The silence in the car was a physical thing, thick and heavy, vibrating with the engine’s rumble and the crunch of gravel under tires. Outside, the skeletal fingers of banyan tree shadows clawed at the fading light. Inside, the air crackled, saturated with everything left unsaid.

The temple. The whispers. Her.

Amrutha sat rigid beside him, a statue carved from tension. The gold he’d draped around her neck – his gold – caught the dim light, a stark, possessive gleam against her skin. He felt the weight of it, heavier than the metal itself. The weight of his own actions.

He could still feel the ghost of her skin against his fingertips as he’d offered the prasad. That fleeting, electric contact. The sharp intake of breath from his grandmother – a sound of pure disapproval he’d expected, even welcomed. Let them see. Let them know.

"Then wear only mine."

The words echoed in his own skull, a vow made as much to himself as to her. A claim staked in gold and silence. Possession was a wildfire within him, consuming reason, leaving only the stark need for her to be his. Undeniably. Completely.

Yet, since that moment, words had turned to ash in his mouth. What could he say that wouldn’t shatter the fragile, dangerous thing he’d created? That wouldn’t reveal the raw, unfamiliar edge her proximity carved into him? So he held himself still, gaze fixed on the unspooling road, fingers tapping a silent, restless rhythm against the cold metal of his thumb ring. A facade of indifference. A necessary armor.

Let her think me unmoved. Let her think it routine. Safer that way.

He felt the minute shift beside him. The slight turn of her head. She was looking at him. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge it, but his awareness of her sharpened, a blade pressed against his nerves. Her confusion, her hurt – he felt them like physical currents in the charged air. Why did he retreat? Because the storm inside him threatened to break everything, including her. Because the intensity scared him as much as it consumed him.

The car jolted violently over a pothole. His hand shot out instinctively, bracing against the seat, knuckles whitening as his fingers dug into the leather of his own thigh. Control. Maintain control. He forced his grip to relax, smoothing the tension from his jaw. A tell. He knew it. Had she seen? Had she recognized that clenched fist from the wedding day, when his grandmother’s venom had first sparked this cold fury?

Before the thought could fully form, the car slowed. Home.

---

The iron gates groaned open, revealing the courtyard washed in the warm, deceptive glow of evening lamps. Sandalwood and jasmine clung to the air, sacred scents now feeling incongruous. He stepped out first, the weight of the house, the lineage, the expectation, settling instantly on his shoulders. Staff bowed low. His grandmother stood sentinel at the entrance, her hawk-like gaze fixed not on him, but on Amrutha trailing behind. Let her look. Let her see the gold.

He took two steps onto the swept earth path.

Chaos erupted.

Shouts. Scuffling. His men materialized from the periphery, dragging a man through the gates. The man was a ruin – face swollen, clothes torn, bleeding onto the dirt. Behind them, a young girl trembled, her mother clutching her, face streaked with terror.

One of his men stepped forward, bowing. "Ayya. He was warned. Repeatedly. Didn’t stop." The man’s voice was tight with controlled anger. "This time… he tried to drag her into the fields."

A cold, familiar fury, different from the fire Amrutha ignited, flooded Rudhran’s veins. It was a glacial river, honed sharp by duty and an uncompromising sense of justice. His justice. The household had gathered, a silent, watchful audience – elders, uncles, women, servants. Their eyes were heavy, expectant. Waiting for Ayya’s judgment.

He moved forward, two deliberate steps. The man whimpered, trying to sink to his knees. Rudhran’s guards held him upright. The stench of fear and cheap liquor rolled off him.

The first blow was pure, focused violence. Fist connecting with jawbone. A satisfying, sickening crunch. Blood sprayed. The man sagged, held only by his guards. No hesitation. The second punch drove into soft ribs. A crack. A guttural scream tore through the courtyard.

In his periphery, he registered Amrutha. Frozen. Her hands clutched her saree, knuckles white as his had been moments ago in the car. Don’t look. He couldn’t afford the distraction. Couldn’t afford her softness intruding on this necessary brutality.

The servants bowed their heads lower. His men stood like statues, eyes averted, hands clasped. No one interfered. This was his domain. His responsibility. The price of order.

The third blow shattered the man’s nose. A fountain of crimson erupted, splattering Rudhran’s pristine white shirt, warm and wet against his chest. He ignored it. The visceral smear was part of the message. Part of the price. The man collapsed, choking, blood bubbling from his lips.

Not enough.

He gripped a handful of greasy hair, yanked the head back. Slammed his knee into the ruined face. Bone gave way. A wet, final crack. The mother behind him sobbed, a muffled sound of relief and horror.

He stood over the broken thing on the ground, breathing deep, measured breaths. The cold fury hadn’t abated; it demanded finality. One last, brutal punch drove the man’s head into the dirt. The body lay still. Utterly still.

Silence. Thicker than the temple incense. Thicker than the car’s tension.

"*Ayya.*" His uncle’s voice, calm, acknowledging the deed, the authority. A title that meant both reverence and burden.

Rudhran stared down at the result of his violence. His knuckles throbbed. Blood dripped from his hand, staining the earth. He flexed his fingers, the urge to ensure absolute finality warring with the knowledge it was done. He had seen the life leave the man’s remaining eye. He stepped back.

"Throw him somewhere," he commanded, his voice low, devoid of inflection, cutting through the silence like steel. "If he breathes again, I don’t want to hear of it." No room for mercy. No room for doubt. His men moved instantly, dragging the corpse away.

The mother rushed forward, collapsing at his feet. "Ayya! You saved my daughter’s life!" Her gratitude was raw, desperate.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t acknowledge the thanks. Justice wasn’t done for gratitude. It was done because it was necessary. His gaze, almost against his will, found Amrutha.

She was still frozen. Pale. Eyes wide with unadulterated terror. The kind of fear he commanded in his enemies, reflected back at him from the woman he’d claimed as his own just hours before. It struck him like a physical blow, colder than the fury.

His blood-stained fingers curled slightly. He could feel the tackiness of it. The stark reality of what she’d witnessed. The mask of the indifferent husband was irrevocably shattered by the reality of the ruthless Ayya.

The silence stretched, heavy with her fear. The tension from the car, the temple, the claiming – it all crystallized into this moment. The chasm between them, wide and bloody.

Driven by an impulse he couldn’t name, an urge to bridge that chasm or perhaps simply to face the consequence of her terror head-on, Rudhran took a step. Towards her.