Rudhran’s POV

The weight of blood should have pushed her away.

But she stayed.

I stood there on the balcony, the air heavy with iron and rain, my body aching from the fight, streaks of crimson drying against my skin. Every part of me screamed violence. And yet—she had touched me.

Amrutha.

She had no idea what kind of man I truly was. Or maybe she did.

And still… she stayed.

I watched the moonlight bleed over the courtyard as I clenched the railing tighter. I hadn't spoken a word since I walked out of that bathroom, since I’d let her lips graze my bruised knuckles.

She was still inside. I could feel her presence like a storm behind me.

"You should sleep," I said, my voice more of a warning to myself than to her.

"So should you."

Her voice—God, her voice—soft, but steady. Always steady when I expected it to break.

I turned.

And there she was.

Pressed against the door like she needed something to hold her upright. Her saree was still stained with my blood, her hair slightly damp, her eyes wide but unflinching.

She looked like sin wrapped in softness.

Like mercy standing before a monster.

"You’re still here," I said.

I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"You expected me to leave?" she asked.

Yes.

Always.

That’s what they all did.

"Most people do."

But she wasn’t most people.

"I’m not most people, Rudhran."

My name in her mouth sounded like something divine. Like a plea I never deserved.

And then she stood there, proud in her pain, unwavering in her silence.

I took a step.

Then another.

The room began to close in around us, and the space between us felt like it would combust.

She didn’t move.

Even when I reached her.

Even when I reached for her saree—clutching the blood-stained fabric between my bruised knuckles.

I didn’t tug. Didn’t pull.

Just held it.

A question. A demand. A prayer.

"Amrutha."

I didn’t know what I was asking for. But she did.

"Yes?"

That one word shattered every thread of control I had left.

I pulled her into me.

Her body collided with mine, small and soft and trembling—but not from fear. From something else.

Her palms pressed to my chest, her breath feathered against my throat.

I should’ve stopped.

I didn’t.

"You terrify me," she had said once.

But she wasn’t running now.

I lifted my hand, brushing the back of my fingers along her cheek, smearing away the last trace of blood. My blood. Still warm on her skin.

I leaned in, close enough to hear the stutter of her breath.

"Say it again," I whispered.

She blinked. "Say what?"

"My name."

I needed to hear it.

To believe I was more than what I had become.

"Rudhran."

It wasn’t a name anymore.

It was surrender.

And I was done.

My lips found her pulse, wild beneath her skin. Her hands clenched into the folds of my dhoti, her knees nearly buckling as I kissed down her neck, letting myself forget the world—just for a moment.

But I forced myself to stop.

Barely.

I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze.

Her lips were parted, eyes glazed, chest heaving.

"Tell me to stop," I said, voice low, thick.

She didn’t say a word.

And that silence…

That silence ruined me more than any bullet ever had.

Because silence meant yes.

Silence meant stay.

Silence meant hers.

I was about to lift her, press her against the cold wall and kiss her until she forgot her name—

But fate always had cruel timing.

A knock at the door.

Sharp. Insistent.

"Thambi." My uncle’s voice, impatient. "We need to talk."

I swore under my breath, forcing space between us.

She adjusted her saree, hands shaking just a little.

I turned toward the door.

But before I could take a single step—

She caught my wrist.

I froze.

Her touch was soft but unshakable.

"Come back to me."

My throat closed.

Not because of the words.

But because I knew—I’d already left too much of myself with her.

I brushed my fingers across her jaw, let my thumb rest near her lips.

"I always will."

And I meant it.

Even if the world turned against me.

Even if she someday did.

I'd always find my way back to her.

Always.

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