[17] REVENGE
The room was a tomb:
dim bulb swinging from a frayed wire,
casting sickly yellow light over cracked concrete,
rusted iron beams,
the stench of blood, sweat, and fear thick enough to choke on.
In the corner:
three men,
tied to iron chairs with coarse rope,
wrists raw,
faces already pulp—
split lips,
swollen eyes,
blood dripping from noses onto stained kurtas.
The lean one whimpered.
The heavy one sagged, barely conscious.
The youngest trembled, urine staining his dhoti.
The door creaked open.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Abhiraj stepped in.
Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar,
sleeves rolled high,
boots silent on the concrete.
Behind him:
Satish and Mihir,
arms crossed,
faces carved from stone.
The men flinched.
The youngest sobbed.
“Maaf kar do, sahab… galti ho gayi…”
Abhiraj didn’t speak.
He dragged a rusted iron chair across the floor—
SCREEECH—
and planted it in front of them.
Sat.
Legs spread.
Elbows on knees.
Eyes black.
Dead.
He lifted one boot.
Placed it—
slow,
deliberate—
on the youngest’s right hand.
The one that had grabbed her wrist.
CRUNCH.
Bones shattered under the sole.
The man screamed, a raw, animal sound.
Abhiraj didn’t move.
Just pressed harder.
CRACK.
Another bone.
“Tune uske haath ko chhua tha.”
The lean one pissed himself.
The heavy one retched.
Abhiraj reached to the side table.
Picked up a rusted kukri—
curved,
nicked,
still sharp.
No warning.
He stood.
Grabbed the heavy one by the hair.
Yanked his head back.
And slammed the blade into his left eye.
SCHLICK.
A wet pop.
Blood and fluid sprayed.
The man’s scream died in a gurgle.
Satish and Mihir didn’t blink.
Abhiraj pulled the blade free.
Handed it to Mihir.
Mihir took the lean one’s trembling hand.
Slice.
Index finger—gone.
Slice.
Middle finger—gone.
Blood pooled on the floor.
The man fainted.
Satish stepped forward.
Boot to the youngest’s crotch.
THUD.
A sickening crunch.
The man folded, vomiting blood and bile.
Satish kicked again.
And again.
Until the man stopped moving.
Abhiraj crouched in front of the heavy one—now half-blind, half-conscious.
Voice low.
“Tune aur kitni auraton ko chhua?”
He already knew.
Village records.
Missing girls.
Rapes.
Bodies in the canal.
Monsters.
The man gurgled.
Abhiraj stood.
Pulled the Glock from his waistband.
Click.
One shot.
Center of the forehead.
Lean one—gone.
Second shot.
Between the eyes.
Heavy one—gone.
Third shot.
Temple.
Youngest—gone.
Silence.
Only the drip of blood.
The swing of the bulb.
Abhiraj holstered the gun.
Voice calm.
Cold.
Final.
“Main chahta tha meri biwi khud tumhe maare.
Par woh darr jayegi.
Toh main uski seva mein hoon.
Uska kaam kar raha hoon.”
He turned.
Didn’t look back.
Satish and Mihir followed.
The door creaked shut.
Three bodies.
Three monsters.
Gone.
And in the haveli,
Amisha slept—
safe,
unbroken,
avenged.
The haveli was asleep, save for the low flicker of diyas along the corridor.
The main door creaked open, slow, deliberate.
Abhiraj stepped in first.
Black shirt soaked dark at the chest and sleeves,
blood dried in rust-brown streaks across his knuckles.
His boots left faint red prints on the marble.
Satish followed,
kurta torn at the shoulder,
a smear of crimson across his jaw.
Mihir last,
fists still clenched,
blood crusting under his nails.
The air smelled of iron and gunpowder.
Rajveer stood at the foot of the grand staircase,
arms crossed,
eyes sharp in the dim light.
He took one look,
didn’t flinch.
“Bhago gaya se.
Tumhari maa ne dekh liya to darr jayegi.”
His voice was a low command.
No questions.
No judgment.
Just go.
Abhiraj nodded once.
The three moved like shadows,
silent,
up the stairs,
splitting without a word:
Abhiraj to his wing,
Satish and Mihir to theirs.
Doors closed.
Bolts slid.
The haveli slept on.
Only the diyas flickered,
as if even the flames knew to keep quiet.
The door opened without a sound.
Abhiraj slipped inside, coat gone, shirt clinging to him like a second skin,
dark,
wet,
crimson.
Moonlight poured through the jali, silver on ivory sheets.
Amisha lay exactly where he’d left her:
curled on her side,
his coat still wrapped tight,
one small hand tucked under her cheek.
Her breathing was soft, steady,
lashes fanned,
lips parted in sleep.
He stood at the foot of the bed.
Silent.
Unmoving.
His eyes traced her:
the faint bruise on her wrist,
the mud streak on her temple,
the torn edge of her sharara peeking from under the coat.
He stepped closer.
Kneeled.
Reached—
slow,
careful—
to brush the stray hair from her face.
Then stopped.
His hand hovered an inch away.
Knuckles split.
Fingers crusted with dried blood.
Their blood.
He curled his fist.
Pulled back.
Not her.
Never her.
He rose.
Silent.
Walked to the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Water hissed.
Steam rose.
And in the dark,
she slept on—
untouched,
unbloodied,
his.
The bathroom door opened with a soft hiss of steam.
Abhiraj stepped out:
bare-chested,
skin still damp,
a white towel knotted low on his hips,
water droplets tracing the lines of his abs,
down to the deep V disappearing beneath the fabric.
His hair was slicked back, dark,
blood gone,
but the storm in his eyes remained.
The room was dim, moonlight cutting silver bars across the bed.
Amisha stirred.
A tiny yawn,
one small fist rubbing her eye,
the other clutching his coat like a blanket.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then her eyes widened.
Grey irises huge,
fixed on him:
the hard planes of his chest,
the towel barely holding,
the raw, unapologetic maleness of him.
Her mouth parted.
No sound.
He noticed.
Didn’t care.
He crossed the room in three strides,
towel shifting with every step,
water dripping from his hair onto the marble.
Knelt beside the bed.
Voice low, rough from the night.
“Theek ho?”
She nodded, fast,
still staring,
cheeks flaming under the moonlight.
“Haan… sab theek.”
Her voice was tiny, shy,
eyes darting from his face to his chest and back,
like she couldn’t decide where to look.
He leaned closer.
One hand braced on the mattress beside her,
the other reaching—
then stopping, remembering the blood was gone,
but the memory wasn’t.
His voice dropped,
sharp,
scolding.
“Car se bahar kyun nikli thi?
Bola tha na—mat jaana.
Ek baar meri baat maani hoti toh aaj yeh sab nahi hota.”
She flinched,
eyes dropping to the sheets,
fingers twisting in the coat.
“Mujhe… bakriyan dikhi… main bas…”
He cut her off,
thumb and forefinger lifting her chin,
forcing her gaze back to his.
“Bakriyan kal bhi hongi. Tum nahi hoti toh?”
Her lips trembled.
Tears welled,
but she didn’t cry.
Just stared,
shy,
scared,
his.
The towel slipped an inch.
She gasped.
He didn’t fix it.
“Agli baar meri baat sunogi?”
She nodded, fast.
“Haan… pakka.”
He exhaled,
the storm in his eyes softening.
Leaned in,
pressed a hard, possessive kiss to her forehead.
“Achha. Ab so ja.”
She sank back into the pillow,
coat pulled to her chin,
eyes still wide,
watching him walk to the wardrobe:
back muscles flexing,
towel clinging,
hers.
The haveli slept under a heavy blanket of night,
only the faint tik-tik of the old wall clock and the distant call of a peacock breaking the silence.
Moonlight poured through the carved jali,
silver bars striping the ivory sheets,
the air thick with sandalwood steam,
jasmine from the courtyard,
and the low, electric hum of them.
Abhiraj stood at the teak wardrobe,
back to her,
black shirt half-buttoned,
loose,
hanging open like an invitation.
Water droplets clung to his shoulders,
traced the hard lines of his spine,
glistened in the hollow of his collarbone.
His skin still steamed from the shower,
muscles flexing as he rolled his neck,
the faint scent of gun oil and blood washed away,
but the storm in his eyes—
untamed.
Amisha sat up on the bed,
his coat slipping from her shoulders,
pooling like liquid shadow.
Her voice was small, shy,
barely above a whisper.
“Main… nahane ja rahi hoon. Gandi ho gayi hoon.”
He glanced over his shoulder,
eyes dark,
predatory,
a slow smirk curling his lips.
“Jaldi aa jana, moti. Bed tumhara intezaar kar raha hai.”
His voice was low,
rough,
a promise wrapped in velvet.
She flushed,
ducked her head,
padded to the bathroom on bare feet,
payals silent.
The door clicked shut.
Water hissed,
steam curling under the door like smoke.
The door opened again.
A cloud of steam rolled out,
carrying the clean scent of rosewater soap.
Amisha stepped through:
wet hair dripping down her back,
thick, dark,
clinging to her white cotton shirt—
damp,
translucent,
the soft swell of her breasts faintly visible,
nipples pebbled from the cool air.
Her white skirt hugged her thighs,
clinging where water had splashed,
bare feet leaving tiny wet prints on the marble.
No jewelry.
No dupatta.
Just her—
raw,
radiant,
his.
She walked to the bed,
fingers twisting the hem of her skirt,
nervous,
ready to climb in and hide under the sheets.
His voice cut through the silence,
low,
commanding.
“Idhar aao.”
She froze.
Turned.
He was on the edge of the bed now,
shirt open,
towel gone,
black trousers riding low on his hips,
the deep V of his pelvis disappearing beneath the waistband.
Moonlight carved shadows across his abs,
each muscle defined,
glistening faintly.
Her eyes widened.
Her breath hitched.
She walked—
slow,
shy,
like a deer stepping into a lion’s den.
He reached—
grabbed her wrist,
yanked.
She tumbled onto him with a soft gasp,
legs straddling his lap,
wet hair spilling over his chest like ink,
cold droplets shocking his warm skin.
His arms locked around her,
crushing,
one hand splayed across her lower back,
the other tangling in her wet hair.
“Kyun nahi sunti meri baat, biwi?”
His voice was rough,
hot against her ear,
teasing,
dangerous.
Then his mouth was on hers.
Not soft.
Hungry.
Lips bruising,
tongue sweeping in,
claiming every inch of her mouth.
She whimpered,
a tiny, helpless sound,
hands clutching his shoulders,
nails digging into muscle.
He pulled back an inch,
smirking,
eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
“Mujhe aise ghoorti thi na?
Bathroom mein bhi. Car mein bhi. Ab taste kar lo.”
She flushed crimson,
eyes dropping,
but he didn’t let her hide.
His lips found her again—
cheek,
jaw,
the soft spot beneath her ear.
“Yahan bhi dekh rahi thi…”
His teeth grazed her throat,
a gentle nip that made her gasp.
“Aur yahan…”
His mouth pressed to her pulse,
feeling it race under his tongue.
She was trembling now,
shivering in his arms,
breath coming in soft, ragged pants.
Her fingers curled tighter into his shirt,
pulling him closer,
then pushing weakly,
overwhelmed.
He chuckled against her skin,
low,
dark.
“Sharma rahi ho? Abhi toh shuru bhi nahi kiya.”
His hand slid down—
slow,
deliberate—
under her skirt.
Fabric bunched higher,
higher,
baring the soft, plush curve of her thigh.
His fingers traced lazy circles,
teasing,
claiming.
She squeaked,
buried her face in his neck,
wet hair dripping on his collarbone.
“Abhiraj…”
Her voice was a breathless plea,
half-embarrassed,
half-desperate.
He grinned against her temple.
“Haan, bolo.”
His hand moved higher—
and found nothing.
No barrier.
Bare,
warm,
her.
A low, guttural groan tore from his throat,
deep,
primal.
“Amisha…”
His fingers stilled,
then moved,
caressing,
exploring,
possessing.
She gasped,
hips jerking involuntarily,
clinging to him like he was her only anchor.
He kissed her again—
deeper,
hotter,
the room shrinking to just them,
just heat,
just the slick slide of his tongue,
the soft sounds she made,
the way her body melted into his.
But in his mind—
a war.
She’s been through hell today.
Mud house. Those animals. Tears. Fear.
She’s shaking—not just from want, but from everything.
Let her sleep. Let her heal.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll take what’s mine.
Tonight, she’s safe. That’s enough.
He stopped.
His forehead dropped to hers.
Breath ragged.
Eyes clenched shut.
Hands sliding to her waist,
holding her gently now,
restraining himself.
“Nahi.”
His voice was rough,
strained,
but soft.
“Aaj nahi.”
She blinked,
confused,
cheeks flushed,
lips swollen,
eyes wide and glassy.
“haie…?”
He smiled—
real,
warm,
devoted.
“Tune aaj itna seh liya. Thak gayi hogi.itna roya. So ja, moti.”
She stared,
then let out a soft, watery chuckle,
brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized fell.
“Roe mere dushman… main kyun royun?”
Her voice was small,
brave,
but trembling with leftover adrenaline.
He laughed quietly,
pulled her down with him,
onto the bed.
Her back to his chest,
arms locked around her like iron bands.
Her wet hair soaked his skin,
her soft curves fitting perfectly against his hard lines.
“Bahut himmat hai tum mein,”
he murmured into her hair.
“Itna sab dekh kar bhi nahi royi zyada.”
She nuzzled closer,
voice muffled against his arm.
“Tum ho na… phir darr kaisa?”
He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck,
thumb tracing lazy circles over her stomach through the damp shirt.
“Hamesha.”
She sighed,
already drifting,
safe in the cage of his arms.
But in the quiet,
as sleep tugged at her,
her mind whispered:
Why did he stop?
From the day he came… only kisses. No more.
Is it me?
My softness? My chubbiness?
Does he not want—
She shut it down.
Not tonight.
He came for me. He killed for me. He’s holding me.
That’s enough.
She burrowed deeper,
one of his hands splayed possessively over her stomach,
his breath warm on her nape.
“So ja. Main hoon.”
She did.
And in his arms,
the storm finally stilled.