ENCHANTED - BY INNOCENCE (ongoing)

55

This chapter has approx 3500 words and ends with a question, so make sure you read till the end ❤️

Target for next chapter: 1375 votes and 750 comments

*** Yashoda ***

KNOCK KNOCK

The moment I heard the knock on the door, I braced myself to be angry. 

For all the strategy planned against me, for the literal meeting to plot how to trick me, and for involving my best friends in his antics—Kheera better have an answer. This time, I will follow Mayil's advice and send him back to the soldiers' compound...

Or so I thought, until I opened the door and found his eyes filled with anger.

Why is he angry? I am supposed to be angry.

"Good afternoon, love," he greeted me, his tone polite despite the tension in his expression, and walked right past me into the house.

I followed him, still trying to hold onto my anger, though it faltered as I watched him.

"How was the idli?" he asked casually, while unpinning his badges and swords. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic—placing the swords and the badge with the flag down respectfully, yet slamming the other badges onto the table with a controlled frustration.

I stood in silence, watching him, unsure whether I should answer or ask him what was wrong.

"I asked you a question, Yashu," he reminded me, his voice still gentle despite the weight of the moment.

"It was really tasty. I loved it," I replied honestly.

He nodded, but his attention didn't linger on me. He walked into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

"Did you try the aloo paratha?" he asked, his voice muffled as he changed.

Am I allowed to be in here right now? Why am I getting distracted?

"No," I shook my head, snapping myself out of my thoughts. "I was planning to have it for lunch."

"Heat it up; don't have it cold," he instructed, his tone firm but not harsh.

I nodded silently as he changed into a fresh shirt and started tying a cloth around his hand with careful precision.

"What is that for?" I asked, my curiosity overriding my lingering confusion.

"It protects my hand and knuckles," he replied, without looking up.

"From what?" I asked, even more confused.

"I'm going to take a bag filled with sand, hang it up, and punch it repeatedly," he explained, his voice calm as if he were teaching a child. "The cloth protects my hands so I can keep doing it."

"W-what?" I stammered, still trying to process what he was saying.

"Don't worry about it. It's nothing serious," he reassured me, though the tension in his posture suggested otherwise.

He walked past me toward the door. I instinctively moved to follow him, but he stopped abruptly and turned back.

"Don't follow me," he said.

I hesitated, unsure of what to do, but something in his tone made me pause.

Still, I couldn't help myself. I started following him again, my steps tentative but determined.

"I said don't follow me, sweetheart," he repeated, his voice still calm but now laced with unmistakable seriousness and the word 'sweetheart' leaving me with no choice but to stop.