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सर जो उठेगा
धड़ से कटेगा
कहाँ पे छिपेगा
कहाँ पे बचेगा
पथ पथ पर है घाट
मौत की बिछी बिसात

उठा तो गिरेगा
गिरा तो चीरेगा
छिपा तो मिलेगा
मिला तो मरेगा
जाग जाग भाग भाग
बच सके तो बच ले आज
आंधी है ये ज़लज़ला है
पुरे जोर पर चला है
किसमें दम है जो लड़ा है
कौन रह सका खड़ा है

सबसे अटल सबसे प्रबल शस्त्र रचित रक्त चरित्र
रक्त चरित्र रक्त चरित्र रक्त चरित्र
रक्त चरित्र रक्त चरित्र रक्त चरित्र
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She's sitting across from me, her head slightly bent as she eats, unaware of the way my gaze refuses to leave her. I know I should look away. I know I should pick up my spoon and start eating, but it's impossible-utterly impossible-when Noor is sitting there in front of me, dressed in that maroon lehenga, as though she's been carved out of the deepest desires of my soul.

I can feel the air in my chest catch, refusing to move. My breath hitches, my heartbeat stumbles, and for a moment, it feels like I've forgotten how to breathe. She doesn't even realize what she's doing to me-how her mere presence can unmake me, unravel every carefully guarded thread of control I've built around myself.

The maroon lehenga has been tormenting me all day. It clings to her as if it's worshipping her body, the soft fabric accentuating every curve, every line of her that I've forbidden myself to touch. The delicate shimmer of its embroidery dances with the dim light of the dhaba and my thoughts...

They aren't decent anymore. I'm not decent anymore.

Her face is luminous, framed by the stray strands of hair that have escaped her bun. Those strands-God, how they tease me-brushing against her cheek, dipping toward her neck. My hand twitches against my thigh, aching to reach out, to tuck them behind her ear, to feel the heat of her skin beneath my fingertips.

Her lips part slightly as she eats, and I can't look away. I won't look away. I'm a starving man, and she's the feast I've been denied.

My eyes trace the curve of her collarbone, the way the dupatta slips just enough to make my throat tighten. I've been trying all day to look away, to focus on anything else, but it's impossible. She is impossible. Every time I blink, it feels like I'm missing something-some of the fleeting expression, some moments that only I'm meant to witness.

When she finally looks up, her gaze meeting mine for a fraction of a second, my heart stutters. The world narrows down to just her-the sound of her bangles, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her, the way her lips curve ever so slightly as she chews. I'm losing my mind.

And then she smiles. Not a big, obvious smile-just the faintest hint of one, but it's enough. My stomach twists, my pulse pounds, and for a brief, unhinged moment, I think about leaning across the table, pulling her to me, and claiming that smile as mine.

She offers me a spoonful of gajar ka halwa, her bangles jingling softly as she lifts her hand. It's such a simple gesture, so innocent, and yet it sets something ablaze inside me. My head shakes of its own accord, the thought of breaking this moment with something as mundane as eating unthinkable.

"No," I whisper, my voice rough, barely audible. "Aap khaiye, I'll watch you"

(You eat)

She tilts her head, confused, but I can't bring myself to explain. How could I tell her that no dish, no sweetness could ever rival the sight of her? How could I put into words the raw, desperate satisfaction I feel just watching her eat, watching her smile, knowing she's here with me?

I lean back in my chair, forcing myself to appear calm, but inside, I'm anything but. My thoughts are unhinged, darker than I'd like to admit.

The urge to touch her, to feel her warmth, to claim her in every way a man can claim a woman-it's consuming me, clawing at the edges of my restraint.

Her fingers move, adjusting her dupatta, and my eyes follow, my breath catching again. She doesn't realize how beautiful she is, how every small movement of hers feels deliberate, and meant to torment me. She doesn't realize the power she holds over me, the chaos she's stirred within me, and maybe that's for the best.

Because if she did, I don't know if I'd have the strength to stop myself.

And as I watch her, I know this: she has no idea of the power she holds over me, and I have no intention of ever letting her find out. Not yet. Not when every moment like this feels like a gift I'm not worthy of.

My eyes fell on her forehead. It was carrying the mark of devotion-a small, red bindi nestled above her brows, glowing softly under the dim light. My eyes fix on it, and my chest tightens with a strange kind of pride, a warmth spreading through me like a slow burn. I put that there. That simple, sacred touch-it was mine. My heart skipped a beat when I placed it, the gesture so brief, so fleeting, and yet its weight feels eternal. It's as if I branded her with my presence, my claim, not in dominance but in reverence.

The thought stirs something within me, something I don't fully understand but can't resist. My gaze travels lower, catching sight of her hands resting lightly on the table, their soft curves betraying the strength they hold. A faint trace of red dust lingers on her fingers, almost invisible, but I notice it anyway. I always notice everything about her.

That red-the same red from the temple earlier today. My breath hitches, and for a moment, I'm lost, drowning in the memory. She knelt there, her palms pressed to the cool marble floor, her lashes lowered in silent prayer. It was such a simple act, so unassuming, and yet when she rose, when those same hands reached for my forehead and chest, I swear I forgot how to stand.

She carried blessings from the gods themselves and offered them to me, as if I were worthy of such a gift. Her touch was light, her fingers trembling, but the moment felt monumental. It wasn't just a ritual. It was her-giving me a part of herself, her care, her faith, her everything. The realization hit me with a force I wasn't prepared for, sending shivers racing through my body.

She was seeking blessings for me, for us, and it struck me harder than anything ever had. The thought that her every gesture carried such depth for me-it made my heart skip, my body shiver.

I hadn't expected it-her devotion, her quiet strength, her ability to strip me bare without even trying. Her actions were so small, so unassuming, and yet they carved something permanent into me, etching themselves onto my very soul. Her gaze had lifted to mine then, and in those few seconds, I saw it all-her vulnerability, her courage, and something else. Something so deep, so selfless, it shook me.

It was as though she would do anything to protect me, to shield me from the world if she could. I felt it in the trembling of her touch, the slight quiver in her lips as she whispered something to herself, perhaps a silent prayer.

She didn't know what she was doing to me at that moment. She didn't realize how that small, sacred gesture had unraveled me entirely.

Even now, sitting here across from her, I feel the echo of it-the way her hands had trembled as they touched my skin, the way her eyes had looked into mine as though I were her world. My heart skips again at the thought, my pulse erratic, and I feel like I'm drowning in emotions I can't yet name.

Love? Perhaps. Obsession? Definitely. Whatever this is, it's consuming me, pulling me deeper with every passing second. I know I'll never forget the way she looked in the temple today-the softness of her movements, the silent strength in her actions.

It wasn't just a gesture. It was a vow. A vow that only I seemed to understand, but it was enough. More than enough.

That red dust on her fingers-it's still there, a reminder of what she did, of what she gave me. I find myself wanting to take her hand, to press my lips to that mark, and feel its warmth against me. The thought is unhinged, desperate, but I don't care.

She's turning me into someone I don't recognize, someone whose thoughts are darker, hungrier, and yet entirely hers.

Because with her, even the simplest act holds a power that terrifies and enthralls me. And I don't know if I'll ever be the same.

Looking at her I couldn't breathe. I had to close my eyes and had to force the air into my lungs.

She made me forget how to breathe and how to exist without her. Every time I see her, I feel like the world collapses to just one point-her. And today, it wasn't just about looking at her. It was the way her hands touched the temple floor, her fingertips carrying the sanctity of the place, the trace of red smeared onto her skin. It was when she touched my forehead and chest with that same hand. That small act wasn't simple-not for me.

How could someone be this pure?

But now, the temple moment seemed a distant memory because of the filth in this room. I noticed her discomfort first-her eyes shifting, her breathing shallow. She said "nothing" when I asked, but her nothing wasn't nothing. Her silence spoke louder than her words. My gaze followed hers, and I saw them.

Two men. Two filthy, vile bastards with disgusting smirks plastered on their faces as they stared at her.

Her. My wife.

My jaw clenched so hard it ached. My fists curled tight until my nails dug into my palms. The anger was instant and all-consuming. My blood felt like it was on fire, and my vision sharpened like a blade. I could see nothing but their faces and the sickening audacity they carried.

But then, I felt her hand slip into mine. Her touch, soft and trembling, pulled me back for a moment. She was scared, I could feel it in the way her fingers gripped me. And that... that feeling of her fear-it twisted something inside me.

She wasn't supposed to be scared. Not when I was here. If she was scared, it meant I failed her. It meant I wasn't enough to make her feel safe. And that was unacceptable.

I let out a slow breath, trying to rein in the storm building inside me. My anger was spilling over, boiling under my skin. I looked down at her-those beautiful, wide eyes-and I knew I couldn't let her see the full weight of my rage. She would only worry more.

So, I kept my voice steady as I told her to wait in the car. Quietly, I guided her out, making sure she didn't catch even a glimpse of the fury burning in my eyes. But the comment those bastards made... it replayed in my mind, over and over, each word slicing deeper than the last.

Their audacity was enough to make my blood boil, my fists itching to smash their skulls into the ground.

I dropped her back home, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. She glanced at me, her lips parting to say something, but I didn't look at her. Not now. The intensity in my eyes would scare her, and that was the last thing I wanted.

"Mujhe kuch kaam hai," I muttered, stepping out of the car and watching as she disappeared inside.

(I have some work)

The drive back wasn't just a drive; it was a countdown to their destruction. The comment was still running in my mind, each word carving itself deeper into my skull. Those fucking bastards didn't just look at my wife-they disrespected her. They disrespected me.

The comment was still running in my mind, burning like acid in my veins. Those filthy bastards dared to look at her, to speak about her as if she were a toy for their amusement. My wife.

My lips curled into a dangerous smirk as I adjusted the rearview mirror, seeing my own eyes-a reflection of the storm inside. This wasn't anger. It was purpose. A need to remind the world that my wife's name can not be spoken by filth like them.

I opened the compartment, my fingers brushing against the cold steel of the gun. My grip tightened around it as I leaned back in my seat, my thoughts darker than they'd ever been.

I never used it but for my wife. I will.

This wasn't just anger. This was something deeper, something primal. The kind of rage that made your blood hum and your body ached with the need for violence. They thought they could get away with it, but they were wrong. Dead wrong.

I stepped out of the car, the gun heavy in my hand, and began walking. Each step felt like a promise-a promise to her, to myself. They had crossed the line, and now they would pay.
.
.
.
.

Sidharth stepped out of the car, his shoes hitting the ground with a sense of finality. The night air felt thick, heavy with the weight of what he was about to do. His jaw was clenched, his eyes, usually a calm blue, now dark with the anger that bubbled under his skin.

His every movement radiated something dangerous, something that made the people around him take a step back, almost instinctively. They knew the legacy of the Rajvardhan family, and they had learned, long ago, to stay out of the way when the storm approached.

He glanced toward the dhaba, and there they were, still sitting, still laughing-those two men. They had no idea what was coming for them. As Sidharth took slow, deliberate steps toward them, the air seemed to shift. The weight of his presence made the surroundings feel heavy, suffocating. His gaze, dark and furious, locked onto the two men.

With every step, his grip on the gun tightened. His muscular frame, wearing nothing but a dhoti, his bare torso rippling under the evening sun light, only amplified his aura of danger.

The gun in his hand, a silent threat, gleamed under the dim lights. His whole body screamed power, his every movement exuding raw, unapologetic strength.

The men, still too foolish to recognize the storm, didn't notice the change until it was too late. Sidharth's eyes, his face, spoke volumes without a word.

He was a man of actions and all of them were lethal. He approached them, the ground beneath him trembling with each step.

Before the first man could blink, Sidharth was there. A single swift movement, and Sidharth grabbed his collar, lifting him off the ground with ease, and threw him down onto the gravel. The force of the throw sent the man rolling, his body skidding until he came to an abrupt halt.

The second man, shocked, scrambled to his feet, his face twisted with defiance.

"Aee kon hai be tu?"
("Who the hell are you?")

Sidharth's lips curled into a barely noticeable sneer. His eyes remained cold as ice, but the rage inside him was a fire he couldn't contain. Without a word, the second man swung his arm, aiming to strike Sidharth.

But Sidharth's movements were too fast, too precise. In an instant, he grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it with effortless power. The man's body trembled in pain, his wrist bent at a painful angle as Sidharth tightened his grip, his other hand still holding the gun. He could've pulled the trigger, but there was no need. Not yet.

The man cried out, but Sidharth's silence spoke louder than any words. His cold eyes bore into the man's soul, his gaze locking with his. The power, the sheer strength radiating from Sidharth's body was enough to suffocate any sense of defiance left in the man.

Sidharth twisted the wrist more, pushing it to the breaking point, and the man screamed in agony. His pain was music to Siddharth's ears.

"Tera baap," Sidharth murmured through gritted teeth, his voice low and controlled, but the anger, the fury behind it was unmistakable.

("Your father.")

With a final forceful motion, Sidharth threw him to the ground, the man collapsing in the same way as the first. They both lay there, broken, bruised, their faces painted with fear and pain.

Sidharth's steps were slow as he walked toward them, each one deliberate, full of purpose. His eyes, now completely void of any mercy, locked onto their crumpled forms. His grip on the gun was steady, but his other hand, flexing as if ready to act at any moment, made his intentions clear: he was not done.

His chest rose and fell with the heat of his anger. His heart pounded, but it wasn't out of exertion. No. It was from the sheer, raw emotion of protecting what was his. What she was. Noor.

His mind replayed the comment that had burned into his soul. It had been nothing but filth, directed at her. At his Noor. The rage within him threatened to consume him whole.

The thought of those men even daring to look at her, to speak about her in that way, was enough to make him want to destroy them, to break them until nothing remained.

As he stood over them, his eyes narrowed. His body, once again, tensed with the desire to teach them a lesson they would never forget. His mind was a battlefield, the anger battling the cold, controlled man he had worked so hard to become. The only thing that mattered now was making them feel the depth of his fury. They had no idea how close they had come to death tonight.

How close they had come to the wrath of Siddharth Singh Rajvardhan.

He could feel the gun in his hand, the cold steel, a reminder of the power he wielded. He could end their lives in a second. But no. That would be too easy. Too quick. They had to suffer. They had to feel the weight of his anger, the weight of his love for Noor, and the consequences of crossing him.

Sidharth stood over them, his hand gripping the gun, his jaw clenched with an intensity that made the air feel even thicker. His presence was overwhelming, the danger almost palpable. The fire in his chest was like a volcano, waiting to erupt. He could kill them with a single thought, but he wanted them to remember the lesson.

His lips parted, a faint exhale leaving his body, but he didn't speak. His actions had already said it all. His eyes were like ice, but they burned with the heat of a thousand fires, the kind that only came from the depths of possessiveness, obsession, and pure, raw anger.

The air thickened with a silent rage, every movement charged with an electric tension. Sidharth's body was like a storm waiting to unleash. He knelt down slowly, the weight of his rage felt in every inch of his muscular frame. His eyes, darkened with anger, never left the men struggling beneath him. One of them, sensing the action, tried to get up, but Sidharth was faster.

With one swift motion, his hand shot out and closed around the man's throat. He pinned him down to the ground, the sheer strength in his grip choking the life out of him. The man's hands instinctively clawed at Sidharth's wrist, but it was futile. His fingers were like iron, his grip unforgiving.

The other man moved, attempting to make a run for it, but Sidharth's eyes were already on him. Before he could even think of escaping, Siddharth had raised his gun and pressed it to the man's forehead, the cold metal a promise of death. His other hand tightened its hold on the neck of the man beneath him, the force of it digging into the man's skin.

Sidharth's lips barely moved, but the venom in his voice was enough to make the air itself grow colder.

"Bahut shauk hai na tujhe chune ka? Aurto pe gandi nazar rakhne ka?"

(You have quite the habit, don't you? Of touching and looking at women with filthy eyes?)

His words cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and unyielding. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against the man's ear, the scent of his anger thick in the air. His words came out like an accusation, a scream from the depths of his soul.

"Meri Noor, Meri Biwi pe apni do kauri ki gandi nazar dali tune?"
(You laid your filthy eyes on my Noor, my wife?)*l

The man flinched, his face drained of color as fear gripped him.

"J-Jane do Sahab. G-Galti ho gyi..."

The room, the world, seemed to freeze in that moment. Sidharth's eyes burned with the promise of violence, his lips curling into a small, sickened smile-one that made the men's blood run cold.

"Jane du?"
(Let you go?)
The smile was twisted, the kind of smile that belonged to a predator. His fingers tightened on the man's throat, dragging him up. The sweat on the man's face was visible now, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

With the force of a psychopath, Sidharth leaned in even closer, his voice low, a deadly whisper that only the man could hear.

"Kaisa mard hounga mai agar apni biwi ke upar gandi nazar dalne wale ki aankhein noch kar unke kadmo me na rakh pau?"

(What kind of man would I be if I couldn't rip out the eyes of anyone who dares to lay filthy eyes on my wife and throw them at her feet?)

The man was trembling now, his face red, his body unable to escape the vice grip Sidharth had on him. With a swift, unforgiving movement, Sidharth shoved him back, letting him crash to the ground with an audible thud.

Then, without wasting another second, Sidharth reached for the other man, grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling him up by it. He leaned in, his breath hot against the man's ear as he spoke, his voice like ice on a summer's day.

"Chal tujhe aaj maut ka tandav dikhata hu."

(Come, I'll show you the dance of death today.)

With one powerful push, he threw the man toward the first, sending them sprawling to the ground together. As they struggled, Sidharth's hand never left the gun at his side. With one fluid motion, he pulled it out, raising it to the sky.

The sound of the gunshot rang through the air like a thunderclap, sending a shiver down the spine of everyone in the vicinity. The entire area seemed to vibrate with the intensity of the moment.

The two men, now fully aware of the situation, could feel the weight of their lives hanging by a thread. Sweat poured down their faces, their eyes darting around, hoping for someone, anyone, to come to their rescue. But they knew, deep down, that no one would dare step in.

This was Siddharth Singh Rajvardhan. And when he spoke, the world listened.

The air grew thick with tension, the evening sun casting a golden glow on Sidharth's chiseled, god-like frame. His body, glistening with the faint sheen of sweat, was a picture of strength and raw power. He stood tall, larger than life, his presence so overwhelming that it seemed to consume everything around him.

Without so much as a flicker of emotion on his face, Sidharth pointed his gun at the two men, his eyes never leaving them.

"Bhag."
(Run.)

The word was spoken with such finality, so much ice in his voice, that the men had no choice but to obey. It was a command, not a request. They stumbled to their feet, fear written across their faces, their bodies trembling under the weight of Siddharth's gaze.

Sidharth didn't move an inch, his gaze unwavering, his presence suffocating. The only thing left to do was watch as the two men scrambled away, their lives spared by nothing more than his own twisted mercy. But Siddharth knew, as long as they had dared to look at his Noor in such a way, they would never be truly free.

The two men stumbled away, their breaths shallow, their bodies shaking in sheer terror. But as they tried to put distance between themselves and Sidharth, a sharp, foreboding sound shattered the stillness.

BANG!

The bullet struck the road just inches from one of the men's legs, sending a shockwave of fear through their bodies. He faltered, losing his balance, and crashed to the ground. His companion, in a panic to escape, tripped over him, sending both men sprawling in the dirt.

They looked back in a frantic daze, and their hearts dropped as they saw him-Sidharth Singh Rajvardhan-walking toward them with an unwavering, chilling calm. Every step he took seemed to make the air grow heavier, more oppressive. His presence was a force of nature, like a storm rolling in, dark and unstoppable.

The two men's panic was palpable, but they couldn't outrun the nightmare that was Sidharth. His eyes glowed with rage, piercing through the air with the kind of intensity that could freeze a man's soul.

Sidharth's masculinity was undeniable. He moved with the grace of a predator, his every action calculated, controlled, and menacing. His body was a wall of raw strength, amplified by the harsh light of the evening sun. His figure was godlike, the way he carried himself making him seem larger than life.

The men could barely breathe as he came closer, but there was no mercy in his eyes. Sidharth reached down, his hand like an iron vice as he grabbed the first man by the hair, yanking him up. The man's neck strained under Sidharth's grip, his hands useless as he tried to claw at Siddharth's fingers, but it was no use.

Siddharth's voice was low, but it held a deadly promise.

"Ruka to marega."
Stop, and you will die.)

The words weren't a warning; they were a statement of fact. The man's eyes widened in horror, but before he could react, Si3harth threw him back to the road, his body slamming against the ground with brutal force.

His eyes then found the second man, who was visibly shaking, his entire body betraying him. The man struggled to stand, but his legs were like jelly. He fumbled, stumbling over himself, each attempt to rise only causing him to fall harder. He was terrified beyond reason, but Sidharth was in no mood to show mercy.

The second man tried to get to his feet, but his actions were desperate and clumsy. He was a man on the verge of breaking, and the sight of Siddharth coming for him made him feel like a mouse being stalked by a lion.

And then, as the two men turned to run, their only hope being escape, Sidharth began his slow, deliberate walk towards them. The fear in their eyes was enough to send a shiver down anyone's spine. They ran, their legs failing them at every turn, tripping, falling, only to scramble back up, only to fall again.

Sidharth's steps were calm, almost casual, but the men could feel the weight of the inevitable crushing down on them with each passing second. Their breath came in ragged gasps, but they couldn't get far enough away. Sidharth was everywhere, the force of his presence suffocating them, haunting them.

Siddharth's voice cut through the air again, as cold as the blade of a knife.

"In this world, anyone who dares to look at a woman with filthy eyes, with no respect in their gaze, deserves the same treatment. To run like dogs, begging for mercy."

The words sent a shock through them, a bitter reminder of the mistake they'd made.

"Aur tum dono ne meri Noor pe wo gandi nazar dali. Meri biwi pe. Mad*rchod"

(And you two laid your filthy eyes on my Noor. On my wife. Motherf*cker.)

With no mercy, Sidharth raised his gun again, aiming for the ground just beside the second man's leg. The shot rang out, the impact sending the man crashing once more. He rolled on the dirt, his face pale with fear, sweat pouring down his forehead. But Sidharth wasn't done.

He walked toward them, his eyes locked onto theirs with an unholy fury. The first man tried to crawl away, but Sidharth was faster. He kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling backward onto the road.

"Bhag, Bhag Sale"
(Run. Run bastard.)

The command was empty of emotion, but the weight of it hung in the air like a sentence. The men, unable to think straight, scrambled to their feet, stumbling once again, running in terror. Each time they tried to escape, they faltered. They ran, but their fear made them clumsy, their bodies betraying them at every turn.

It was a relentless pursuit. Sidharth wasn't just hunting them-he was breaking them. Over and over, he forced them to run, to beg, to crawl, each time pushing them further into their desperation. This wasn't about mercy; it was about domination.

After what felt like an eternity, the road led them to the cottage, the one place where they thought they might be safe. But they were wrong. As they approached the front door, Sidharth was already there, a dark figure emerging from the shadows.

With a single motion, he reached down and grabbed the second man by the hair, lifting him up with a strength that seemed almost otherworldly. The man gasped in pain, but Sidharth didn't care. He dragged him, still holding him by the hair, toward the cottage door.

One hand still firmly holding the gun, Sidharth didn't break his stride. He dragged the man inside, his movements powerful, as if the man weighed nothing at all.

Once inside, Sidharth shoved him roughly onto the stairs, the sound of his body slamming against the stone steps echoing through the air.

The scene was terrifying, but there was more to come. Siddharth was just getting started.

The sound of the door creaking open echoed in the tense air. Noor stood frozen on the threshold, her heart racing. Her eyes widened as the scene unfolded before her.

There, on the cold stone stairs, one man lay like a lifeless corpse. His body was sprawled unnaturally, limp, like a doll discarded without care. His face was beaten, bruised, and the blood that stained his shirt matched the blood that now smeared Siddharth's body. The other man was being dragged mercilessly by the collar of his shirt, his feet scraping the ground as Sidharth pulled him into the campus.

Noor's breath caught in her throat. Those men... the ones who had dared to make that filthy comment about her... Her body went cold. Her heart stopped for a brief moment, the weight of the scene making it hard for her to breathe. Her eyes flicked to Sidharth-his bare body glistening with sweat, blood, even in the cold air. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. His hair was disheveled, wild, as if he'd lost every ounce of control. Blood splattered across his skin, making him look like something... something otherworldly.

A man who had crossed a line and was now unrecognizable.

He was dangerous. More dangerous than she had ever known him to be. A look in his eyes told her that not even God could calm him now. He was beyond anything, beyond rage, beyond mercy.

Noor stood there, her body trembling, watching as Sidharth dragged the other man further, his hand still gripping the collar with ruthless strength. She wanted to call out to him, to stop him, but she was paralyzed. She couldn't move.

Sidharth's gaze shifted toward her, and for a split second, they locked eyes. His eyes, wild and furious, met hers, and despite the storm inside him, he didn't look away.

He saw her, he knew she was there, but he couldn't stop. There was no turning back now. Even though his mind screamed at him not to show this side of himself to her, something inside him wanted her to see-wanted her to understand what he was capable of when it came to protecting her.

The second man-shivering and pleading-was thrown harshly onto the cold stone, his face scraping against the rough surface. Sidharth stepped over him, a deadly calm in his movements. He placed his boot firmly on the man's face, pressing it down, making the man squirm underneath him.

"Inko hi chune ki baat ki thi na tune? Dikha!"

(You were the one who dared to touch her, weren't you? Show me!)

Sidharth's voice was like thunder, his anger rising with each word, his hands digging deeper into the man's face as he screamed the words. His fingers sank into the man's flesh, the pressure increasing, showing no mercy. The man whimpered, his voice pleading for forgiveness, but Sidharth wasn't listening. He wasn't stopping.

"Ek baap ki aulad hai to meri Noor par Ek nazar dekh ke bata!"
(If you're a man, tell me why you dared look at my Noor!)

The words were like a gunshot, his scream full of rage, of pain, of possessiveness. The other man, the one on the ground, continued to beg for mercy, but Sidharth wasn't hearing him. His eyes never left Noor as he held the man up by his jaw, lifting him as if he weighed nothing, his grip vice-like.

Noor's chest tightened as she watched, her mind racing, her heart in her throat. This wasn't the Sidharth she knew. This wasn't the man she had been married to, the man she had shared soft words with. No, this was something else. This was a side of him she had never seen-a side of him that made her feel both terrified and... something else. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was no denying the intensity of his protectiveness, his anger... his obsession with her.

Her body was frozen, but her mind was spinning. She wanted to move, to stop him, but something told her that this man-this dangerous, raw version of Sidharth-was not someone she could control.

He was her protector.

And in his world, no one dared to touch what was his.

The anger in Sidharth's eyes flared again as he looked at the men, his whole being trembling with a dark, destructive energy. His possessiveness for Noor was clear in the way he held the men, in the way he tore into them without a second thought. He wasn't just defending her; he was marking his territory, showing the world that no one would ever dare disrespect her again.

Noor's heart pounded, her pulse thudding in her ears. She didn't know whether to be afraid, to run to him, or to stay frozen in place. All she knew was that in that moment, as she watched Sidharth-this man she had never truly understood before-something inside her shifted. Something deep and primal that she couldn't explain.

Sidharth's fingers dug deeper into the man's jaw, his strength threatening to tear it apart. The man groaned in agony, his pleas muffled by Sidharth's unrelenting grip. Siddharth's eyes burned with rage, his chest heaving, every muscle in his body tense and alive with anger. He looked like a storm, impossible to stop, his bare skin glistening with sweat despite the biting cold. Blood smeared across his arms and chest, dripping onto the ground like silent warnings.

And then, without breaking his furious gaze, Siddharth raised the gun.

The cold metal pressed against the man's forehead, and Sidharth's grip tightened as if he were ready to pull the trigger. His jaw clenched, veins pulsing along his neck. Time seemed to stop, the weight of the moment crushing everything around it.

Noor stood frozen, her heart pounding against her ribcage. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her lips parted slightly, her entire body trembling. A thousand emotions crashed over her-fear, disbelief, and her undeniable love
This wasn't just anger. It was something darker, something unrestrained.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, the sound of her steps breaking through the silence. She didn't know where the courage came from, but she had to stop him. She couldn't let him do this.

As Sidharth's finger hovered over the trigger, Noor's trembling hands reached out. Her fingers curled around his bicep, her touch hesitant yet firm. His skin burned under her palm, hot like a furnace, his muscles rippling with barely controlled rage. Her small hand looked fragile against the strength of his arm, but it was enough.

"Aarth..." she whispered, her voice soft, almost inaudible.

Sidharth froze. The sound of her voice-just her voice-stopped him in his tracks. His grip on the man loosened slightly, his head turning toward her. His eyes, still wild and dangerous, locked onto hers.

Noor's eyes were filled with tears, her cheeks red, her breath shaky. But her gaze didn't waver. She looked at him, not with fear, but with something deeper-something that reached into the chaos of his soul and pulled him back.

It was as if her tears were a silent plea, a gentle command. Sidharth's heart clenched painfully at the sight of her. The fire in him began to dim, his maddening anger dropping like a heavy weight. He let go of the man's jaw, his hand falling to his side, the gun still in his grasp.

Her small hand remained on his arm, her touch steady despite her trembling. Sidharth stepped back from the man lying at his feet, his shoes no longer pressing into the man's face. His chest still heaved, but the storm in his eyes was slowly fading.

"Noor..." he whispered, his voice hoarse, filled with something raw and broken.

She shook her head slightly, her tears spilling over. She didn't say anything, but her eyes spoke for her. Stop this. Please stop.

Sidharth exhaled deeply, his eyes closing as if her unspoken words were a balm to his chaos. In a swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, burying his face in the curve of her neck. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if holding her was the only thing keeping him sane. He inhaled her scent, the warmth of her body grounding him, calming the fire that had consumed him moments ago.

Noor stood still, her hands slowly reaching up to hold him. Her fingers trembled as they touched his back, feeling the tension in his muscles. She held him tightly, afraid that if she let go, he might lose himself again.

But then, she felt it-a faint movement. Her eyes darted downward to see one of the men crawling toward her, his face dragging against the ground. His nose scraped the dirt as he moved closer, trembling and begging. The other man followed, their combined pleas blending into incoherent apologies.

"M-Maaf kar do, Malkin... B-baksh do..."
(Forgive us, mistress... Spare us...)

But Noor didn't look at them. Her focus was entirely on Sidharth. His body trembled against hers, his breathing heavy, his grip on her unyielding. She tightened her hold on him, her lips barely moving as she whispered,

"Jaane dijiye, Aarth."
(Let them go, Aarth.)

Sidharth pulled back slightly, his face still buried in her neck. Her words reached him like a command, and he slowly raised his head, his red, bloodshot eyes locking onto hers. It was as if her voice was the only thing that could calm him, the only thing that mattered.

For a moment, he stared at her, hypnotized by the silent power in her gaze. He nodded slowly, the fight leaving his body.

Noor let go of him, her hands trembling as they fell to her sides. She took a step back, her wide eyes dropping to the men at her feet. A gasp escaped her lips as Siddharth moved forward again.

Grabbing both men by their hair, he yanked them upward with brutal force. They cried out, their bodies shaking as he dragged them closer to Noor. He shoved their faces toward the ground at her feet, forcing them to kneel.

"Bheek maang," Sidharth growled, his voice low and menacing. "Inse apni jaan ki bheek maang."
(Beg. Beg her for your lives.)

The men didn't hesitate. They pressed their foreheads to the ground, their voices trembling as they begged for mercy.

"M-Maaf kar do, Malkin... Humse galti ho gayi... B-baksh do..."
(Forgive us, mistress... We made a mistake... Spare us...)

Noor didn't respond. Her eyes stayed on Sidharth, who still looked ready to kill. His jaw was tight, his hand gripping the gun as if he was moments away from snapping again.

But then, Sidharth gestured sharply with the gun.

"Dubara kisi aurat par gandi nazar dalne se pehle, ye din yaad kar lena," he spat, his voice like venom.

(Before you ever dare to look at a woman with dirty intentions again, remember this day.)

The men nodded frantically, scrambling to their feet and running as fast as their broken bodies could carry them.

Noor let out a shaky breath, her body trembling as the adrenaline coursed through her. But Siddharth didn't move. His eyes were still on her, his anger replaced by something softer, something that only she could bring out of him.

Noor looked up at him, her tears still falling, and just kept looking at him. She didn't need words. In that moment, her eyes said everything.

The night was quiet now, the cries and pleas of the men fading into the distance as they fled for their lives. Only two remained-Siddharth, still standing tall with his shoulders squared, and Noor, whose trembling figure stood frozen in place.

Sidharth's chest heaved with the force of his breath, the storm inside him far from over. His knuckles, bruised and smeared with blood, flexed involuntarily as if craving more destruction. His jaw was set, his gaze locked on the ground where the men had knelt moments ago.

Noor's eyes traced his form, her gaze settling on his hand. It hung by his side, still trembling slightly, the veins prominent under his skin. She didn't move at first, too consumed by the weight of everything that had unfolded. But then, as if drawn by an invisible force, she took a tentative step forward.

Her fingers reached out, brushing against his wrist. His hand felt warm-almost burning to the touch-and it jolted her, reminding her of the fire coursing through him. Carefully, almost hesitantly, her smaller hand enveloped his, steadying the tremor with her touch.

Sidharth's head turned sharply, his eyes locking onto hers. They weren't just looking-they were searching, as if trying to find something in the depths of her gaze that could calm the tempest inside him. And they did.

Her silence spoke louder than words ever could. Her presence, her touch, her unwavering gaze-it was everything he needed. He let out a deep breath, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

Without breaking their connection, Siddharth dropped the gun from his other hand, letting it clatter against the stone floor. His hands were free now, and before Noor could react, he moved.

In a single, fluid motion, he bent slightly and scooped her into his arms. Her gasp was silent, her body going still against him. His grip was firm, almost possessive, as he held her close, her weight nothing to him.

Siddharth didn't say a word as he carried her, his steps deliberate, his focus entirely on her. Noor's hands instinctively rested on his shoulders, her fingers brushing against his skin, still slick from the heat of his rage. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the raw power that hummed be neath his calm exterior.

Her head rested against his chest as they moved, her ear catching the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat. It mirrored her own, as if the chaos inside them had somehow found a shared rhythm.

Siddharth pushed the door open with his foot, stepping into the dimly lit hallway of their home. The air inside was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the night outside. He walked with purpose, each step echoing softly against the walls until they reached their room.

Gently, he set her down on the edge of the bed. His hands lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, as if reluctant to let go. Noor's fingers, which had been gripping his shoulders, slowly slid down to rest in her lap.

He knelt before her, his tall frame folding down to her level, his knees touching the floor. His hands found hers again, engulfing them in his own as he looked up at her. His expression, though still intense, had softened. There was no anger now-only something raw and vulnerable that he rarely let anyone see.

Noor didn't look away. Her silence spoke volumes, her tear-streaked face an unspoken reminder of everything they had endured tonight. Siddharth brought one of her hands to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles before lowering his head to rest against them.

And in that moment, the world outside faded. It was just the two of them, two hearts beating in unison, two souls finding solace in each other amidst the chaos.
____________________________________

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