His Bleeding Rose

TRANIKA

I stood in front of the mirror, completely bare, my reflection staring back at me like an open wound. The marks—new and old—spread across my skin like ghostly reminders of battles fought. My fingers traced them absently, feeling their uneven texture, their permanence. Bhabhi had seen them earlier, and she had tried to comfort me, telling me that my body wasn't ugly. That I wasn't ugly.

Come on, it's just a few more laser sessions, and everything will fade away. These new ones are still fresh; the old ones are already disappearing.

But no amount of treatments could erase the truth imprinted on my skin. I didn't need a mirror to tell me what I already knew.

Even Adhiraj wouldn't like my body.

"And who said that?"

I froze.

That voice. Deep, firm, laced with something unreadable.

I turned sharply to see him standing at the doorway, arms folded across his chest, his gaze locked onto me.

"Was I too loud?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"At least close the door while changing," he muttered, stepping inside.

"I'm in the dressing room. Who will come here," I defended, my pulse racing.

"Okay, fine."

But his eyes weren't leaving me. His gaze did something to me—something dangerous, something forbidden.

I was naked. Completely bare before him. He could see everything. And worse, I could feel everything. The air between us was thick, charged, suffocating. My breath quickened, my skin burning under his scrutiny. Why? Why now?

He took slow steps forward, closing the distance. When he reached me, he brushed a few strands of hair off my shoulder, his fingertips lingering against my skin longer than necessary. Then, without warning, he bent down and pressed his lips to my shoulder.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

His lips were warm, soft yet firm, searing a trail of heat into my skin. He didn't move for a moment, just stayed there, frozen in place. And when he finally pulled away, an unbearable emptiness followed.

I shivered.

Before I could speak, he turned me back toward the mirror, positioning himself behind me. One of his hands rested on my waist, possessive, grounding me in place. The other? He slid it into his pocket, as if he were keeping himself in check.

"Look at yourself," he murmured, his voice brushing against my ear like silk and fire.

I swallowed hard.

"Look how pure and beautiful your body is. And these marks?" His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into my waist. "They're not ugly, Rose. They're proof. Proof that my wife fought a fucking army. That she survived. You have no right—no damn right—to speak about yourself like this."