Sacred Games Of Twisted Fate {18+}

*THE LITTLE BOY BENEATH THE COLD MAN "

***author's pov***

Arjun entered his room, his usual stoic expression intensified by the cold gleam in his eyes. Dark, unwavering, he looked every bit the ruthless man he was known to be. A few drops of blood clung to his skin, stark against his sharp features, as though they were marks of the punishment he’d just dealt. In his hand, the knife he still held gleamed faintly under the dim light, the remnants of his rage evident in the crimson stains that clung to the blade.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched as he looked down at his hand, still gripping the knife tightly. It was as though he hadn’t fully let go of the fury that had surged through him moments before, an anger that seemed almost animalistic in its intensity. In his mind, he replayed every moment of his confrontation with Meera. Her screams, her pleas, they had done nothing to soften the merciless edge within him.

With a quiet resolve, Arjun set the knife down, his gaze drifting over to the bed where Aayara lay. She was asleep, unaware of the storm that had just passed outside her door. Her face was serene, untouched by the darkness that he carried with him, and somehow that only heightened his protectiveness.

Arjun walked closer, wiping the blood from his face with a cold, detached motion, yet his eyes softened, just barely, as he looked at her. She was the only one who had ever stirred anything remotely close to gentleness within him, though he’d never show it openly. Still, he would do anything to protect her, even if it meant staining his hands over and over again.

Standing by her side, he watched her for a moment longer, the flicker of warmth in his gaze a contrast to the bloodied reminder of his brutality.

Arjun staggered back, collapsing onto the floor as though struck by some unseen force. His chest rose and fell heavily, and a fierce internal battle raged in his mind, each thought a sharp, chaotic pulse. No. Don’t fall for her. You can’t. You don’t love. You don’t need love. The words echoed like a mantra, a desperate chant against the torrent of emotions threatening to break free.

His throat felt dry, his pulse quickening in defiance of his own commands. He clenched his fists, feeling a wave of panic rise within him. His amber eyes darkened, fear twisting through him, so foreign and unwelcome. He had always been in control—cold, calculating, ruthless. But now, just looking at her, a spark of vulnerability clawed its way into his heart, and it terrified him.

He could see her sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the storm brewing in him. A deep part of him wanted to reach out, to brush a gentle hand across her cheek, but he forced himself to hold back, fighting the dangerous yearning. He had never needed anyone, never allowed himself to be vulnerable, and he couldn’t start now. Not with her. This was weakness.

Arjun bolted down the mansion’s long, dimly lit corridors, his feet pounding against the marble as he made his way toward the basement. With each step, he forced down the emotions that had clawed their way to the surface, his mind racing as he descended further into the darkness. This was his sanctuary—the one place where he could confront his demons without anyone’s prying eyes.

Reaching a nondescript door, he keyed in a sequence, and the hidden door clicked open, revealing a concealed room only he knew existed. It was dim, almost barren, except for a few shelves stacked with old journals and scattered artifacts from his past. The faint smell of dust and leather filled the space. This was where he kept everything that could expose him—the remnants of the person he’d once been before he’d hardened his heart.

As he entered, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, finally letting the mask slip. His hands shook slightly, and he ran them through his hair, frustration and fear mingling in his expression. Arjun took a deep breath, his eyes unfocused as he whispered, almost as if hoping to convince himself, “She means nothing.”

Arjun's gaze softened as he took in the old family portrait, his hand reaching up to trace the faces on the glass, his fingers lingering over the woman seated in the center. His mother, Rajshri, radiant in her red saree, her smile so full of warmth it seemed to light up the room. Her presence, even in a photograph, was a powerful reminder of everything he had once cherished—and lost.

His younger self stood to her right, a serious expression on his face even at eight, while Rudra clung to their mother’s side with a mischievous grin, and little Daksh’s bright eyes sparkled with innocent joy. And his father, standing behind them, with one hand protectively resting on Rajshri's shoulder, completed the image of a family that, to outsiders, must have looked perfect.

A flicker of pain passed through Arjun's eyes. They had once been happy—a time before betrayal, before loss, before everything shattered. Before he’d been forced to grow into the hardened man he was now. This hidden room, with its fading photographs and dusty memories, was the only place he allowed himself to remember that innocence.

The warmth in his gaze faded as his fingers dropped away from the photograph. "This is why you can't fall, Arjun," he murmured to himself, his voice resolute. His mother's legacy, that purity she represented—he couldn't let anyone tarnish it, not even himself.

Arjun’s shoulders shook as he knelt on the cold floor, clutching his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. Tears—a rarity in his life—began to slip down his face, breaking through the stoic armor he wore every day. He stared at the photograph, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Maa," he choked out, the anguish in his voice filling the silent room. "I don’t deserve her... she's too pure, too innocent." The vulnerability he buried so deeply came flooding to the surface, his confession falling only on the ears of his mother’s memory.

“She makes me weak," he whispered, almost in disbelief. He had vowed never to allow anyone to have such a hold on him again, yet here he was, brought to his knees, not by power or defeat, but by love he could neither control nor understand.