chapter 17
Flashback end's
Author pov
Back in the present, Ishni sat quietly on Rudra’s lap, her voice finally fading as she finished her painful confession. The weight of her past hung heavy in the air, but instead of judgment or pity, Rudra did something unexpected.
He wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her closer — as if holding her could erase all the pain she had endured.
His heartbeat was steady against her back, a silent promise that she was no longer alone.
In that embrace, Ishni felt a flicker of hope — a healing warmth spreading through the darkness.
No words were needed. Sometimes, love spoke loudest in the quiet moments after the storm.
Ishni’s voice broke, trembling with a storm of pain and doubt.
“Rudra… do you think I’m dirt? Did I do something wrong?” Her eyes, glossy with unshed tears, searched his face desperately for an answer.
Rudra cupped her cheek gently, his thumb tracing soothing circles.
His gaze held hers with unwavering tenderness.
“No, Ishni. You are nothing but pure strength wrapped in pain. You survived what no one should ever have to endure. That darkness… it was forced upon you. But you fought back — you reclaimed yourself. That makes you a warrior, not dirt.”
He drew her closer, his arms like a sanctuary.
“You did not do wrong. You did what was needed to protect your soul, to protect your heart. And that courage, that fire inside you — it’s beautiful.”
His voice softened, steady like a warm light in the night.
“You are worthy of love, respect, and peace. Not just from me, but from the world. And I promise, as long as I’m here, you will never face your demons alone.”
Tears spilled freely from Ishni’s eyes, but in Rudra’s embrace, they felt less like pain and more like healing — the first step toward a future where she could finally breathe again.
Rudra held her tighter in his lap, her trembling frame curled into him like a child lost in a storm. He pressed his lips softly to her forehead, breathing her in — broken, beautiful, and his.
His hand gently stroked her back, up and down, like waves calming a restless sea.
“jaan,” he whispered, voice low and warm against her ear,
“You are safe now… I’ve got you.”
She didn’t speak, but her fingers gripped his shirt like a lifeline.
He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her like a cocoon.
“You don’t have to be strong anymore. Not with me. Just breathe. Let go.”
He kissed the top of her head again, eyes closed, rage simmering quietly beneath his calm.
“And those… the ones who broke you,” he whispered, his voice turning to steel,
“They’ll pay. For every bruise on your body. For every scar on your heart.”
His grip tightened — not on her, but on the invisible oath he made right then, in the stillness.
“I promise you this, jaan… as long as I breathe, no one will ever hurt you again.
And those who did…”
He paused, his jaw clenched, his voice turning cold as ice.
“They won’t even get the mercy of death.
I’ll make them wish they were never born. ”
Ishni didn’t reply — she just buried her face into his neck, breathing in the safety of him.
And for the first time, maybe… she believed she deserved it.
Ishni didn’t realize when sleep took over — exhaustion pulling her into a soft, silent slumber. Her breathing slowed, her face buried gently in the crook of Rudra’s neck, like she was hiding from the world one last time.
Rudra didn’t move. Not even a breath too deep.
He just held her, tightly, protectively — as if letting go might make her vanish. As if the weight of her pain could still be stolen by the shadows if he loosened his grip.
His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed through her hair, but his expression was unreadable — frozen between heartbreak and fury.
His eyes, once soft with love, now burned red with rage.
She had suffered alone. Loved wrong. Bled in silence.
And he had been too late.
He looked down at her sleeping form, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye — not out of pity, but out of a promise.
His voice was barely a breath, but it carried the weight of war.
“Ek ek ko marunga…” he whispered through clenched teeth, jaw tight with unspoken wrath.
“Jo aap ko tor ke chale gaye… unke har sans le lunga.
Aap ke aansuon ka hisaab milega. Saath mein dard bhi — maut bhi.”
He looked ahead, his eyes now cold, deadly.
This wasn’t just about love anymore.
This was a storm awakening.
And Rudra had just made a vow.
Next morning
Ishni’s POV:
When I woke up, the bed felt too big — and too cold. I blinked, stretched, and reached out with half-lazy hands…
Empty.
I looked around. No sign of him.
Ugh. Typical.
"My man. My husband. Mr. India. Jisko gayab hone ki aadat hai," I mumbled, dragging the blanket over my head for a second.
But I couldn’t go back to sleep. My mind was already spinning — flashes of last night, of his touch, his voice, his promise.
I got up, tied my hair in the messiest bun of the century, and went hunting.
Where does a mysterious, brooding husband go before breakfast?
Of course.
The gym.
I opened the door… and paused.
Actually, no. I forgot how to breathe.
There he was — Mr. India in full 4K HD.
Wearing nothing but sweatpants, shirtless, glistening with sweat.
Muscles flexing with every punch he threw at the bag, veins running down his arms like god personally sculpted them on a mood swing.
I blinked. Twice.
Then stared.
Then forgot how to blink altogether.
“Meri aankhen aise chipki hai jaise feviquick,” I whispered to myself, eyes wide, shameless.
God really spent some extra hours on this man.
I stood there like a statue — eyes stuck, lips slightly parted, heartbeat somewhere doing bhangra in my chest.
And then… he turned.
Slowly. Like a damn movie hero in slow motion.
Our eyes met.
Shit.
Caught red-handed.
He smirked — that crooked, cocky smirk that says: “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
Rudra:
“Enjoying the view, Mrs. Rajput"?
I instantly looked away, pretending to cough like a 90-year-old aunty.
“View? Nahi toh. I was just... counting how many punches you did. For... health awareness.”
He walked toward me — slow, deliberate steps, every muscle in his torso flexing with sin.
“Counting punches?” he echoed, tilting his head, “Or the lines on my abs?”
Before I could answer, his fingers hooked around my waist and pulled me gently into his chest — warm, sweaty, and unfairly delicious.
“I swear,” I mumbled, trying not to melt, “you walk around like this on purpose. It should be illegal.”
He leaned in, voice brushing against my skin.
“For you, Mrs. Rajput, I break every law.”
My knees nearly gave up on life.
But of course, I couldn’t let him win that easy.
So I poked his abs and said, “Haan haan, body toh hai, but breakfast ban gaya kya? Ya phir protein shake hi milega?”
He laughed — low, deep, and stupidly sexy — before picking me up bridal-style like I weighed nothing.
“Protein shake toh milega, par aaj aap pehle meri breakfast ban jao.”
“Rudraaa!” I squealed, half laughing, half blushing into oblivion.
And that’s how my morning started — no toast, no tea, just six-pack abs, shameless flirting, and a husband who could ruin me with just one look.
As soon as he set me down, I turned to the kitchen to gather whatever sanity I had left.
“Okay, Mr. Rajput ” I said, trying to sound serious despite the fact that my heart was still doing cartwheels. “What do you want for breakfast? Omelette or anda bhurji?”
He leaned lazily against the fridge, sweatpants hanging low, chest glistening — basically illegal levels of hot.
“Jo aap banāogi, wohi khāunga,” he said with that slow smile, “Zehar bhi agar aap ke haathon ka ho… toh pyaar se kha jaaunga.”
I choked on thin air.
“Drama bandh karo,” I muttered, turning away to hide my blush. “Cheese daalu ya nahi?”
Suddenly, his arms snaked around my waist from behind. His bare chest pressed against my back, and his lips brushed against my ear as he whispered—
“Mujhe farq nahi padta aap kya bana rahi ho... main toh sirf aapko dekhne aaya hoon.”
I froze, spatula in hand, heart in throat.
“Hamesha aapko dekh sakta hoon, jaan. Aap ka chehre pe subah ki roshni padti hai na… lagta hai bhagwaan ne khud aaj ka din sirf mere liye banaya.”
My knees. Were. Weak.
He turned me around gently, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Aaj aap ko breakfast banana nahi hai,” he murmured, cupping my face, “Aaj aap meri breakfast ho.”
“R-Rudra!” I squeaked, half-scolding, half-melting.
He chuckled, dipped his head, and kissed the tip of my nose.
“aap jab meri baahon mein hoti ho na, jaan… toh lagta hai duniya ka har dard do kadam door khada darr raha hai. Main sab kuch bhool jaata hoon.”
He kissed my forehead then.
“Ek hi dua karta hoon roz — ke aap kabhi meri zindagi se na jao.”
My breath caught.
And before I could say anything more, he tore a piece of buttered toast, held it up to my lips, and whispered:
“Ab khāo. Itna pyaar kar chuka hoon aap ko … bhook bhi aap par hi lagti hai.”
I took the bite. Slowly. Smiling like a total fool.
And that morning — amidst laughter, warm toast, and soft kisses — I realised something.
This man… this dangerously romantic, shirtless menace… was my forever.