CHAPTER 32
Stay away
POORVI
The silence of the library is almost holy. Heavy with dust, the faint smell of old paper, and the crisp rustle of pages turning somewhere far off. I’m seated at a long wooden desk, pen in hand, my notes spread out in neat, desperate rows.
“Defense mechanisms in Freud’s theory,” I whisper under my breath, jotting down a line. “Projection, displacement, repression...” My handwriting tightens, ink pooling where I press too hard.
It’s strange how much this subject mirrors my own life. The ways people twist and bend reality to protect themselves, to avoid the sting of truth. How often have I done the same? Buried things, pretended, smiled through.
I rub my temples, leaning back, staring at the high arched ceiling of the palace library. Even here, surrounded by knowledge, by silence, my mind drifts back to Vihaan.
A sudden crash jolts me from my thoughts.
The sound is sharp, metallic—like something heavy colliding with the brass door handle. My pen slips from my fingers, rolling across the table. My pulse leaps to my throat.
I push back the chair, my feet carrying me before I even think. The grand doors of the library loom, one slightly ajar, and as I reach, I see him.
Ranbir bhai-sa.
He’s leaning against the doorframe as though he owns the place, one hand braced on the polished wood. A stack of books lies scattered near his feet, the crash explained, but his eyes aren’t on the books. They’re on me.
And the curve of his lips—it isn’t kind. It isn’t even mischievous. It’s something darker, sharper. The kind of smile that slices.
My stomach lurches. His eyes are red and he looks drunk.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is thinner than I want it to be. I force my chin up.
“Just passing through.” His tone drips with amusement, but his eyes stay fixed on me in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Every instinct in me screams that it’s a lie.
“I should get back to work.” I turn, intending to slip away, to create space. My feet barely move before I feel it—his presence close, too close.
The air shifts, pressing heavy around me.
“Poorvi.” My name on his lips is a violation in itself. Slow, deliberate, intimate in the most unwelcome way.
I flinch, stepping back, but the edge of the desk catches my hip. I hate the tremor in my hands as I clutch the wood, grounding myself.
“Move,” I whisper, but it comes out like a plea instead of a command.
His hand comes down on the desk, caging me in. The scent of him—sharp cologne, something metallic beneath it—assaults my nose. I tilt my head away, bile rising.
“Why so afraid?” he murmurs, his voice low, mocking. “You’re my brother's now, aren’t you? Or should I say—finally an actual princess?”
The words slice deeper than I want them to. My chest constricts, breath stuttering. He knows exactly where to aim.
I push against him, my palms striking his chest, but he barely moves. Panic flares, raw and consuming. I want to scream, to shove harder, but my voice lodges in my throat like a stone.
“Don’t—” I manage, the word breaking.
His laughter is soft, almost lazy, but it curdles the blood in my veins. “Don’t? You think anyone will hear you in here?”
The library feels suddenly too vast, its silence a curse.
I twist, trying to duck away, but his hand shoots out, fingers grazing my wrist, squeezing tight. My heart slams so hard I can hear it in my ears. The edges of the world blur.
I kick at him, my foot connecting with his shin. His smirk falters for a split second, but then he leans in closer, his breath hot against my cheek.
“You’ve got fire,” he says, almost admiring, though it drips with mockery. “I like that actually.”
My stomach churns. Tears sting at the back of my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I will not give him that. I will not break, not here, not in front of him.
“Let me go!” This time my voice is louder, but it cracks. I yank my wrist with every ounce of strength, nails biting into my own skin where his grip holds me.
He only grins wider, tilting his head as though savoring the fight.
The books scattered on the floor catch my eye—an opening, an idea. With my free hand, I grab the thickest one within reach and slam it against his arm. The impact shocks him, his hold loosening just enough for me to stumble sideways, tearing free.
My breath comes ragged, chest heaving, the room spinning as I back away, trying to run away from him.
But he straightens slowly, almost deliberately, rubbing his arm where the book struck. His eyes gleam with something crueler now, something unspoken but heavy with threat. And then—he smiles. That same cold, satisfied curl of lips that makes my insides twist.
Like he’s already won, even if I’ve managed to put space between us.
I clutch the edge of a shelf, my fingers trembling, nails scraping wood. My body shakes, every nerve screaming in revulsion, but I stand my ground. I won’t crumple. Not in front of him.
Inside, though—inside I am unraveling.
The memory of his grip, the weight of his nearness, clings to my skin like filth I can’t scrub off. I want to scream, to cry, to tear away every layer of myself he touched. But all I can do is breathe, harsh and shallow, eyes locked on him as though the moment I look away, he’ll strike again.
He doesn’t move closer this time. Just lingers, watching me shake, his smirk carved like a scar across his face.
My heart is pounding so violently I feel dizzy. My lips part, words stuck. I want to scream for Vihaan, for anyone. But the sound won’t come.
And in that silence, the truth crashes over me: I’ve never felt so unsafe in my life. Not anywhere. Please, I don't deserve this, have I not been through enough?