[49]care but anger
The Sabha ended with a final wave of applause and murmurs of approval.
The villagers began dispersing slowly, groups forming to discuss the new rules, women walking with a little more confidence, men glancing at each other with a mix of respect and caution.
The winter sun was high now, casting short shadows across the field, the neem trees rustling gently in the breeze.
Abhiraj stepped down from the stage, shaking hands with the elders, exchanging brief nods with the constables. His white kurta was still pristine, his turban perfect, but his eyes were already searching the family seating area.
He found her immediately.
Amisha sat on her cushioned chair, hands folded in her lap, the maroon saree draped elegantly, but her face flushed, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cool air. She was shifting slightly, discomfort clear in her posture.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
He walked straight to her, ignoring the villagers who tried to stop him for a word or a blessing.
“Chalo, Amisha.”
His voice was low, just for her.
She looked up, the irritation from the bra momentarily forgotten. Her eyes shone with pure pride, a soft smile spreading across her face.
“I am proud of you, Pati Parmeshwar ji.”
Abhiraj chuckled (deep, warm, the sound that always made her heart flutter), and offered his hand.
She took it, standing slowly, one hand on her bump for balance.
He guided her through the thinning crowd, his palm steady on her lower back, shielding her from any accidental bumps.
The black Jeep waited at the edge of the field, driver standing ready.
Abhiraj opened the passenger door himself, helped her in with careful hands (one holding hers for support, the other gently lifting her pallu as she sat, folding it neatly on her lap so it wouldn’t drag).
Then he closed the door, walked around, and slid into the driver’s seat.
Door shut.
Windows up.
Tinted mirrors closed (the world outside could see nothing inside).
Privacy sealed.
He turned to her.
“Remove your blouse.”
Amisha blinked, cheeks flaming.
“K-kyun?”
He looked at her calmly, eyes soft but firm.
“Maine notice kiya tha Sabha mein. Tumhe takleef ho rahi thi.
Chalo nikalo. Varna jaldi hi gutan ki wajah se mar jaogi.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing (pregnancy anger flaring instantly).
“Gaadi mein kaise nikaalu blouse? Kisi ne dekh liya toh?”
He leaned back, voice patient.
“Darling, car ke mirror alag hote hain.
Hum bahar dekh sakte hain, woh andar nahi dekh sakte.”
She shook her head stubbornly, anger rising (hormones making it worse).
“Nahi! I won’t!”
Her voice was sharp, eyes flashing.
He sighed, but there was no real annoyance (only that quiet, possessive care).
Before she could protest more, he reached over, turned her gently but firmly, and pulled her into his lap (strict but soft, one arm around her waist, the other supporting her back and bump).
Amisha gasped, eyes narrowing further.
“Abhiraj! Kya kar rahe ho?”
She wiggled, trying to push away, anger bubbling.
He didn’t budge.
His fingers found the three front clips of her blouse (calm, deliberate).
Click.
Click.
Click.
The blouse fell open like a cropped jacket, exposing the tight bra underneath.
Amisha’s anger spiked.
“Abhiraj! Ruko!”
She tried to twist away, hands pushing at his chest, wiggling harder.
He held her steady with one arm, the other reaching behind to unclasp the bra.
Snap.
Straps loosened.
He dragged them down her arms through the sleeves (slow, careful, never exposing more than necessary).
Then closed the blouse again, clipping it neatly from the front (now loose, comfortable, nothing underneath).
Amisha was furious (cheeks red, eyes blazing, still trying to wiggle free).
“Abhiraj! Yeh kya badtameezi hai?!”
She pushed at his shoulders, legs kicking lightly.
He wrapped both giant arms around her (firm, unyielding, but never hurting the bump).
She was trapped (completely under him now, no space to move even an inch).
Face to face.
Eyes to eyes.
Lips barely apart.
Her eyes narrowed in pure, irritated anger.
His looked bored, almost amused (like he was saying without words: try as much as you want, I’m here to hold you tight).
Amisha struggled one last time, then sighed in defeat (long, dramatic, pregnancy-style).
He smiled slowly.
“Now done, kitten.”
She huffed, still angry, but didn’t fight anymore.
Just leaned her forehead against his chest, muttering,
“Bossy… bahut bossy ho gaye ho aap.”
He kissed her temple.
“For your own good, meri jaan.”
Amisha sat sideways on Abhiraj’s lap, legs wrapped around his waist, saree bunched high, bump nestled safely between them.
Her back was against the driver’s door for support, his arms locked around her like iron bands.
She was still angry (cheeks flushed pink, eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a stubborn line).
He had already removed the bra, but the blouse was loosely clipped again for decency.
Now, with one hand, he reached for the middle clip and opened it again (slow, deliberate).
Amisha’s eyes flashed.
“Abhiraj!”
He didn’t answer, just gently pulled the blouse edges aside (not fully open, just enough to expose the soft, heavy curves of her breasts and the tender skin beneath).
From the glove compartment he took a small tube of soothing nipple balm (the one the doctor had prescribed for soreness).
He squeezed a little onto his fingertips.
First, he applied it carefully to each nipple (slow circles, feather-light, watching her face for any sign of pain).
Amisha’s anger faltered; her breath hitched, eyes fluttering.
Then he moved lower, applying the balm along the underside of her breasts where the bra had dug in, easing the red marks.
Finally, a little on her shoulders where the straps had bitten.
His touch was clinical and tender at once (no hunger, only care).
When he finished, he adjusted the blouse again (clipped it loosely, fabric now soft and comfortable, no pressure anywhere).
Then he lifted her gently, shifted her back to the passenger seat.
Amisha folded her legs up onto the seat, knees to chest, turned her face toward the window (cheeks burning pink, anger still simmering but softer now).
She refused to look at him.
Abhiraj started the engine, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching to brush her cheek.
She turned further away, pallu pulled up like a shield.
He chuckled low.
“Theek hai, meri gusse wali biwi.
Ghar pahunch ke manaa lunga.”
The Jeep pulled away, leaving the Sabha ground behind.
Amisha stayed turned away, arms crossed under her bump, lips pouted.
But the corner of her mouth twitched (just a little).
Anger or not, she knew he had done it for her comfort.
And deep down, she was already softening.
Just not ready to admit it yet.