Talab

Her royal love 9

Maan stepped into the house.

Empty.
Silent.
Soulless.

He dropped the keys, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. The weight of his betrayal pressed harder than ever — every corner echoed with her laughter... now lost to his cruelty.

He knew.

She wouldn't come back. Not after what he did.

But then...

A sound.

A laugh?

He froze.

His heart stilled.

He pushed open the bedroom door.

And there she was — sitting cross-legged on the bed, sipping juice like the world hadn't shattered two nights ago. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes shimmering with mischief.

She looked up and smiled.

"Oh Maharaj," she said, dramatically bowing. "I was waiting for you!"

His breath hitched.

She ran toward him like nothing had happened. His arms moved slightly, but before he could speak, he stepped back.

"Why are you here, Ruhanika?" he asked coldly. "Don't you have any self-respect?"

She stopped.

Then — crossed her arms across her chest, a move he'd always found unintentionally attractive.

"Oh? So now we're talking about self-respect, Maharaj?" she said, lifting an eyebrow. "Well, next time you plan a grand betrayal, at least remember to take the blackmail letter with you."

His gaze shifted instantly.

She caught it.

"Exactly," she smirked. "You forgot, Maan. I found the letter. The real one. The truth."

He opened his mouth — but nothing came out.

"You see," she continued, stepping closer, her voice softer, "I may be an emotional monkey, but I never let go of my tree."

He looked at her, speechless.

Her tree.
Him.

Tears gathered in his eyes. And without thinking — he pulled her into his arms. Tight. Desperate. Broken.

"I'm sorry," he whispered over and over again. "I'm so sorry, Rooh. I'm so sorry..."

She held him, slowly sitting on the bed and pulling him with her. Then, she sat on his lap, her forehead pressed to his.

"Maan," she whispered. "Even if you push me away a thousand times... even if you break me again... even if one day, you kill me — I'll still love you. You hear me? Because I don't need you to say 'I love you.' I know you do. I feel it. I am your Rooh."

A tear slid down his cheek.

He cupped her face — rough hands trembling against her softness — and pressed his lips to hers.

Desperate. Messy. Real.

It wasn't just a kiss.

It was a plea. A prayer. A reunion of shattered pieces finding their home again.

That kiss turned into another. And another.

And soon, they were tangled together on the bed — skin to skin, heart to heart — drowning in a storm only they could survive.

They made love like two souls burning in forgiveness.

When it was over, their breaths were uneven, bodies slick with sweat, hearts still racing.

He kissed her shoulder softly.

"I'm sorry," he murmured again. "I didn't mean to be rough—"

She silenced him with a soft kiss. "Shh... you were hurting. And now, you're home."

He lay beside her and curled closer, resting his face against her chest — his lips brushing softly over her skin.

Like a child seeking comfort.

Like a man seeking redemption.

And there, on her heartbeat, he drifted to sleep — holding the only truth that ever mattered.

His Rooh.