in that house, don't you think?"
Anika stepped forward, her tone sharp. "If you're here to insult Myra, you can leave. She's part of this family now."
Niyati laughed lightly. "Oh, how adorable. A sister-in-law coming to her defense. But you see, Anika, Myra and I have a long history. Isn't that right, dear sister?"
Myra's nails dug into her palm. "You are not my sister."
Niyati feigned a pout. "That hurts. But let's not pretend, Myra. You were never anything more than an inconvenience in our home. And now, you think being married to a prince erases all that?"
Before Myra could respond, Shiv let out a lazy chuckle, stepping forward. "You talk too much." His eyes flicked over Niyati, unimpressed. "Did you come here just to spill nonsense, or do you actually have a reason?"
Niyati's smirk faltered for a second, her eyes narrowing at Shiv. "And who are you?"
Shiv shrugged. "Someone who doesn't tolerate pointless drama."
Rajeshwari Maa, who had been silent so far, finally spoke. "If you're done, Miss Niyati, I believe you can leave now. Myra is with her family."
Niyati let out a mocking laugh, but there was frustration in her eyes. "Fine. I'll take my leave. But, Myra—" she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping low, "—don't forget where you come from. You can dress in gold, but you'll always be the unwanted girl from that house."
Niyati folded her arms, her lips curling into a smirk. "I have to admit, Myra, I didn't expect this from you. The poor, pitiful girl locked away in that house—who would've thought she'd turn out so cunning?"
Myra's fingers curled into her palm, but she kept her expression neutral.
Niyati took a step closer, lowering her voice just enough for only Myra to hear. "You stole everything from my mother, didn't you? Don't act innocent. I know you're the one behind all this. You told your husband to ruin her."
Myra's breath caught. She hadn't expected Niyati to bring this up so directly.
"You're mistaken," Myra said, her voice calm despite the storm brewing inside her.
Niyati let out a mocking laugh. "Oh, please. Don't insult my intelligence. My mother worked all her life to secure her place, and the moment you got married, everything started crumbling. Do you think it's a coincidence?" She leaned in, her gaze sharp. "Tell me, how did you convince Ranvijay to do your dirty work? Did you pretend to be weak? Cry in his arms?"
Myra felt something shift inside her—anger, not for herself, but for the way Niyati twisted the truth. She wanted to snap back, to tell her that she knew nothing about Ranvijay, about what he did or why he did it.
But she held herself back.
Because even she didn't know the full truth.
Instead, she met Niyati's gaze, her expression unreadable. "Believe what you want, Niyati. The truth always comes out in the end."
The moment the scorching tea splashed onto Myra's chest, she gasped sharply, stumbling back. A burning pain seared through her skin, her fingers trembling as they clutched at the fabric of her dress.
A shocked silence fell over the room.
Rajeshwari stood frozen, her eyes widening in disbelief. Anika shot up from her seat, her expression torn between anger and concern. Shiv's usual playful demeanor disappeared in an instant, his jaw tightening as he took a step forward.
Niyati smirked, unfazed by the horror surrounding her. "Oh, dear," she drawled, feigning innocence. "My hand slipped."
Myra swallowed back the pain, her heart pounding in her chest. She should have expected this. Niyati had always been cruel, always wanted to see her suffer.
But before anyone could react further, a sharp gust of wind rustled through the open doors. Heavy footsteps echoed in the silence.
And then—
"What the hell is going on here?"
The deep, authoritative voice sent a shiver down Myra's spine.
Ranvijay.
He stood at the entrance, his dark eyes scanning the scene, immediately locking onto Myra. His gaze dropped to her trembling form, to the growing redness on her chest where the tea had burned her.
His entire body went rigid.
A deadly silence fell over the room.
And then—he moved.
One moment, he was at the door. The next, he was in front of Myra, his coat slipping from his shoulders as he wrapped it around her protectively. His fingers brushed against her arms, his touch firm yet unbearably gentle.
Then, his head snapped toward Niyati.
"Did you do this?" His voice was quiet, but the storm brewing beneath it was unmistakable.
Niyati, for the first time, faltered. But she quickly masked it with a scoff. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Ranvijay. It was just tea. Accidents happen—"
"An accident?" His voice was razor-sharp.
Shiv, sensing the rising danger, stepped in. "Bhai-sa, she—"
But Ranvijay didn't need anyone to explain. He already knew. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he took a slow step toward Niyati.
"You dared to hurt my wife?" His voice was dangerously low, sending chills through the air.
Niyati rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Stop acting like she's some fragile thing. She took everything from my mother, and now you're ruining us for her—"
"Enough."
For a split second, the entire room held its breath.
Ranvijay's body was rigid with fury, his fist clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His dark eyes burned with a rage so intense it sent chills down the spine of everyone present.
Then—he moved.
His hand shot up, and Niyati flinched, her arrogant expression faltering. But just before his palm could strike, he stopped—his fingers trembling in the air, mere inches from her cheek. His jaw tightened, veins visible beneath his skin as he forced himself to step back.
A deadly silence followed.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel.
In the next breath, Myra gasped as she was suddenly lifted off the ground. Her burned skin protested at the movement, but before she could process what was happening, Ranvijay had already stormed out of the hall, carrying her in his arms.
His grip was tight, unyielding, as if letting go of her was not an option.
"Ranvijay…" Myra whispered, her voice unsteady, but he didn't reply.
His strides were quick, his breathing heavy with restrained fury. The moment they reached their bedroom, he didn't stop—he carried her straight into the bathroom, pushing the shower door open with his shoulder.
The next thing she knew, warm water was cascading down on them both.
Myra gasped, her hands pressing against his chest as the sudden heat soaked through her clothes. "What—"
Ranvijay's hands found the edges of her dress, carefully pulling the fabric away from her burned skin, his fingers unbearably gentle despite the storm raging inside him.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse. "It's burning, isn't it?"
Myra swallowed. The sting of the tea still lingered, but the warmth of the water soothed it slightly. Even so, her heart pounded louder than the water hitting the tiles.
Ranvijay's jaw clenched as he guided the water over the reddened skin of her chest, his touch lingering longer than necessary. He exhaled sharply, frustration evident in his every movement.
"She dared…" His voice was low, dangerous. "She dared to touch you."
Myra's breath hitched as his fingers brushed against her skin, his touch both protective and possessive. She wasn't sure if he was trying to cool her burn or if he was simply grounding himself—keeping himself from storming out and finishing what he'd stopped himself from doing.
She placed a hand on his wrist, stopping him. "Ranvijay… I'm fine."
His eyes snapped up to hers. "You're not." His voice was raw, his restraint slipping. "You think I didn't see? You didn't even flinch, Myra. You just took it."
Myra looked away. "I'm used to it."
The moment those words left her lips, something in him snapped.
His fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were ablaze with something deeper than anger—something that shook her to her core.
"You will never be 'used to it' again." His voice was a promise, dark and unwavering. "Not when you are my wife."
Myra's breath hitched. The intensity in his gaze was suffocating, drowning her in a storm she wasn't ready for.
She parted her lips to say something—anything—but before she could, he pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers.
The water continued to fall around them, washing away the remnants of the cruel moment before. But Myra knew—this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The scorching heat of the tea still clung to Myra's skin, but the sting of Ranvijay's fury burned hotter. He had carried her straight to the bathroom, stepping into the shower with her fully clothed, turning the water on without a second thought. The icy stream had sent a shock through her body, but now, as the water warmed, it wasn't the burn or the cold that had her trembling—it was him.
His presence was overpowering, his grip unrelenting, his rage barely contained.
Myra shoved at his chest, glaring. "You had no right to bring me here like this!"
Ranvijay didn't budge. His hands, firm but careful, remained on her arms, anchoring her in place. "No right?" His voice was dangerously low. "You were burned, Myra. And you expect me to do nothing?"
"I expect you to not act like I'm helpless!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the sound of water hitting the tiles. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened to me, Ranvijay. I know how to handle it."
Ranvijay's jaw tightened. His fingers flexed against her damp skin, his eyes dark with something far more dangerous than mere anger. "That's exactly the problem," he bit out. "You've been hurt before, and you've accepted it like it's normal."
Myra inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing. "Because it is my normal! You don't get to walk in and change that just because you don't like it."
He exhaled harshly, the tension in his body coiling like a spring ready to snap. "You think I don't like it?" His voice was dangerously quiet now, his fury simmering beneath the surface. "No, Myra. I hate it. I hate that you've had to endure this. I hate that you think this is something you just have to accept."
Her fingers clenched into fists. "You don't get to hate it! You don't get to act like you care when all you've ever done is force me into things I never wanted!"
That did it. His grip on her arms tightened, not in pain, but in raw, unfiltered emotion. His face was close now, their breaths mingling, the storm in his eyes colliding with the fire in hers.
"Force you?" His voice was low, rough. "You think I forced you into this marriage to hurt you? I forced you because I couldn't let you suffer alone anymore."
Myra's breath hitched, but she refused to back down. "And what if I don't want your help?"
Ranvijay's lips curled in a dark smirk, but there was no amusement in his expression. "Then that's too bad. Because you're mine, Myra. And I protect what's mine."
She glared, pushing harder against his chest, but this time, he let her go. She stumbled back, water dripping from her hair, her heart pounding too fast.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Myra took a deep breath and whispered, "I don't need you."
Ranvijay didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached out, his fingers barely grazing the fading red mark on her collarbone. His touch was achingly gentle, at odds with the storm raging in his eyes.
"Say that again," he murmured, his voice quiet but unyielding.
Myra opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Because they both knew it would be a lie.
The air between them was thick—charged with something far more potent than anger. Myra's breaths were shallow, her heart a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Ranvijay was too close, his gaze too intense, and the warmth of his fingertips still lingered where he had touched her.
The water had long since stopped, leaving them damp, their clothes clinging to their skin. Her soaked dupatta had slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her elbows, exposing the red mark where the tea had burned her.
Ranvijay's eyes darkened as they dropped to the injury, his fingers twitching at his sides. "It's still red." His voice was softer now, rough with something unreadable.
Myra swallowed. "It's fine."
His jaw clenched. "It's not."
Before she could protest, he reached behind her, grabbing a towel and gently pressing it against her chest, careful to avoid the burn. His movements were slow, deliberate, his gaze locked onto hers.
Myra stiffened, her breath catching. "I can do it myself."
Ranvijay's lips curved—not a smirk, not a sneer, but something dangerously intimate. "I know." His fingers brushed her wrist as he guided her hands to hold the towel herself. "But I want to do it."
Her lips parted, a sharp retort ready, but nothing came out.
He reached for a small box of ointment from the shelf, opening it with practiced ease. When he dipped his fingers into the cool cream, her heart stuttered.
"I don't—"
"Shh." His voice was low, soothing. "Stay still."
His fingers skimmed her collarbone as he gently applied the ointment. The cool sensation made her shiver, but it wasn't just that. It was the way he touched her—not just with care, but with reverence.
She hated how easily he could disarm her, how his presence consumed every corner of her world.
She looked up, ready to glare at him, but the intensity in his gaze stole her breath. He wasn't just tending to her wound. He was memorizing her, tracing every inch of her with his eyes, as if she was something fragile—something precious.
A lump formed in her throat. "Ranvijay…"
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand, his thumb grazing her jawline, tilting her face slightly upward. His eyes flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, silently asking a question she wasn't sure how to answer.
The air thickened. The distance between them was nonexistent.
"Myra…" His voice was hoarse, raw with restraint.
She knew she should push him away. She knew she should say something sharp, remind him that she wasn't his to claim.
But she didn't move.
Her fingers trembled as she clutched the towel against her chest, her body betraying her.
Ranvijay's hand cupped her cheek, his warmth seeping into her skin. "You don't need me, hmm?" His lips curved slightly, though there was no amusement in his gaze. "Then why do your eyes say otherwise?"
Myra sucked in a sharp breath, her resolve slipping.
Before she could answer, before she could even think, Ranvijay leaned in, his forehead brushing against hers, his breath fanning against her lips.
He didn't kiss her.
He just stayed there, holding her, drowning her in his presence.
And somehow, that was even worse.