6

Aryan's POV

I tied the last ribbon, a soft pink one, around the gift box. The knot sat perfectly on top, as if it belonged on a birthday present. Pookie. That's what they call this kind of ribbon, right? Cute. Innocent. It matched the wrapping paper beautifully.

I stepped back and took a moment to admire my work. The entire room was filled with neatly arranged gift boxes, each one wrapped with same style.

These weren't just gifts. They were proof of my love. Tokens of my dedication. Each one carried something far more valuable. Something more meaningful.

These were for Inaya.

My sweet, beautiful, untouchable Inaya.

The thought of her brought a smile to my lips. She had no idea how much I love her, how much I watched over her. How much I protected her.

And she also had no idea what was inside these boxes.

I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the nearest gift. Inside, neatly packed and preserved, were the fingers of those who had dared to troll her. The faceless cowards who had insulted her on social media, who had typed out their venomous words without fear.

But fear found them in the end.

Scary?

Maybe to some. But not to me.

They deserved this.

Did they think their words wouldn't reach me? That they could say whatever they wanted and get away with it? Fools. They didn't realize that Inaya isn't just some girl they can mock. She isn't just a passing face on their screens. She is mine.

Mine to protect.

Mine to cherish.

Mine to avenge.

I took care of them one by one. Some begged, some cried, some tried to act brave. In the end, they all screamed. And when their screams died, I preserved the proof of my love inside these boxes. Wrapped them carefully. Decorated them with ribbons.

A part of me wanted to show Inaya. To let her see the depth of my devotion. To let her know that she isn't alone, that someone is always watching over her, ready to destroy anyone who dares to hurt her.

But she isn't ready for that. Not yet.

She would be scared. And I don't want that.

Not yet.

Only I have the right to scare her.

But in my own way. In my own time.

She doesn't know the real Aryan Raizada. The man who doesn't just protect, but owns. The man who is feared in the underworld. The man who people whisper about in hushed voices.

The Mafia King.

But that Roy, that arrogant bastard, thinks he is the king.

My enemy.

I let out a quiet chuckle. How pathetic. How small. He thinks his power means something. He thinks he can challenge me, test my patience, push his luck.

But a lion doesn't concern itself with deer.

A lion only hunts.

Roy's time will come.

Just like the others.

I should probably head back now. Inaya must be hungry. I checked on her before coming here and she is taking a nap.

I want to be the first person she sees after she wakes up. Not only in morning but everytime.

To look at Aryan.

Not just any Aryan.

The Aryan who once believed love was a weakness.

The Aryan who thought he would never love anyone.

The Aryan who fell so deeply, so completely, that now there's no way out.

Author's pov

Aryan stood in the kitchen, his phone balanced against the counter, playing a YouTube video on how to make dinner. He watched the screen intently, trying to copy each step, but cooking wasn't exactly his work.

Actually, he had never cooked before. Not even once.

But today, he had made a decision.

From now on, he would cook for Inaya.

He didn't want anyone else in his house. No cooks. He had sent them all away. He wanted it to be just the two of them, and that meant taking care of everything.

He picked up the pan, attempting to flip it just like the chef in the video. Confidently, he gave it a flick.

And then, disaster struck.

The pan slipped from his hand, and before he could catch it, the hot surface hit his palm.

"Shit," he muttered, quickly shaking his hand to ease the sting.

In his rush to fix things, he grabbed a knife without thinking. The sharp blade grazed his finger, slicing through his skin.

Blood instantly appeared.

Before he could react, he heard a soft laugh.

Aryan turned his head toward the sound, and there she was-Inaya.

She stood at her door, leaning against the frame, watching him with a smile. Her eyes twinkled with laughter, and her lips curled as if she was trying to hold it back.

She walked into the kitchen, shaking her head. "You, move aside. I'll cook."

Aryan frowned slightly. "It's okay, Inaya. I'll do it."

She crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look. "Look at yourself. You're bleeding. Go get first aid."

"It's nothing," he said, brushing it off as he rinsed his hand under the sink. The water stung, but he didn't show it.

"When you don't know how to cook, why are you even trying?" she asked, effortlessly flipping the food in the pan, doing in seconds what he had failed to do in minutes.

Aryan watched her, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I thought I should make it for you."

"You've cooked before?"

"No," he admitted honestly. "But I wanted to do it for you."

She raised an eyebrow. "By getting yourself injured?"

Aryan chuckled, watching her as she continued cooking.

She was smiling.

She was smiling because of him.

And despite the burns and the cut on his finger, that made it all worth it.

■

After preparing dinner, both Aryan and Inaya sat at the dining table, quietly eating their meal. Neither of them spoke at first, both too focused on their plates.

But then, Aryan cleared his throat and spoke.

"Actually, Inaya, I forgot to tell you something."

She looked up at him, waiting for him to continue.

"There's an outhouse" he said casually. "I don't want you going near it."

"Why?"

"There's some internal construction work happening there. A lot of dust and mess. And I know you're allergic to dust, so I don't want you going there and getting affected by it."

"Okay, as you say."

She didn't question it any further.

Aryan watched her for a second longer, his fingers gripping the cup just a little tighter.

Good.

She didn't need to know what was really inside that outhouse.

■

After finishing his meal, Aryan leaned back in his chair. Just as he was about to get up, his phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen and immediately frowned. The name flashing on it was one he never wanted to see Vyom. His stepbrother.

With a sigh, he picked up the call.

"I told you to stop calling me, Vyom," Aryan said.

"I know you don't want to talk to me," Vyom replied. "And honestly, I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important. Roy is back, Aryan. He's already killed a lot of people. I thought you should know."

Aryan stiffened at the name but quickly masked his reaction. "I don't need you to tell me what's happening," he said sharply. "I know how to handle myself."

"I'm sure you do, but you and Roy... you've always been enemies. And you know he won't stop until he gets what he wants.."

Aryan exhaled slowly, trying to keep his irritation in check. "Whatever happens, I'll deal with it on my own. I don't need your help, and I definitely don't need your calls."

"Fine," he said. "Do whatever you want. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Aryan didn't bother replying. Without another word, he hung up the call and tossed his phone onto the table. He ran a hand through his hair.

Roy was back. And that meant things were about to get a lot more dangerous.

■

It was past midnight when Inaya finally fell asleep. But her sleep wasn't peaceful.

Somewhere in the darkness, she felt something. Hands. Unfamiliar, rough hands touching her where they shouldn't. Her entire body froze in fear. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe.

It was happening again.

Just like that day.

Just like when her coach hurt her.

The touch became more aggressive. Someone was grabbing her, ripping her clothes. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Then came the pain-sharp, unbearable. A heavy weight pressed down on her, choking her. She gasped for air, but it was useless. She was suffocating, drowning in fear.

She couldn't fight back.

She couldn't escape.

And then-she woke up.

Her eyes flew open, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she sat up. Sweat covered her face. Her hands trembled as she clutched the blanket tightly, trying to remind herself that she was here, in her room, not there.

But the fear wouldn't go away.

Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.

A panic attack.

She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking slightly, trying to calm down. But the nightmare felt too real.

She could still feel the touch.

She could still feel the pain.

In the next room, Aryan had just been about to sleep when he heard something. At first, he thought he imagined it. But then he heard it again-a muffled sob, gasping breaths.

Soon he got out of bed and walked toward Inaya's room.

"Inaya?" he called softly as he opened the door.

What he saw made his heart drop.

Inaya was curled up on the bed, hugging herself tightly, her entire body shaking. Her face was buried in her hands, her breathing ragged. She looked terrified, lost.

"Inaya?" Aryan called again, stepping closer.

But as soon as she heard his voice, she panicked even more.

"Don't touch me! Please, no! Leave me alone! Please, I beg you," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Don't hurt me again. Please. Don't touch me like that. Give me back my clothes. I'll do whatever you want, just don't touch me."

Aryan felt like he couldn't breathe.

She wasn't seeing him. She was seeing him-the man who had hurt her.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke softly, carefully.

"Inaya, it's me. Aryan."

She flinched, shaking her head, as if trying to block his voice out. She still wasn't fully there.

Aryan took another step toward her, slow and steady.

"You know I won't hurt you," he said gently. "I would never hurt you."

Inaya's teary eyes finally lifted to his face.

She looked at him, her breathing still uneven, her body still trembling. But there was a flicker of recognition now.

"He'll hurt me again," she whispered, her voice broken. "I can't go through that again. Please, please."

Aryan felt his heart shatter.

He knelt beside the bed, making sure not to move too fast, not to scare her.

"I promise," he said softly. "No one will ever hurt you again."

She hugged herself even tighter, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm here," Aryan continued, his voice calm and steady. "You're safe. You're not alone."

She didn't respond, but she didn't push him away either.

Slowly, Aryan reached out but stopped just before touching her.

"Can I hold your hand?" he asked gently.

Inaya hesitated.

For a moment, she didn't move. Then, her fingers twitched slightly. After a few seconds, she gave a small nod.

Aryan carefully took her hand.

Her hand was ice cold.

He rubbed slow circles on the back of her palm, whispering softly, "Just breathe, Inaya. Just breathe."

She tried to match his breathing, but it took time.

A few minutes passed.

Then a few more.

Eventually, her sobs turned into small sniffles. Her body was still trembling, but not as violently.

Aryan didn't rush her. He just stayed by her side, letting her know she wasn't alone.

After a while, he spoke again.

"Do you want some water?" he asked.

Inaya blinked, like she was just realizing how dry her throat felt. She gave the smallest nod.

He poured a glass of water and placed it on the nightstand beside her.

"It's right here whenever you're ready," he said softly.

Inaya wiped her face with the back of her hands. Her eyes were still red, her body still felt weak, but the terror had faded a little.

She looked up at Aryan.

"Can you... stay?" she whispered.

Aryan gave a small nod.

"Of course," he said.

Without another word, he pulled a chair beside her bed and sat down.

He didn't talk. He didn't force her to say anything.

He just stayed.

And for the first time in a long time, Inaya felt like maybe, just maybe, she wasn't completely alone anymore.

■

After some time, Inaya finally fell asleep. Her breathing had evened out, and the tension in her face had softened.

Aryan sat beside her for a moment, watching her carefully. His hand curled into a fist as he took in the sight of her exhausted, tear-streaked face. His jaw tightened.

She didn't deserve this.

She didn't deserve to live in fear, to wake up in panic, to still feel the touch of that monster in her dreams.

Slowly, Aryan stood up. He moved carefully, making sure not to make any noise. He didn't want to wake her up again.

Once he was certain she was deep in sleep, he turned and slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

He knew exactly where he was going.

His footsteps were silent as he walked through the dark corridors.

A few minutes later, Aryan pushed open the heavy metal door to a small, dimly lit room.

The stench of blood and rot filled the air.

Her coach.

Or at least, what was left of him.

His body was barely recognizable now-nothing more than skin stretched over bones. His face was sunken, his lips cracked, his breathing shallow. His wrists and ankles were tied so tightly with thick iron chains that his skin had bruised and torn.

Aryan stepped forward, tilting his head as he observed the pitiful sight before him.

"I wonder..." Aryan murmured, his voice eerily calm. "How are you still alive?"

The coach barely lifted his head. His hollow eyes stared at Aryan, but there was no strength left in them. No fight.

Aryan crouched beside him, his expression unreadable.

"She is still suffering because of you," he whispered, his voice laced with quiet fury. "Even now, she wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. Even now, she begs for it to stop."

Aryan let out a soft, humorless chuckle.

"And yet... you're still breathing."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sharp blade. The metal gleamed under the dim light as he twirled it between his fingers.

Aryan grabbed his left hand and pressed the blade against the tip of his index finger.

Without hesitation, he sliced the flesh clean off.

A faint, strangled noise escaped the coach's throat, but there wasn't even enough strength left in him to scream.

Aryan watched him for a moment, his then moved to the next finger. Another slice. More blood.

Then the toes.

One by one.

The coach twitched, his body shaking violently from the pain. But no one could hear him. No one was coming to save him.

Aryan stood up, his eyes cold and empty. He wiped the blood off the blade with a cloth and then, almost lazily, pressed it against the bottom of the coach's foot.

"Keep breathing, you filthy human being," Aryan murmured. "I'll be back to treat you again."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

And in the suffocating darkness, the coach sat there, barely conscious, knowing that this nightmare was far from over.

To be continued

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