𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎:- 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

【Ａｕｔｈｏｒ＇ｓ　ｐｏｖ：】

He walks into the mansion, shadows trailing behind him like loyal ghosts.

The late-night moon spills its silvery light over the white marble, turning the palace into a haunting canvas of privilege and blood.

Rudraksh strides through the living room like a storm wrapped in silk.

His Italian leather shoes click with menace on the polished floor—each step echoing with dark finality.

His white dress shirt is no longer pristine—crimson stains bloom across it like cursed roses.

The thick scent of fresh blood clings to his designer suit, mixing with the faintest trace of expensive cologne and danger.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing veined forearms—old scars mapped across his skin like the aftermath of a war he never stopped fighting.

His dark hair is tousled, falling across his forehead as if exhausted from holding back the chaos in his mind.

And then—his eyes.

Steel-grey. Deadly.

They lock onto vania like crosshairs.

She’s sitting quietly on the couch in the far corner of the room, wrapped in shadows and silence.

She waits.

It’s not new. She always waits.

No matter how late. No matter how broken he returns. It’s become her ritual.

And his barely-tolerated curse.

His jaw tightens.

"What the hell are you doing here still?"

His voice drops—low, accented, razor-sharp.

"I thought I made myself very fucking clear l—I don’t want you in my sight."

His words lash like a whip.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid, Vania?"

He stalks closer, looming like a nightmare. The air thickens, turning electric, oppressive.

"You’re like a goddamn cockroach, aren’t you?"

His mouth curls into a cruel, beautiful sneer.

"No matter how many times I crush you underfoot, you keep crawling back. Pathetic little pest."

He grabs her chin—rough, possessive, punishing. His fingers dig into her skin, forcing her to look up into the storm of his gaze.

"Well?" he growls. "Fucking speak before I lose the last shred of patience I have left."

But Vania… she doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t beg.

She endures.

Her eyes remain calm—soft, but not weak. Her love is stitched in silence, in her refusal to run.

“I can’t sleep without knowing you’re safe,” she says gently. “I’m just sitting in a corner of this massive hall. You can ignore me if you want.”

He hates that calm.

She speaks to him like he’s not a monster. Like he’s still a man worth worrying over. Like the devil didn’t just walk in soaked in someone else’s blood.

Doesn’t she see?

He is feared by entire empires. 

Even the coldest mafias whisper his name like a curse. 

Yet this girl… this fragile, fucking fool sits here like he’s hers  to worry about.

His grip tightens. His jaw clenches.

"Safe?" he spits. "That’s what you call *this*? When I come back looking like a fucking butcher? When I’m soaked in the blood of those stupid enough to challenge me?"

He leans in, face inches from hers—his breath hot and heavy with rage.

"You should be terrified of me, Vania. Not worried. Terrified."

His eyes scan her—her traditional Indian outfit, her vermilion, her mangalsutra.  All the symbols that scream wife. His.

“You’re just a naïve little doll, playing house with the devil himself.”

He releases her with a sharp shove, the sudden absence of his touch almost louder than his voice.

“Go to bed,” he snaps, voice colder than steel. 

“Before I decide to teach you a fucking lesson in obedience.”

He turns, walking away toward the staircase—one hand dragging through his hair, trying to pull out the madness.

But then—

Ding. 

The clock strikes midnight.

She speaks.

“Wait.”

He pauses mid-step.

She rises to her feet. Walks over. 

And then—without warning—she bends and touches his feet with her hand, then brings those fingers to her forehead.

A sacred gesture. 

A silent plea. 

A shock.

He stiffens, thrown completely off balance. This isn’t the chaos he knows how to fight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, confusion slipping into his voice for the first time tonight.

She lifts her gaze to his.

Kaya speaks, “It’s my 21st birthday.”

And then—silence.

Even the shadows seem to stop breathing.

Rudraksh stares at her like she’s spoken a foreign language.

“Your birthday?” he repeats, as if the word offends him. 

“And this is when you choose to remind me?”

He scoffs, folding his arms across his blood-smeared chest.

“How quaint. How utterly... insignificant.”

His gaze lowers to the crimson smears on his clothes, the blood drying like a signature he never asked to wear. A bitter smile plays on his lips—cruel, poetic, deranged.

“I suppose it’s fitting then, isn’t it?” he mutters, voice laced with venom and something darker. “That we mark your precious milestone surrounded by echoes of screams and silence... A bloody baptism, so to speak.”

He chuckles under his breath, a sound so hollow it could shatter glass.  Not amused. Just... broken in the most refined, terrifying way.

His cold eyes lift to her face, pausing for a fraction of a second—a flicker. 

Not mercy. Not affection. Something far more dangerous: a moment of remembering what it felt like to almost be human.

“You really are a foolish child, aren’t you?” he sneers, head tilting ever so slightly. “Clinging to fairy lights and innocent traditions like they matter in this twisted circus of a life you’ve been dragged into.”

Rudra’s voice sharpens, biting with mockery. 

“Shall we have cake and candles too, Vania? Maybe sing *Happy fucking Birthday* while I rinse blood off my hands? Will that make this nightmare romantic enough for you?”

Vania rises slowly. Her eyes shimmer—not with tears, but with quiet fire.  Pain. Love. Resolve. 

That deadly cocktail she drinks every day in the name of this toxic love.

“No,” she says softly. “I just wanted to touch your feet. That’s all.”

He stills. Not out of respect. Out of disbelief.

She continues, voice steady, but threaded with heartbreak. “No matter how much you hate me… how much you try to hurt me or push me away, I love you, Rudraksh. And I’ll fight for us.”

For a second, everything halts. 

The mansion. The moon. Even time holds its breath.

His face shifts—barely. But when it does, it’s like watching a god lose his faith.

“Fight for us?” he repeats, voice dipped in arsenic. “You truly are delusional.”

He takes a slow step toward her, menace trailing behind him like a second shadow.

“This—” he gestures between them like it’s a dead

animal rotting on a silver platter “—this farce of a marriage? It was over before it even began. Dead, Vania. Like everything else I touch.”

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