Consciousness didn't return to me gently; it crashed into me like a physical blow.
I woke up to a cold so profound it felt as though my very bones had turned to ice. For a long, disorienting moment, I didn't know where I was. My eyes fluttered open, eyelashes heavy with thick, grey dust. The world was a blurry, monochromatic nightmare of towering wooden shelves and monstrous shadows. The smell of ancient paper and stale rot filled my nostrils, immediately triggering a harsh, hacking cough that tore through my chest like a serrated blade.
Memory came flooding back with agonizing clarity. The library. The photograph. Rudra's blinding, murderous rage. The heavy doors slamming shut, locking me inside this freezing tomb.
I tried to sit up, but a sharp, blinding pain shot up my spine, forcing a breathless whimper from my cracked lips. My body was completely rigid, locked in the fetal position I had curled into hours ago. The thin, faded cotton suit offered absolutely no protection against the biting chill of the unheated East Wing. But the cold was only half the battle.
Beneath the freezing surface of my skin, a terrifying heat was beginning to radiate. My forehead throbbed with a vicious, relentless pounding, and my breaths came in short, shallow rasps. Fever. The hours of back-breaking labor, the emotional trauma, the lack of food and water, and the freezing temperature had finally broken through my body's defenses.
I was burning up from the inside while freezing on the outside.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a single tear escaping and tracking through the grime on my cheek. Please, I prayed silently to a God I wasn't sure was listening anymore. Please, just let me fall asleep and never wake up. It would be so much easier.
Click. Clack.
The heavy, metallic sound of the brass lock turning echoed through the cavernous library like a gunshot.
I forced my heavy eyelids open. The massive double doors groaned in protest as they were pushed open, allowing a blinding shaft of morning sunlight to slice through the dusty gloom.
A silhouette stepped into the doorway. It wasn't Rudra's imposing, broad-shouldered frame. It was someone much smaller.
"Oh, dear Lord..." a soft, trembling voice gasped.
It was a young maid. I had seen her briefly the day before; she was the one who had brought my meager lunch to the conservatory. She was carrying a heavy wooden bucket of fresh water and a stack of clean rags.
The moment her eyes adjusted to the dim light and landed on my curled-up form in the center of the floor, she dropped the bucket. It hit the hardwood with a loud smack, soapy water sloshing over the edges and soaking into the antique Persian rug. She didn't care. She practically sprinted towards me, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror.
"Ma'am? Ma'am!" she cried out, dropping to her knees beside me. Her hands hovered over me for a second, unsure of where to touch the filthy, trembling mess I had become. Gently, she placed a hand on my shoulder.
She yanked it back instantly as if I had burned her.
"You're burning up!" she whispered frantically, her eyes filling with panicked tears. "You're on fire! And your hands... oh my god, your hands!"
She reached out and carefully took my right hand. The raw, bleeding knuckles I had scraped against the shelves yesterday were now covered in a layer of dark, infected grime.
"I... I'm cold..." I managed to croak out. My throat felt like it was lined with shattered glass. It was the first time I had spoken in hours, and my voice sounded like the rustle of dead leaves.
"I need to get help. I need to get Mrs. Verma," the young maid—her nametag read Meera—stammered, scrambling to her feet.
"What is the meaning of this commotion?"
The sharp, shrill voice cut through the air before Meera could even take a step. Mrs. Verma stood in the doorway, her face twisted in a scowl of deep disapproval. She took in the spilled bucket of water, the panicked maid, and then, finally, her cold gaze landed on me.
"Meera, why is this water spilled? Sir demands perfection, not clumsiness," Mrs. Verma snapped, stepping into the room.
"Mrs. Verma, please!" Meera pleaded, wringing her hands together. "The new Ma'am... she's very sick. She has a terrible fever. She's completely unconscious. We have to call a doctor!"
Mrs. Verma walked closer, her expensive shoes clicking sharply against the floor. She looked down at me with an expression of pure, unvarnished disgust.
"Sick?" she scoffed coldly. "Or simply acting out to gain Sir's sympathy? Sir left very explicit instructions last night. She is not to leave this room until it is spotless. And looking around, I see she has barely finished half of it."
"But she's burning with fever!" Meera cried, a shocking display of defiance against the head housekeeper. "She could die in here!"
"Then she will die doing the work Sir assigned her," Mrs. Verma replied heartlessly. She stepped closer to me and nudged my bruised hip with the pointed toe of her shoe. It wasn't a gentle tap; it was a harsh, demeaning kick. "Get up. Sir will be awake soon, and he will not tolerate this pathetic display of laziness. Get up now!"
I tried. God knows I tried. The survival instinct kicked in, driven by the absolute terror of what Rudra would do if he found me still on the floor. I planted my raw, bleeding hands against the cold wood and pushed.
I managed to lift my torso a few inches, my arms shaking violently under my own meager weight. The room spun sickeningly around me. Black spots danced aggressively at the edges of my vision.
"S-see?" I stammered, aiming for defiance but sounding utterly broken. "I'm... I'm getting..."
My arms gave out completely.
I collapsed forward. But before my face could smash against the hard floor, the heavy wooden doors of the library were thrown open with such violent force that they slammed against the walls, shaking the very foundation of the room.
The temperature in the library instantly plummeted by ten degrees. The air became so thick with tension it was difficult to breathe.
Mrs. Verma gasped, taking a massive step back. Meera immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, her entire body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
I couldn't lift my head to look, but I didn't need to. The scent of dark cedarwood and impending doom filled the air.
Rudra had arrived.
For a long, terrifying moment, there was absolute silence. Only the sound of my ragged, shallow breathing broke the stillness. I lay there, my cheek pressed against the dirty floor, waiting for the screaming to begin. Waiting for the final blow that would shatter whatever was left of me.
But the screaming never came.
Instead, I heard the slow, deliberate crunch of his expensive leather shoes stepping over the debris. He stopped right beside me.
"Mrs. Verma," Rudra's voice was shockingly quiet. It wasn't the thunderous roar from last night. It was a low, smooth, deadly whisper that sent a fresh wave of chills down my spine. "Explain."
"S-Sir," Mrs. Verma stuttered, her previous arrogance completely vanishing in the face of her master's terrifying calm. "I was just checking on her progress, as you ordered. She... she seems to be refusing to work. She claims she is ill."
"She isn't claiming anything, she has a terrible fever!" Meera blurted out, her terror momentarily overridden by desperation. She clamped her hands over her mouth the second the words escaped, horrified at her own audacity.
Silence descended again.
Suddenly, a large, warm hand grasped my shoulder. I flinched violently, expecting to be yanked up and thrown against the shelves like yesterday.
But the grip wasn't punishing. It was firm, but strangely careful.
Rudra effortlessly rolled me onto my back. As my face turned towards the light, I heard a sharp intake of breath. I forced my heavy, crusted eyes open just a fraction.
Rudra was kneeling beside me. He was dressed in a casual black t-shirt and dark sweatpants, his hair slightly messy, as if he had just woken up. But his dark eyes... they were completely unreadable. They swept over my face, taking in the pale, sickly skin, the deep purple bags under my eyes, the feverish sweat coating my forehead. His gaze dropped to my hands, resting limply on my stomach. The raw, bloody, infected knuckles were impossible to hide.
A muscle jumped violently in his jaw.
"Leave," Rudra commanded, his voice tight, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Sir?" Mrs. Verma asked, confused.
"I said, get the hell out!" Rudra roared, the sudden explosion of volume making both women jump out of their skin. "Both of you! Now! And call Dr. Mehta. Tell him if he isn't here in fifteen minutes, I'll burn his clinic to the ground."
Meera practically scrambled out of the room, Mrs. Verma trailing right behind her, her face pale with shock. The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving me completely alone with the monster who had put me here.
I closed my eyes, too exhausted to feel fear anymore. "Did you... did you come to finish the job?" I whispered weakly, a delirious, humorless laugh escaping my lips.
Rudra didn't answer.
Instead, I felt a strong arm slide under my knees, and another wrap securely around my back. With effortless, shocking strength, Rudra stood up, lifting me into his arms bridal style.
My head lolled back against his broad chest. The heat radiating from his body was overwhelming, fighting against the freezing chill in my bones. I was pressed against the steady, heavy thumping of his heart. It was the most intimate contact we had shared, and it felt incredibly wrong. He was my tormentor, my jailer, the man who hated my very existence. Yet, right now, his arms were the only things keeping me from shattering into a million pieces.
"You're an idiot," he muttered under his breath, his voice harsh, yet devoid of the murderous venom from last night. "A fragile, stubborn, absolute idiot."
"You... you told me to clean..." I mumbled incoherently, the fever rapidly pulling me down into the dark abyss. "Didn't want you to... ruin my father..."
Rudra's arms tightened around me almost painfully. He began walking, carrying me out of the freezing tomb of the East Wing, his long strides eating up the distance down the long corridors.
"Shut up," he ordered, though the command lacked its usual bite. "Just shut up and go to sleep. I didn't give you permission to die in my house. You don't get off that easily."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to fight him. But the darkness was too heavy, too inviting. As Rudra carried me up the grand staircase, away from the dust and the cold, I finally surrendered to the abyss, his cedarwood scent the last thing I registered before the world faded to black.