[16]HOW DARE THEY?
Abhiraj side,in khet,
The sun was a molten coin on the horizon, bleeding gold across the stubble.
Abhiraj stood at the edge of the new property, boots sinking into soft earth, the air thick with dry wheat, marigold, and the faint musk of grazing goats.
His security flanked him, earpieces glinting, but his focus was the land—
hundreds of acres, a blank canvas under the Shekhawat name.
He gestured to the surveyor, voice low, clipped.
“College yahan—north-east corner. Medical wing ke liye space chahiye. Hospital south mein, trauma center ke saath. Gaon ke liye free OPD. Irrigation canal yahan se expand karo.”
The surveyor nodded, scribbling.
Abhiraj’s mind raced:
classrooms with solar roofs,
a neonatal unit for village mothers,
a library stocked with books no child here had ever seen.
This wasn’t just land.
It was legacy.
His phone buzzed—London.
He ignored it.
Amisha was waiting in the car, probably sulking about being left behind.
He’d make it up to her later.
A smirk flickered.
Maybe another kiss in the car.
Discussion wrapped.
He strode back, coat flapping, sunglasses reflecting the dying light.
The lead Scorpio waited, engine purring.
He yanked the door open—
Empty.
His blood turned to ice.
“Amisha?”
No answer.
The seat was warm, her faint jasmine lingering, but she was gone.
The driver scrambled out, face pale, eyes darting.
“Hukum, madam abhi us taraf gayi thi—bagti hui! Main hi dhoond raha hoon, pata nahi kahan—”
Bagti hui.
The words hit like a bullet.
Worry crashed over him, sharp, visceral.
He didn’t think.
Hand reached behind, fingers closing around the cold steel of the Glock tucked at his waist.
He pulled it free, safety off, grip tight.
Jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
“KAHAN?!”
The driver pointed, trembling, toward the deeper fields.
Abhiraj ran.
Boots pounded earth, dust exploding with each step.
His men fanned out, voices shouting, radios crackling.
“Bhabhi ji kahan hain?!”
“Area cover karo!”
He tore through the stubble, heart hammering, eyes scanning:
neem trees,
marigold bushes,
goats scattering in panic.
Nothing.
No white sharara.
No chhan-chhan of payals.
Minutes bled away.
The sun sank lower, painting the sky blood-red.
His chest burned—not from running, but from the void where she should be.
Then:
a flash of white, snagged on a neem branch.
He skidded to a stop.
Reached.
Pulled.
Her dupatta.
Torn, muddy, half-ripped from its twin.
The delicate chikankari was smeared with dirt, a thorn still caught in the fabric.
His vision tunneled.
Rage—pure, molten—surged through his veins.
“Kaun… kaun chhua usse?”
His voice was death, low and lethal.
He crushed the dupatta in his fist, knuckles white.
“Agar uske ek baal bhi toota… main unhe zinda jala doonga. Dharti pe nark bana doonga.”
"How dare they?"
He spun to his men, eyes black with hellfire.
“POORA AREA CHHANO! HAR PATA, HAR JHADI! ABHI!”
They scattered like wolves.
The sun was nearly gone, the sky bruised purple.
He pushed deeper, gun raised, every shadow a threat.
His pulse roared in his ears.
Amisha. Amisha. Amisha.
Then:
a small mud house, half-hidden by a banyan.
A flicker of movement.
Three men.
Lounging outside, bottles in hand, laughing.
He stopped.
Gun lowered but ready.
Voice ice.
“Koi ladki dekhi yahan? Safed kapde. Abhi.”
The lean one spat paan, eyes flicking to the gun, then away.
“Nahi sahab… kisi ladki ko nahi dekha. Kasam se.”
Liars.
Their fear stank.
Then:
a scream—
muffled, desperate, hers.
“ABHIRAJ! YAHAN HOON MAIN!”
The world stopped.
His head snapped toward the house.
Rage detonated.
“PAKDO IN TEENO KO!”
he roared, voice splitting the night.
His men surged.
The three scrambled, but it was too late.
Fists.
Boots.
Screams.
They were down, pinned, guns at their heads.
Abhiraj didn’t look back.
He sprinted.
Gun slid back into his waistband—she couldn’t see it.
Boot to the door.
CRASH.
Wood exploded inward.
Darkness.
Then:
her.
Amisha.
Crumpled against the wall, sharara torn to shreds, white now grey with mud.
Braid a wild mess, one jhumka gone, eyes red, face streaked with tears and dust.
Her dupatta—his dupatta—was clutched in her trembling hands.
She saw him.
A broken sob tore from her throat.
She ran.
He caught her mid-crash, arms locking around her like steel.
She buried her face in his chest, fingers clawing his shirt, crying so hard her whole body shook.
“Woh… woh log…”
“Shh… main hoon. Safe ho tum.”
His voice was calm, but his hands trembled as they stroked her back, her hair, her bruised wrist.
He shrugged off his coat, wrapped it around her, swallowing her small frame.
The fabric smelled of him—sandalwood, gun oil, safety.
He lifted her.
She was light, limp, exhausted.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, tears soaking his collar.
Outside, the men were being dragged away, faces bloodied.
He didn’t look.
His world was in his arms.
He walked.
Boots steady, coat flapping, her weight nothing.
Her breathing slowed, hiccups fading.
By the time he reached the Scorpio, she was asleep—
cried out,
run out,
safe.
Her fingers still clutched his shirt.
Her bare foot peeked from under the coat, dusty, bruised.
Her lips were parted, lashes wet, a faint smear of mud on her cheek.
He slid into the back seat, her still cradled against his chest.
The door shut.
The convoy rolled.
He stared down at her.
Thumb brushing the tear tracks, the bruise on her wrist.
His jaw clenched, but his touch was gentle.
“Ghar,” he whispered into her hair.
“Bas ghar.”
The car hummed through the dark.
And in his arms, she slept—
broken,
healed,
his.
The convoy rolled into the courtyard like black thunder.
Gravel crunched under tires, headlights slicing through the dusk.
The haveli’s arched entrance glowed with diyas, but the usual evening chatter died the moment the lead Scorpio stopped.
Abhiraj stepped out.
Amisha in his arms:
asleep,
limp,
wrapped in his oversized coat like a broken doll.
Her torn white sharara peeked from beneath, streaked with mud.
One bare foot dangled, dusty and bruised.
Her braid hung loose, strands stuck to her tear-streaked cheek.
The remaining jhumka glinted weakly in the lamplight.
Silence.
Then:
gasps.
Minakshi’s hand flew to her mouth.
Dadi froze mid-step, pankha dropping to the marble.
Rajveer, Mihir, Satish—standing near the veranda—turned as one.
“Yeh kya hua?!”
Minakshi’s voice cracked.
“Amisha—beta, kya hua isse?!”
Abhiraj’s jaw was granite.
He didn’t stop walking, boots echoing on stone.
“Teen mard. Khet ke paas. Usse pakad liya tha.”
His voice was low, lethal, each word a blade.
“Mud house mein band kiya. Daru pee rahe the. Uske baad ka plan…”
He didn’t finish.
Didn’t need to.
The air turned to ice.
Rajveer’s eyes went black.
“Woh teen kahan hain?”
Mihir cracked his knuckles, slow, deliberate.
Satish’s fists clenched, veins bulging.
Abhiraj’s gaze flicked to them:
four men,
four predators,
ready to hunt.
“Main sikhaunga unhe zindagi ka sabak,”
Abhiraj said, voice deathly calm.
“Aaj unki maut bhi unke liye rehmat hogi.”
Satish stepped forward.
“Main bhi aaunga, bhaiya.”
Mihir nodded once, eyes burning.
“Hum sab.”
Rajveer’s voice was steel.
“Unka naam-o-nishaan mit jayega.”
Minakshi reached for Amisha’s dangling hand, tears in her eyes.
Dadi pressed a trembling palm to her forehead, whispering a prayer.
Abhiraj didn’t stop.
He carried her up the marble stairs, coat trailing like a war banner.
The door shut with a soft click.
Moonlight spilled through the jali, silver on ivory sheets.
He laid her down gently, like she was made of glass.
The coat stayed wrapped around her—he tucked it tighter, covering the torn sharara, the bruises, the damage.
She didn’t stir.
Just a soft exhale, lips parted, lashes wet.
He pulled out his phone.
One call.
“Status.”
The reply came sharp:
“Teeno pakde hue hain, Hukum. Godown mein. Aapke aane ka intezaar hai.”
He ended the call.
Signed once.
Then he knelt beside the bed.
Thumb brushed the dried tear tracks on her cheek,
smudging away the dust,
the fear.
His lips pressed to her forehead:
soft,
lingering,
a vow.
“So ja, moti. Main hoon.”
Outside, the haveli was silent.
Inside, the storm was just beginning.