Demon's Physco obsession

A Lesson Written in Blood

Monday morning arrived like an unwelcome intruder, shattering the small pocket of peace Adhiraaj had carved out for himself. He felt absurdly like a schoolboy refusing to get out of bed, clinging to the weekend. He held onto Ankita long past noon, refusing to surrender the quiet warmth of her body against his. They hadn't done anything—nothing but lie there, tangled together, sharing the kind of silence that felt fuller than words.

But eventually the hour came, as it always did.

With a reluctant sigh, he pulled himself up and guided Ankita to the bathroom. They showered in calm hush, steam curling around them, neither speaking because every word felt too small for the space between them.

Afterwards, he dressed her carefully—almost ritualistically—in a soft lemon-yellow top and matching skirt. She let out a resigned huff the moment he appeared in his own outfit: a stark black shirt and black slacks. His uniform. Predictable. Unapologetic. She didn't have to say a word; he knew exactly what her sigh meant. He ignored it with practised ease.

The drive back to the estate was steeped in silence. Adhiraaj sat in the back seat with Ankita curled against his side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. He kept an arm around her the entire time, absorbing the last remnants of her warmth before the avalanche of responsibilities waiting for him at home.

As the car rolled through the gates and the mansion came into view, they were greeted by the familiar stillness of the household. Servants crept through their routines. Everything seemed normal—until they stepped into the living room.

Ved was pacing like a storm contained in human form.

The moment he saw them enter, he stopped abruptly.

"I need to talk to you," he said tightly, eyes locked on Adhiraaj, and without another word he spun and headed straight toward the upstairs study.

Adhiraaj felt Ankita stiffen ever so slightly beside him. Ved didn't usually pace. And he certainly didn't summon Adhiraaj with that clipped tone unless something was deeply wrong.

"Go to the garden," Adhiraaj murmured, his thumb brushing over the back of Ankita's hand in a quiet reassurance. "I'll finish this quickly and join you."

She paused, fingers curling around his wrist before he could step away. "Will you be okay?"

His jaw tightened. "It's nothing I can't handle."

It wasn't the answer she hoped for, and they both felt the truth of it hanging between them. Still, she nodded. Her hand slipped from his slowly, her fingertips gliding over his in a reluctant farewell.

Adhiraaj lifted his gaze and gave a small signal to Malti, who had been waiting discreetly at a distance. She approached at once.

"Malti," he said quietly, without taking his eyes off Ankita, "take her to the garden. Stay with her."

"Yes, saheb," Malti replied with a respectful bow of her head.

Ankita cast one last searching look at him, then allowed Malti to guide her down the hallway and toward the open doors that led to the estate gardens. The soft yellow of her outfit seemed to glow against the greenery beyond, the sight tugging at something deep inside him.

Only when she disappeared past the archway did he turn toward his study.

Every step toward that door felt heavier than the last.

Inside, Ved stood by the window, arms folded, his face set in a sharp line. He didn't look angry now—he looked worried. Deeply, urgently worried.

"Close the door," Ved said.