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Meri Khwaish

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭. 𝐇𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 - 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.

Rajvansh's forced bride

"𝐇𝐚𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐞𝐡 𝐝𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐲𝐞... 𝐣𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐚 𝐚𝐚𝐤𝐡𝐫𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐠𝐚 𝐚𝐚𝐣." "𝐖𝐨𝐡 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢 𝐬𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐚, 𝐣𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐚." She was a widow, he was a mad king. She lived in white, her days as hollow as the bangles she shattered at her husband's pyre. He lived in red, a force of chaos wrapped in flesh, his path painted in the blood of the fallen, his throne a pyre of the conquered. His enemies feared his madness. His allies feared his boredom. He did not rage to conquer-he raged to feel, to break the silence that clung to his soul like the ashes of his fallen foes. She wasn't just a bride, she was the prize, the possession he won in a war. He extended his hand, rough and scarred, the hand that had broken empires and crushed crowns. His voice was a low rumble, a whisper wrapped in steel. "Yeh haath ek shauk nahi... ek zimmedari hai. Thukra dengi toh bhi, zindagi bhar yeh haath kisi aur ke liye nahi badhega." She looked at the outstretched hand, the hand that had shattered kingdoms, and her lips curled in a bitter, ghostly smile. "Vidhva hai hum... Bhagwan bhi maaf nahi karenge." He stepped closer, the air between them thick with unspoken promises and dangerous desires, his jaw tightening, eyes darkening with a madness only she seemed capable of awakening. "Jab mard pe daag lagta hai, uski kamai se dhul jaata hai. Magar aurat par jo daag lagta hai, woh uske marne ke baad bhi zinda rehta hai." His fingers twitched, aching to trace the curve of her neck, to feel the pulse beneath her fragile skin, to break the distance between madness and defiance. "Aap mere liye sirf kamzori nahi, junoon hai," he murmured, his voice rough, the words a dark promise. "Aur junoon ke raaste mein aane wale log sirf ek hi anjaam paate hain-maut." And in that stolen breath, where white met red, where restraint clash.

17

Chapter-15

Ishh

Ishh

𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥—𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜, 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

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Meri Khwaish

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Rajvansh's forced bride

Ishh