Demon's Physco obsession

Bonus chapter : The Heir of Silence

Ankita sat beside Adhiraaj at the long dining table, the evening meal spread before them like a quiet celebration no one had yet dared to acknowledge. The air was heavy with the comfort of home—warm rotis stacked in a cloth-lined basket, fragrant dal steaming gently, and Jahnvi's unmistakable aloo sabzi glistening with just the right amount of spice. Normally, it would have made Ankita's mouth water.

Tonight, it made her stomach twist.

Her plate lay almost untouched. The gulab jamun and kheer—once her undeniable weaknesses—now seemed unbearable. The sweetness felt excessive, suffocating. Instead, a strange, insistent craving gnawed at her senses: sharp, sour, fiery things—raw mango pickle, tangy chaat, lemon wedges dusted with black salt. Even the thought of plain rice made bile rise in the back of her throat.

She nudged a piece of roti around her plate with unenthusiastic fingers. Her face had lost its usual warmth, pallor settling into her skin, shadows dark beneath her eyes. The exhaustion had been relentless these past days—bone-deep and unfamiliar. Climbing stairs left her breathless. Brushing her hair felt like a chore.

And every month, without fail, came the ache. The blood. The quiet confirmation that once again, their hopes would have to be folded away.

Six months of trying. Six months of disappointment softened only by Adhiraaj's arms around her during those five dark days, his lips brushing her temple as he whispered the same reassurance every time: We'll keep trying, dove. It will happen when it's meant to. Some things take time.

But tonight felt different.

The nausea came in slow, rolling waves—not violent, but persistent. Ankita pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing shallowly through her nose, willing it to pass.

Adhiraaj noticed. He always did.

His own plate remained largely untouched as his gaze moved from her food to the faint tremor in her fingers, then to the way she kept swallowing, as though holding something back.

He set his spoon aside.

"Dove," he murmured, keeping his voice low despite the soft hum of conversation further down the table. "You haven't eaten."

She offered him a weak, apologetic smile. "I'm just... not hungry. Everything tastes wrong."

He leaned closer, studying her face with that intent, searching look that made her feel seen in ways no one else ever could. "Wrong how?"

She hesitated, warmth creeping into her cheeks. "The sweets make me sick. I want spicy things. Sour. Something with bite." She paused, then added softly, "And I'm so tired, ji. All the time. Like I could sleep for days and still wake up exhausted."

For a moment, he said nothing.

Outwardly, his expression remained calm, composed—but something shifted behind his eyes. Awareness sharpened, followed by something gentler. Almost reverent.

He reached for her hand beneath the table, threading their fingers together, his thumb brushing slowly, making circles over her knuckles.

"When was your last period?" he asked quietly.

Ankita blinked. Counted backwards. Her brows knitted together.

"...I'm over a week late," she whispered. "Maybe more. I thought it was stress. Or the weather change."

Adhiraaj exhaled slowly, deeply—like a man finally releasing a breath he'd been holding for months.

He turned his head slightly toward Jahnvi. Their eyes met. Nothing was said, yet everything was understood. Jahnvi gave a subtle nod, her expression soft but knowing.