The doctor gently inspected the wound one last time, his touch careful but clinical. "It's a clean gash," he murmured, applying a final layer of ointment. "But you'll need to keep it protected. Wear something loose—nothing that will rub against it."
Dhriti didn't waste a second. She strode to the adjoining wardrobe, pulled out one of Abhimanyu's oversized black t-shirts, and helped Meera out of her kurti with slow, cautious movements. The soft cotton draped over her frame, drowning her in its size but giving her the comfort she needed.
The doctor straightened, packing away his things. "Apply this ointment every night," he instructed, "and no sudden movements. You need rest."
The door creaked open. Daksh stepped inside, his usual casual air replaced with something guarded.
Meera's eyes locked on him instantly. "Where is Abhimanyu?"
Daksh hesitated, glancing briefly at Dhriti before meeting her gaze. "Meera… this is not the right time to see him."
Her fingers clenched in the hem of the t-shirt, her breathing still shallow from the pain, but her voice was unwavering. "I didn't ask if it was the right time. I asked where he is."
As she leaves her room Daksh is behind her telling her not to go near the forbidden door but then she doesn't listen to him as she matches forward in the corridor.
Meera freezes at the doorway for a second, her breath catching in her throat as the sound of the whip cracking against skin echoes in the dimly lit room. Every strike lands with brutal precision, and the raw red marks across Abhimanyu's back tell a story of merciless self-punishment.
Daksh tries to stop her, murmuring her name, but she pushes past him.
"Abhimanyu!" she calls, her voice trembling—half with pain, half with anger.
He doesn't stop. His jaw is clenched, eyes fixed on the floor, as if her voice is just another ghost in his head. The whip comes down again, harder this time.
"Stop it!" she shouts, tears streaming down her face now. She rushes forward, grabbing his arm mid-swing. The leather slips from his hand, but the sheer force of his grip makes her gasp.
He finally turns to look at her—sweat, blood, and something darker in his gaze. His chest heaves, and his voice is hoarse when he says,
"I hurt you… and I can't—"
"You think this will undo it?!" she cuts him off, her hands trembling as they hover near his injuries, afraid to touch and yet unable to pull away. "You think me watching you bleed will make it hurt less?!"
His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, but then his anger—at himself—flares again. "I don't deserve you, Meera."
She shakes her head furiously, tears spilling faster. "And I don't deserve to watch the man I love destroy himself like this."
Her voice breaks on the last word, and that's what finally makes him falter. He drops the whip. The sound of it hitting the floor is deafening in the silence that follows. Without another word, she steps closer and just wraps her arms around him from the front, pressing her cheek against his bloodied shoulder despite the sting of her own injury.
He doesn't hug her back at first—his arms hover stiffly—but when she whispers, "Please, Abhimanyu, come back with me," something in him gives way. His arms wrap around her, pulling her in tightly, like she's the only thing holding him together.
If you want, I can carry this forward to the scene where she gets him to her chambers and tends to his wounds while they have a raw, quiet conversation. That would give this moment an even deeper emotional payoff.
Daksh quietly slips out, closing the door behind them as Meera slowly pulls Abhimanyu away from the center of the room. His steps are heavy, almost reluctant, and she can feel the tension thrumming through him with every movement.
They walk back through the dim corridor, her small frame supporting him despite the fact that she's the one still aching from the gash on her side. When they reach her chambers, she guides him inside without a word and shuts the door.
"Sit," she says softly, but there's no room for argument in her tone.
He sits on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands hanging limp between his knees. Blood from the fresh lashes streaks down his back in dark rivulets, soaking into the waistband of his trousers.
Meera fetches a bowl of warm water and a soft cloth, her fingers trembling as she dips it in and wrings it out. She kneels behind him, gently dabbing away the blood. The first touch makes him flinch.
"You've done worse to yourself than you did to me," she whispers, the hurt in her voice almost unbearable.
"I had to," he says, barely above a murmur. "Every mark is a reminder of what I'm capable of… and what I must never do again."
She pauses, pressing the cloth against one of the deeper welts, letting the warmth soothe the rawness. "Punishment is one thing, Abhimanyu… but this?" She swallows hard. "This is you deciding you're beyond redemption."
He doesn't respond immediately, his breathing steady but shallow. "Maybe I am."
Her hands still for a moment, then she leans forward so her cheek rests lightly against his shoulder. "Then I'll keep reminding you you're not. Even if I have to do it every single day."
For the first time since she found him, his shoulders loosen slightly. Not in forgiveness—he isn't ready for that—but in surrender to the fact that she's still here.
She finishes cleaning the wounds, applying ointment with painstaking care. The smell of herbs fills the room, and every time he winces, her own chest aches. Once she's done, she quietly fetches one of his soft cotton kurtas and slips it gently over his head, careful not to aggravate the cuts.
When he's dressed, she sits beside him on the bed, curling her legs under herself. "You can be angry at yourself," she says softly, "but you can't take yourself away from me."
His gaze finally meets hers—dark, haunted, but glimmering faintly with something fragile. "You don't know how much I wish I could be the man you deserve."
Her fingers find his, lacing together. "Then start by being the man who stays."
And in that silence, heavy but warm, he doesn't let go of her hand.
Without another word, she wraps her arms around him—firmly, fully—ignoring the sting in her own side. His breath catches, but he doesn't pull away.
"You need some sleep," she murmurs against his chest, her voice warm but leaving no room for refusal. "Come on."
He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, but she's already tugging gently at his hand, coaxing him toward the bed. The moment his knees hit the mattress, she guides him down with her, settling beside him in the dim lamplight.
She pulls the blanket over both of them and keeps her arm looped around him, her head resting near his shoulder. He lies there stiff for a heartbeat, then his hand hesitantly comes to rest on her waist—not in desire, not in possession, but in quiet need.
No more words are exchanged. Just the slow rhythm of her breathing, the faint scent of ointment and cotton, and the unspoken truth that—for tonight at least—neither of them is letting go.
Sunlight slips past the heavy curtains, softening the sharp lines of Abhimanyu's face as he sits on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, his back to her. Meera stirs, the movement pulling his attention.
"You're awake," he says quietly, almost as if he isn't sure whether he should have woken her.
"I was already watching you," she answers, voice still husky with sleep. She pushes herself up, wincing faintly at the pull in her side. "We need to talk."
His shoulders tense. "About what?"
"About what Suryaveer told me yesterday," she says plainly.
The shift in his jaw is immediate. "Meera… don't waste your time. He's lying."
She shakes her head. "I don't think he is. And I know you don't want to hear it, but shutting it out won't make it go away."
His eyes find hers then—dark, guarded. "You're letting him get into your head."
"I'm letting the truth in," she says softly, but firmly. "I'm not saying believe him right now. I'm saying… at least hear him out properly. For me."
Silence stretches between them until his sigh cuts through. It's low, reluctant, but not dismissive. "Fine. I'll speak to him. Properly."
Her lips curve just a little, relief flickering in her eyes. "That's all I'm asking."
He stands, brushing an almost absent hand against her hair before moving toward the door. "Don't think this means I'm agreeing with him," he mutters, but there's less bite to it than usual.
"I'll take what I can get," she calls after him.
And for the first time in a long while, he leaves the room with something in his chest that isn't only anger or guilt.
————————————————————
Steam curls around the marble shower, beads of water sliding down Abhimanyu's back as he braces his palms against the wall, head bowed under the stream. The sound of the glass door sliding open barely registers until warm hands slip around his waist.
"Meera—" his voice is sharp, but falters when she presses her cheek to his spine.
"You're hurt," he says after a beat, the whip mark on her side still haunting his memory.
"And you're hurt too," she murmurs, fingers tracing the angry red lines across his torso from his self-inflicted lashes. "But you're too stubborn to admit it."
He turns to face her, ready to argue, but she steps closer—so close the water splashes over both their faces. "I'm not as fragile as you think," she whispers, eyes locking on his. "And right now, I don't want pity… I want my husband."
Her words turn lower, huskier, each one dragging heat into the already-steamy space. She tilts her chin up, lips grazing his jaw as she breathes things only meant for him—filthy, shameless, and unflinching.
By the time she pulls back enough to meet his gaze again, there's nothing left of the tortured, self-punishing Abhimanyu from last night—only the man who wants her with a hunger that drowns out guilt.