Nayan's POV

A sliver of sunlight seeped into the room, gently warming the space. As the light touched my face, I slowly stirred awake. I winced as I tried to stretch out the stiffness. My fingers instinctively reaching up to touch my neck. My fingers brushed over the sore spot and I winced as the pain jolted through me. 

As soon as the ache that greeted me gave me a stark reminder of last night's horrors my eyes fluttered open, scanning the room with a cautious urgency, searching for any sign of him. But the space was empty. My eyes instantly darting down to my clothes, checking if they were still intact. I visibly exhaled a breath of relief. They were on me just like they're last night but utterly disheveled. 

The unbidden and unwelcome memories of the previous night came rushing back. Goosebumps erupted on my skin as I recalled the way his hands had tightened around my throat, the wild look in his eyes, the desperation in his movements. I was wiggling my toes in a futile attempt to keep myself grounded, to keep from blacking out as he choked the life out of me. If it weren't for the Rudraksh bead I had placed on his forehead, I wouldn't have survived the night.

I don't know what came over me when I decided to press the Rudraksh against his forehead. Maybe it was my unwavering faith, my deep-seated belief that Mahadev would protect me. I didn't even take a moment to doubt whether it would work on him, but it did. The profound power of Mahadev, after all...

My gaze shifted toward the balcony. I recalled how I had stumbled back to the balcony with trembling legs after he had left the room, searching for any sign of the smoke or the burning I had seen in the lower room. But there was nothing—no blackened remnants, no lingering rotten smell. It had all faded as if it had never happened. Exhaustion had overtaken me then, and I had collapsed onto the bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

The exhaustion still clung to me, but I can't afford to wait here any longer. Today is my pehli rasoi ceremony, and I need to get ready. Despite the heaviness in my limbs and the ache in my neck, I pushed myself off the bed.

With wiggling legs, I walked to the washroom. I turned on the tap, splashing cold water on my face and went on to get fresh.

When I came back into the room after taking a bath and wearing a saree in the closet, I saw him standing by the door, leaning against a nearby desk. 

I froze in place. He's so scary! His long hair was all scattered, wild and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot, just as they had been yesterday. I hadn't seen him look well or sane since the first time I saw him.

Upon seeing me, his posture also stiffened slightly. His eyes met mine, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them as if he wasn't sure how to act or what to say.

He cleared his throat, looking down for a moment before speaking. 

"You're...okay?"

"Hmm..."

"I'll...I'll use the washroom."

He hesitated for a moment, then pushed himself off the desk and made his way toward the washroom. As he passed by me, I could feel the weight of everything unspoken between us.

I nodded slightly, not trusting my voice to say anything more. He avoided my gaze as he walked by. 

As soon as he was out of sight, I heaved a heavy breath, trying to loosen up my tensed body. I walked towards the mirror, towel in hand, and began to pat dry my hair. I decided to leave it open until it completely dried, neatly combing through the damp strands. Unlike my life back in the temple, I don't have any access to datura plants here to make myself a gajra. I brushed off the saddening thought. 

Next, I reached for my red bindi, placing it carefully on my forehead, just in between my eyebrows, followed by the vermillion. 

This is the first time I'm applying it by myself, and the significance of this sacred powder weighed heavily on me. I had never wanted to get married—at least not like this, not as part of a deal. Yet here I'm, bound to a man who was as shattered and scattered as the pieces of glass from last night.

By the mention of the pieces, I remembered when I woke up earlier—they were gone. Instead, the room was eerily spotless, as if nothing had happened at all.

Maybe someone had come in while I was asleep, a helper perhaps, to clean up the mess. Or maybe it was him...Thakurji...

The thought of him watching me sleep and quietly cleaning up sent an unknown shiver down my spine. I brushed off my thoughts and quickly applied the sacred red powder, the vermillion that now marked me as his. My hand trembled slightly as I finished, a mixture of resignation and disbelief washing over me. How did I end up here, tied into this deal with a man so shattered, so unpredictable?

Just as I was about to turn away, the door to the washroom creaked open. My heart skipped a beat as Thakurji emerged, a towel hanging loosely around his waist. Water dripped from his long, unruly hair, tracing paths down his chest. His presence filled the room with an intensity that was both electrifying and terrifying.

Our eyes locked, and I felt a jolt of something—fear, excitement, or perhaps both—rush through my veins. My breath hitched as the air between us thickened with unspoken tension. I quickly averted my gaze, my cheeks burning with an unfamiliar heat, and hurried out of the room before my legs gave out beneath me. Seeing him like that...half-naked and drenched, made me... feel things I'm not ready to confront.

As I descended the grand staircase, my heartbeat still erratic, I noticed the household bustling helpers moved about briskly. None of them acknowledged my presence; it was as if I was invisible, a ghost drifting through their world. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do or where to go, feeling awkward and out of place in this massive, unfamiliar house.

Gathering my courage, I awkwardly approached one of the helpers, a middle-aged woman with a stern expression. 

"Excuse me," I began hesitantly, "could you please tell me where the kitchen is?"

She glanced at me- top to bottom and then bottom to top, with a cold, detached look, her face devoid of any warmth. Without a word, she raised her hand and pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. Everyone here is so unwelcoming of me.

"Thank you."

I murmured, though my words were met with silence as she turned away, already back to cleaning the maze. Feeling more out of place than ever, I made my way to the kitchen.

The kitchen was an open space, blending seamlessly with the rest of the mansion. From where I stood, I had a clear view of the private living room, where a plush arrangement of sofas and armchairs sat in serene elegance, adorned with velvety covers and cushions of dark tones along with intricate bronze designs. Just opposite the kitchen was the dining area, a long table surrounded by ornate chairs. The openness of the layout made everything feel exposed. I'd see everyone passing by from there.

I tried to focus on the task at hand, starting by placing the utensils in the sink to give them a thorough wash before using them. As the water ran over the dishes, I couldn't help but notice the other household staff casting strange glances my way. Their eyes held a mix of curiosity and something else I couldn't quite place. As if they had never seen someone doing such mundane tasks.

I ignored their uncomfortable stares, concentrating on scrubbing the utensils clean, the repetitive motion calming my racing thoughts. But as I continued to wash and arrange the ingredients for my first rasoi, I felt their eyes on me, watching with a quiet intensity.

They continued with their own work, but their gazes lingered on me, as if they were trying to decipher why I was doing something so mundane or maybe if i was doing my job ideally. Their silent observation made the kitchen, despite its openness, feel suffocating, like I was under a microscope, every action being judged.

I placed the large saucepan on the stove and turned on the heat. As the pan warmed up, I added a big tablespoon of ghee, letting it melt and spread across the bottom. The rich aroma of the ghee filled the kitchen, mixing with the quiet hum of activity around me.

Next, I tossed in a handful of dry fruits—almonds, cashews, and raisins—letting them sizzle and turn golden in the hot ghee. After a few minutes, I poured in the milk, the liquid bubbling as it met the heat of the pan. I watched it come to a boil, stirring occasionally to ensure nothing stuck to the bottom. When the milk was ready, I added the uncooked rice, carefully mixing it in with a spatula. The grains swirled in the boiling milk, absorbing the flavors as they cooked.

Satisfied, I covered the saucepan with a lid, letting it simmer on low heat. With a final stir, I stepped back, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. But as I turned around, I stumbled, nearly losing my balance.

There he was—the man who had me in a chokehold just hours ago, the same man who had shown me the depths of his madness—standing quietly, watching me cook. His hands were folded across his chest, and he leaned casually against the dinner table, his intense gaze fixed on me.

A shiver ran down my spine. I hated that posture of his—the way he leaned so casually, so confidently, as if nothing could touch him. It stirred something strange and unsettling deep inside me, something I didn't want to acknowledge.

My heart raced, a mix of fear and something else I couldn't quite place. I forced myself to look away, focusing on the simmering pot instead, trying to steady my nerves.

I expected him to say something, maybe a demand or a question, but he remained silent. His presence loomed behind me, yet not a single word escaped his lips. I waited, my back facing him, anticipating something—anything—but the silence stretched on.

Finally, I dropped my waiting and moved to uncover the flour jar from the cupboard to make some aloo parathas. As I started preparing, I couldn't help but ponder over how I hadn't initially felt his gaze on me. He'd been standing there, staring at me for who knows how long, yet it hadn't registered. Then it hit me—so many eyes had already tried to burn holes into my soul today that when his gaze added to the mix, I hadn't noticed the difference. But now, as I stood there, I felt it—his eyes on me, distinctly and significantly. It was as if his gaze warmed me up, burning my ears and straightening the hair on the nape of my neck.

I swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task at hand, but the weight of his stare was impossible to ignore. It was intense, almost tangible, making me hyper-aware of every movement, every breath.

I suddenly turned around, the question escaping my lips before I could second-guess it.

"Do you want anything, Thakurji?"

His eyes flickered with something unreadable as he uncrossed his arms and straightened up slightly. For a moment, he just stared at me, as if debating whether or not to respond. Then, he shook his head, and I turned back to my work.

Now, this is very awkward. His presence was unsettling, and the way he just stood there, silently staring, made my skin crawl. Seriously, if you're going to stare, at least don't make it so obvious.

Unable to take it any longer, I turned around again, the words tied to the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out—but they never did.

He chuckled at my reaction and shook his head, his expression almost amused. As if—as if I'm a baby doing something cute!

His reaction only made my frustration bubble up, but I swallowed it down. First his mother and now him!

I turned back to continue kneading the dough, determined to get used to his stare. This went on for some time, and just when I thought I had managed to ignore it, I felt something warmer—much warmer—than what his eyes had been making me feel.

Suddenly, the acrid smell of smoke filled my nostrils.

"Nayan!"

He screamed, and before I could react, he was running toward me. Instantly, I felt a searing pain on my back. The heat was unbearable. I barely had time to react as he rushed me toward the sink, his grip firm but careful, as though he was terrified of causing more harm. My mind was racing, trying to process everything, but all I could focus on was the unbearable heat searing my back.

When he turned on the faucet, cold water cascaded over my back. But as the water flowed, I caught a faint reflection in the kitchen window. To my horror, my hair, my long, thick hair, was on fire. Strands of it were smoldering, curling up in flames. 

Panic surged through me as I watched my once-beautiful hair, now singed and charred, being extinguished by the cold stream from the faucet. He kept his hold on me, as he ran water over my back, extinguishing the flames that had caught on my hair and my clothes burning my back with them. 

As the cold water continued to cascade over my back, I could feel the pain intensifying, no longer dulled by the initial shock. The searing agony of burnt skin and singed hair finally hit me with full force. A scream tore from my throat, raw and primal, as the realization of what had just happened gnawed at him.

His grip on me tightened momentarily, as if he could somehow absorb the pain for me. But nothing could dull the burning sensation spreading across my back. Tears welled up in my eyes, not just from the pain but from the sheer terror of what could have been. He didn't say a word, but his face was a portrait of horror and guilt.

The pain was unbearable, radiating through every nerve ending, making my entire body tremble uncontrollably. It felt as if my soul was being pulled out of my body forcefully.

I didn't even realize when he scooped me up into his arms, the world around me blurring as the pain consumed my senses, until his skin touched the burnt mine. His steps were hurried, yet careful, as he climbed the stairs, holding me close against his chest. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through my body, but I could barely register it. My mind was a haze of burning agony and confusion, my vision clouded by tears.

He laid me down gently on the bed, over my stomach, the one meant for us to share but right now, it didn't seem less than my death bed. The contrast between the softness of the bed and the raw, searing pain on my back was stark, almost surreal.  

I couldn't move, couldn't think. All I could do was breathe through the pain, trying to focus on anything but the fire that still seemed to lick at my skin. 

I heard the fabric of my blouse tear under his strong hands. As he carefully undressed me, the pain from the burns intensified, making me wince with each movement. Amidst the physical agony, a profound sense of shame washed over me. The humiliation of being so vulnerable, so exposed, was almost too much to bear.

He gently settled beside me, on the edge of the bed. I could feel his hands, cold and slightly trembling, as he applied a soothing ointment to my burned skin. The cold cream and his cold fingers against my blistered skin provided a brief relief, although the intense pain still lingered beneath the surface as multiple black dots began to cloud my vision and the room spun before my eyes shut close. 

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