Meera didn't back away from him—not even when his shadow loomed over her.
"What game I'm playing?" she shot back, her voice shaking with fury. "You're the one playing god in here, Abhimanyu! Locking me away, deciding who I can meet, what I can know—"
"You met him," he cut her off, the words like a snarl. "Do you understand what that means? Do you know what risk you put yourself in?"
"I don't need you to decide who I meet! You think I'm some fragile little—"
He stepped closer, jaw tight. "Fragile? You think this is about fragility? This is about keeping you alive, Meera!"
"Alive?" she scoffed bitterly, her eyes darting to Suryavir. "You call this alive? Tied up, bleeding, and tortured in some godforsaken warehouse? Tell me, Abhimanyu, is this your justice or just your ego bleeding out in violence?"
The words hit like a match to gasoline. Something in Abhimanyu's eyes darkened beyond reason.
Without breaking her gaze, he reached for the coiled leather whip resting against the table. The sound of it unfurling through the air made Meera's breath hitch.
"Abhimanyu—" she started, but he didn't wait.
The whip cracked, slicing through the air before smacking against Suryavir's back with a sound that made the guards flinch. Suryavir gritted his teeth, a choked groan escaping.
Meera's eyes widened, horror and disbelief battling in her chest.
"Stop it! What the hell are you doing?!" she screamed, rushing forward—but one of the guards instinctively stepped between them.
Abhimanyu's voice was low, venomous.
"You think you understand this world? You think mercy keeps people like him from coming after you? No, Meera. Fear does."
The whip whistled through the air again—
But this time, it never reached its intended mark.
Meera burst past the guards, her hand shoving one so hard he stumbled. Abhimanyu barely had time to register her face before she threw herself between him and Suryavir.
The leather cracked against her side, the force whipping her sideways. The sound—sharp and wet—echoed through the warehouse.
She gasped, knees buckling, a hand instinctively clutching her ribs where fire seemed to sear through her skin. The breath left her in a strangled cry, eyes squeezing shut against the blinding pain.
"No!" Suryavir's voice broke, raw and panicked. He jerked against his restraints, blood dripping from his wrists as if sheer will could tear them apart.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Abhimanyu stood there, whip still in hand, staring at her as if the world had tilted. Shock hit first—then a flash of guilt so sharp it made his grip falter. But it was drowned almost instantly by a fiercer, self-directed rage.
"What the hell were you thinking?!" His voice was thunder, his hand snapping to grab her arm, pulling her upright. "Do you have any idea—"
She pushed at his chest with her free hand, still panting from the pain. "Do you have any idea what you just did?!" Her voice was hoarse, but her eyes burned.
Around them, the guards looked frozen in place, unsure whether to intervene or vanish.
Abhimanyu's jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone. The sight of the angry red welt spreading across her side made something feral twist in his gut. His grip on the whip tightened again—not toward Suryavir this time, but toward every guard who had dared let her get past them.
Because in his mind, her pain wasn't just Suryavir's fault.
It was everyone's fault—
Including his own.
Abhimanyu didn't ask. He didn't speak. He simply bent, one arm sweeping under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
Meera didn't fight him this time. Couldn't. The pain was too sharp, stealing the strength from her limbs. Her head rested weakly against his chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
The warehouse doors slammed behind them as he strode out, his voice snapping orders to clear the way. The guards didn't dare meet his eyes.
He put her in the backseat himself, his hand steadying her head so it wouldn't hit the doorframe. The drive to the palace was silent except for the low rumble of the engine and her uneven breathing.
By the time they reached, her fingers were cold. He didn't wait for help—he carried her straight to her chambers.
Inside, he set her on the bed and knelt beside her. His hands moved to the hem of her kurti, hesitating only once. "Meera," he murmured, but she didn't answer—just kept her eyes shut tight, as if willing herself not to cry.
Slowly, he eased the fabric up and over her head.
The sight stopped him cold.
A vivid, angry red gash slashed across her side, already swelling. Thin trails of blood traced over her skin. His whip. His mark.
He knew exactly how much force he'd used.
And exactly how much pain it would cause.
Her lips were pressed together, trembling, but the tears betrayed her—slipping silently from the corners of her closed eyes.
Something in his chest twisted painfully. His jaw locked, and he reached out, fingers brushing just beside the welt. "I did this," he said under his breath, almost to himself.
And in that moment, Abhimanyu Rajput—who could break a man without blinking—looked like he'd rather take the lash himself a hundred times than see her like this once.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the thick silence.
The doctor entered with his satchel, followed closely by Dhriti, Zahra, and Isha. All three froze for a split second at the sight—Meera half-lying on the bed, her kurti discarded, Abhimanyu crouched beside her, his hand hovering protectively near her side.
"Your Highness," the doctor said carefully, "I'll need to examine her."
Abhimanyu rose without a word, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—dark, sharp, and unblinking—lingered on Meera's face for a beat longer than necessary, as if memorising her expression.
"Stay with her," he told Dhriti, his voice low but laced with command. "Don't let her out of your sight."
"Yes," Dhriti replied instantly, stepping forward to sit by Meera's side. Zahra and Isha flanked the bed, their concern etched plainly across their faces.
Abhimanyu adjusted his cuffs, the motion almost too calm. "Doctor," he said evenly, "I'll be back."
But the way his jaw tightened and his hands curled at his sides told a different story entirely.
He left without another word, the click of the door shutting behind him carrying more weight than a shout.
Everyone in the room knew—wherever he was going, someone was about to pay.