His Bleeding Rose

I'LL BREAK HER

I sit here, breathing heavily, my back drenched in blood, the cut from the sword fight throbbing with each heartbeat. The pain grounds me—reminds me of what I've become. Let him cut me, let me bleed for what I'm doing, for what I've done to her.

How I behaved with her after returning... It's despicable, unforgivable.
I, who killed that MLA who dared to threaten her, who took a life without hesitation to protect her, am now the one causing her the deepest wounds. Not of the flesh, but of the soul.

I want her to feel the pain I felt—the agony of betrayal, the torment of being broken. She was at fault; she is at fault. But even so... I can't let her go. Not now, not ever. If she shattered me, then I'll break her—piece by piece. And when she's broken enough, I'll rebuild her into the perfect woman, the perfect wife, the woman I once loved, my Rose.

"Sir, you're bleeding. Should I call the doctor?" one of my men interrupts, his voice cautious, almost trembling.

"No." My tone is sharp, final. "Leave."

Bholenath, maaf karna hume...

I'm not allowing her to attend the coronation. She needs to feel what it's like to be left alone, to understand the emptiness I've endured. As I stand, the dried blood cracks against my skin, but I ignore it. I grab my shirt and throw it on, hiding the evidence of the battle.

When I enter her room, the sight stops me in my tracks. She's lying there, eyes shut, but the empty bottle of sleeping pills on the bedside table screams louder than any words.

I sit down before her, studying her face. It's serene in sleep, but her swollen, red eyes tell a different story—a story of torment and despair.

But don't be a fool, Adhiraj. You have all the proof. She lied. She hid Anirudh. She betrayed you. Break her. Break her so completely that she'll have no choice but to become the woman you need her to be.

Her eyes flutter open, and for a moment, there's a vulnerability in them that grips my chest. "You've taken sleeping pills, haven't you?" I ask, my voice colder than I intend.

"None of your concern," she snaps, her tone defiant.

Her body sways as she tries to sit up. She's still so weak after the child... our child, the abortion. My fists clench as I watch her push herself too far, and before she can fall, I catch her. But she shoves me away, her stubbornness blazing even in her frailty.

"That's my Queen," I murmur under my breath, the ghost of a bitter smile on my lips. "Keep fighting me for what I'm doing to you love."

She disappears into the bathroom, and I take the moment to prepare for the coronation. It's tradition for the Queen to ready the King, but how can I ask her to do it?

When she returns, her steps are slow, hesitant. I hold out the cloth for my pagdi, expecting her to ignore me. To my surprise, she takes it and begins wrapping it around my head.