Chapter 13
The Rathore mansion was a fortress. A place where kings ruled, where power was absolute.
But inside its grand walls, in the dimly lit master bedroom, a war raged.
A war between a king who refused to lose and a queen who refused to kneel.
Anvi sat by the window, staring at the darkness outside. The moon cast silver shadows over the city, but inside, everything felt suffocating.
The weight of his sindoor in her hair.
The feel of his mangalsutra around her neck.
The scent of him everywhere.
It made her sick.
It made her furious.
She wasn’t his wife.
She wasn’t his anything.
And if Agastya Singh Rathore thought she would accept this marriage, he was a fool.
Her fingers trembled as she reached up, grasping the mangalsutra he had forced onto her.
And in one sharp motion—she ripped it off.
The black beads snapped, scattering onto the floor like broken chains.
The silence that followed was heavy.
And then—the door opened.
Her breath hitched.
He was here.
---
Agastya stepped inside, his presence commanding the space instantly.
He wasn’t dressed in his usual crisp suits or traditional sherwanis.
No.
Tonight, he wore only a black kurta, the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins along his forearms.
His eyes flickered down, landing on the broken mangalsutra at her feet.
Something dark passed through his gaze.
Anvi refused to move. Refused to show weakness.
She lifted her chin, her voice sharp. “You can force me to marry you, but you can’t force me to wear this.”
Agastya didn’t react.
Didn’t speak.
Instead, he moved—too fast.
Before she could step away, **his hand wrapped around
The storm outside had calmed.
But inside the grand bedroom of the Rathore mansion, a different storm raged.
Anvi should have stepped away.
Should have thrown the first-aid cloth at him, should have walked back to her side of the room, should have reminded herself who he was.
The man who had stolen her freedom.
The man who had forced this marriage upon her.
The man who had branded her as his with sindoor and a mangalsutra she refused to wear.
And yet—
She didn’t move.
Her fingers pressed against his skin, dabbing at the cut on his forehead, her heartbeat loud in her ears.
Agastya sat still.
His body was too close, too warm, too dangerous.
His eyes—dark, unreadable—were locked onto her.
Not in anger.
Not in amusement.
But something else.
Something she didn’t want to name.
Something she didn’t want to feel.
She swallowed hard. "Why are you letting me do this?"
His voice was rough, quiet. "Because you didn’t run this time."
Her breath hitched.
She jerked her hand away, dropping the cloth on the table.
The moment broke.
The warmth between them turned cold.
She stepped back, crossing her arms. "You should’ve let me leave when I tried."
His jaw tightened, a flicker of emotion passing through his gaze. "And you should’ve known I never would."
The tension was suffocating.
Anvi turned toward the bed, ready to end this conversation.
But before she could take another step—his fingers wrapped around her wrist.
She froze.
Not in fear.
But in something far more dangerous.
Slowly, she turned to face him, pulse racing.
"Let. Me. Go."
Agastya didn’t.
Instead, he pulled her closer, his grip firm, unyielding, possessive.
His voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a man who had already decided her fate.
"You belong to me, Pari."
She swallowed, heat crawling up her spine. "In your dreams, Rathore."
His lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk. "Then why do I keep finding you in mine?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
No. No, she wouldn’t fall into this.
She pushed against his chest, but he didn’t budge.
His grip tightened.
And then, in a move that stole her breath, he leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers.
Not touching. But close enough that she felt his every exhale.
A silent challenge.
A deadly temptation.
"Say you hate me, Pari." His voice was low, almost soft. "Say it, and I’ll let you go."
Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
This was a trap.
If she said it, it would be a lie.
And if she didn’t—
She clenched her fists. "I hate you."
Agastya exhaled, his smirk deepening.
And then—he let her go.
Cold air rushed between them as she stumbled back, breathless, furious, confused.
He tilted his head, watching her like a predator who knew exactly when to strike.
"Liar."
Her blood boiled. "I meant it."
His voice was calm, smug. "Then why are your hands shaking?"
She looked down.
Damn him.
He saw everything.
Before she could snap back, he turned toward the door, his voice smooth as silk.
"Sleep well, jaan."
And then he was gone.
Leaving her standing there, furious and breathless and burning with a fire she shouldn’t feel.
Because the truth was terrifying.
It wasn’t just hate anymore.
And she didn’t know what to do about it.