Chapter Thirty Five
Ria's POV;
I couldn't sleep.
No matter how tightly I wrapped my arms around myself, no matter how hard I tried to breathe normally, my chest felt like someone was sitting on it.
I kept replaying everything-his grip on my waist, his cold warnings, Ruksar's words slicing into the weakest parts of me.
It hurt.
And the worst part?
It hurt for a man who had never shown me the slightest kindness.
What did that make me?
Pathetic?
Naive?
Stupid?
Maybe all of the above.
But I couldn't help it.
My heart was not obeying me-it was obeying something else, something I didn't understand.
I hugged myself tighter as a breeze slipped through the balcony glass. The night was quiet, the kind of quiet that made your thoughts sound louder. I looked up at the sky, searching for anything-stars, answers, signs-but all I found was a heaviness sitting inside my bones.
And then I heard it.
A car.
Fast.
Rough.
Pulling up harshly in front of the villa.
My stomach dropped.
Aansh.
Of course it was him.
A storm always returns to the house it destroys.
I panicked. I didn't want to face him-not tonight, not with the mess inside my chest still fresh and bleeding. So I slipped out of the master bedroom and hurried into the guest room, hoping he wouldn't come looking for me. I lay down, trying to slow my heart-
The door burst open so hard the hinges rattled.
I jerked upright.
And then my breath stopped.
Aansh stood there, shoulders heaving, eyes burning with something wild-but that wasn't what shocked me.
It was the blood.
His shirt was soaked in it.
His arm, his side, his collar-dark patches everywhere.
He was leaving a faint trail behind him on the marble floor.
My mouth fell open but no sound came out.
He didn't even look at me.
He walked straight to the cabinet, pulled out the first aid kit, and placed it on the table with hands that trembled slightly-almost unnoticeably-but not to me.
"Aansh..." the whisper escaped me before I could stop it.
"You're hurt."
He paused mid-movement, head tilting slightly toward me, but he said nothing.
No acknowledgement.
No explanation.
Just that rigid silence he wrapped himself in.
I swallowed and stepped closer.
"Aansh, you're bleeding."
This time he turned.
Slowly.
Like he wanted me to regret opening my mouth.
Even injured, his expression was cold enough to freeze bone.
"You need a doctor," I said, already reaching for the villa landline. "You're bleeding everywhere-you shouldn't even be standing-"
A hand-strong, rough, unyielding-closed around my wrist.
I froze.
He pulled me back, forcing me to face him. His eyes were wild but empty at the same time-like a man who carried too much chaos and too little care for his own survival.
"There is no need for a doctor," he said, voice dangerously low. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," I said, my voice shaking but determined. "Look at yourself, Aansh. Your entire shirt is red. Please-just let me call-"
His grip tightened sharply.
Pain shot up my arm.
My breath hitched, but I didn't pull away.
"I said I don't need a doctor."
He leaned in-too close-his breath ghosting the side of my face.
"I don't repeat myself," he murmured.
"Ever."
My eyes shut instinctively. Not out of fear-but because being this close to him overwhelmed every sense I had left.
But I forced courage into my voice.
"I'm not going to listen to you this time."
I swallowed.
"Either I call a doctor... or I call your grandfather."
Silence.
A dangerous, suffocating silence.
Then I felt his hand move-a sudden shove-and my back hit the wall behind me.
I gasped as he cage me with his arms, trapping me between the wall and the heat of his body.
His eyes were dark. Razor-sharp.
"Are you threatening me?" he asked, his tone deadly calm.
I shook my head quickly.
"I-I'm not. I'm worried about you."
His brows pulled together, but only slightly.
"Why."
Not a question.
A demand.
I looked away, searching for breath, for words, for stability that didn't exist.
"I'm not a monster, Aansh," I said quietly. "Anyone in your condition-I would worry. It's basic humanity."
His jaw tightened.
A humorless smirk curled his lips, as if the idea that I could care-even a little-was amusing to him.
He stepped back suddenly, releasing me.
I almost stumbled at the sudden cold air where his warmth had been.
Without a word, he turned and picked up the first aid kit, pretending nothing had happened-as if blood wasn't still dripping from his sleeve.
I hated him in that moment.
Hated his ego.
His pride.
His need to pretend he wasn't breaking.
I left the room quietly-but not to give him space.
I went straight to the landline.
And called the doctor.
Two minutes later, the doctor arrived breathless at the villa door. I guided him down the hallway, pushing down the panic twisting in my stomach.
When we reached the guestroom...
It was empty.
Of course it was.
He couldn't even lie still.
I found him in the closet, rummaging through shelves like nothing was wrong.
"Aansh..." I whispered. "The doctor is here."
He didn't look back.
"I didn't ask you to get a doctor."
His tone cut.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
I clenched my fists.
"Well, then I'll call Grandpa."
He froze.
Turned.
And smirked.
"Fine. Let's get this over with."
I blinked.
He... agreed?
Just like that?
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
He lay down on the bed without complaint.
No sarcasm.
No threats.
Nothing.
And somehow, that scared me more than his anger ever had.
I waited outside the room, pacing back and forth.
Every few seconds, I heard it-
his muffled groans of pain.
Each one sliced through me like a blade.
It felt wrong.
Unfair.
Cruel.
He was hateful, yes.
Harsh, yes.
Cold, yes.
But seeing someone suffer-
even him-
it hurt in a way I couldn't explain.
Thirty minutes later, the doctor came out.
"Is... is he okay?" I asked.
"He's stable," the doctor assured. "He lost a lot of blood, but he's lucky. One bullet almost grazed his heart but didn't. He needs rest. And medication. No movement for at least a day."
A bullet.
My hands went cold.
A bullet almost reached his heart.
I nodded numbly, thanking the doctor as he left.
When I stepped back inside, Aansh was lying there on the bed, breathing heavily, his forehead damp with sweat, his face pale under the dim light.
Something inside me cracked.
I walked to the bathroom, filled a bowl with cold water, grabbed a clean towel, and returned.
He looked at me tiredly.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Helping you," I whispered.
Not for him-
but because it was the only thing that made sense to my heart right now.
I pressed the cool towel gently to his forehead.
He flinched.
Not from pain.
From surprise.
"I don't need your help," he hissed.
I didn't move the towel.
"I'm not interested in helping you either," I said bluntly. "But you're my husband. And right now, you're hurt. So sit still."
He stared at me.
For once, he didn't argue.
Not because he respected me.
But because he was too exhausted to fight.
After wiping away the sweat and blood stains, I handed him a glass of water and his painkillers.
"Take them," I murmured.
He did.
I didn't understand why that made my eyes burn.
When he finally closed his eyes, chest rising and falling slower than before, I turned away, feeling my own breath shake.
I headed to the bathroom to take a shower.
Maybe the hot water would wash off everything I was feeling-
The hate.
The hurt.
The fear.
The confusion.
And whatever this emotion was that kept tightening in my chest every time I looked at him.
I closed the bathroom door quietly behind me.
But even then-
even separated by walls and silence-
my heart refused to calm down.
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