MEERA POV

"Bandhne se kya matlab hai apka?!" I hiss, my face inches from his ear. "Gaadi rokiye.... abhi!"

My hand is shaking, and I can feel the vibration of his pulse against the steel.

The Jeep hits a sudden, violent pothole. The car jolts. I gasp, losing my balance for a split second, and the jagged tip of my blade digs deep.

A thin, dark red line of blood instantly beads up against the steel.

I freeze, my breath hitching. I've actually cut him. Most men would have screamed, or slammed the brakes, or thrown me out of the car. But he?

He doesn't even flinch. He doesn't even blink. He doesn't even slam on the brakes. The Jeep continues to roll through the mud as if his skin isn't being sliced open.

He finally glances at me directly in the mirror. Our eyes lock—mine wide and horrified, his dark, deep, and.... amused.

"Self-defense," he says simply, his voice a low, rhythmic vibration.

His lips twitch. Just a tiny, microscopic movement. Was that…. amusement? He's enjoying this! I have a knife to his throat, he's bleeding and he's looking at me like I'm a kitten showing its claws.

"Aap.... aapka khoon nikal raha hai," I stutter, my hand trembling as I pull the dagger back. I stare at the red smear on the blade. My heart is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.

"Hota hai," he replies, as if we are talking about the weather and not the fact that I just wounded him. I blink, my brain trying to process his logic.

"Aap.... aap hans rahe hain?" I stutter, my grip losing.

"Nahi," he replies, though his voice has a deep, rhythmic vibration to it. "Main bas ye soch raha hoon ki agar aapne mujhe maar diya, toh is keechad mein aapka rasta kaun dhoondhega? Aur doosri baat...."

He slows the Jeep down, the engine idling like a growling beast.

"Dariye mat, humne pran liya hai.... hum kisi bhi mahila ko haath nahi laga sakte. Isliye bandhne ki baat ki thi. Haath lagaye bina wahi ek rasta bachta hai."

(I have taken a vow.... I cannot lay a hand on any woman. That's why I mentioned tying you up. Without touching you, that's the only way left.)

I blink. A vow? Who takes a vow like that unless they are a monk.... or a psycho?

"Aap.... aap ajeeb hain," I whisper, slowly pulling the dagger back, though I don't hide it.

"Aur aapka nishana thoda upar tha," he says, shifting the gear back into drive. "Neck vein thoda peeche hoti hai. Agli baar dhyan rakhiye."

I sink back into the seat, huffing in disbelief. Isse darr nahi lagta?

"Waise," he adds, "agar main aapko kidnap kar raha hota…. toh itni khuli Jeep mein nahi karta."

Valid point. "Phir kyun la rahe hain mujhe?"

"Because those men were looking for you. Main sab notice karta hoon."

That answer doesn't comfort me. The Jeep hits another bump and I almost fall forward. Instinctively, his hand moves back slightly to steady me—but he doesn't touch. Just hovers. Controlled.

Suddenly, a sound louder than the engine fills the car. My stomach. It growls so loudly it vibrates against the leather seat. I freeze, my face turning redder than a tomato. I try to cough to hide it, but my stomach growls again, even louder.

In the mirror, I see his eyebrows twitch. "Lagta hai bhoot se pehle bhook aapko maar degi," he says dryly.

I bite my lip, looking out the window. "Woh.... woh badal garaj rahe the," I whisper.

"Badal gaadi ke andar nahi garajte," he replies.

I huff, trying to regain my dignity. "Aapko pata hai na main chillana jaanti hoon?" I say boldly.

"Aap already chilla rahi hain," he replies calmly.

"I am NOT!"

"Haan."

The nerve of this man! "Agar main abhi bolu gaadi rokiye…. toh rok denge?"

Without hesitation he immediately presses the brake. The Jeep jolts to a stop, and I fly forward.

"Ab kyun rok di?!" I yelp.

"Aapne kaha."

"Maine bas poocha tha!"

He turns slightly, looking at me for real this time. His dark eyes are intense, his face now inches from mine—close enough that I can feel his breath brush against my skin. "Phir mat poochiye."

I gulp.

"Mujhe darr nahi lagta," I say, my voice echoing in the cabin. (I am not afraid.)

Suddenly a massive crack of thunder rattles the entire Jeep. I jumped so violently I almost hit the roof, my scream caught in my throat.

I look at him in the mirror; he is just staring at the road, but I can see his eyes tracking my mini heart attack.

"Darr nahi lagta?" he asks, his voice like a calm, deep rumble.

I glared at the back of his head. "Woh.... woh sirf bijli thi. Natural phenomena."

"Haan," he replies. Just one word.

Lambu Rakshak kahi ka.

I watch him drive. Agr ye bhoot nahi toh Ye pakka koi spy hai. Itni shanti se toh sirf detective hi baith sakte hain. "Aap CBI mein ho kya?" I blurted out.

He coughs—a strange, dry sound. It almost feels like he's hiding a laugh.

"Nahi."

"Phir itna sab kaise pata chalta hai aapko? Mere thought, meri dagger.... sab?"

"Observation."

"Creepy observation," I mutter.

"Careful observation," he corrects me instantly. He heard that too? Pakka bhoot hai.

"Aapki gaadi mein aag lag gayi hai!" I scream, lunging away from the seat. "Neeche se garam ho rahi hai.... bacha lo Mahadev!"

Without looking back, his voice remains steady. "You were shivering and Woh heater hai. Shanti se baithiye, pighal nahi jayengi aap." (That is the heater. Sit quietly, you won't melt.)

Ye lambu itne aaram se kaise baitha hai? Isse jalan nahi hoti?, I think, slowly lowering myself back down. Then, I see it.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, glinting object. He places it right on the dashboard, under the dim interior light.

My silver coin.

My heart stops. It's the only memory I have of my mother. I want to grab it, but the space between the back seat and the dashboard feels like a thousand miles because of him.

He catches my gaze in the mirror. "Amanat hai aapki. Sahi waqt par lautayenge. Abhi hamare paas surakshit hai." (It is your property. I will return it at the right time. Right now, it is safe with me.)

Safe with him? My stomach flips, but not from hunger this time.

A heavy tree branch hits the side window right next to my head. I lose it. I don't think. I don't breathe. I lunge forward, grabbing his shoulder from behind and burying my face against his back to hide.

The Jeep swerves slightly.

I feel his entire body goes rigid, like he's turned into solid iron. He hasn't been touched in years, and here I am, digging my cold, muddy fingers into his shoulder. The air in the car becomes heavy, electric.

He doesn't yell. He doesn't push me away. He just takes a long, slow, steadying breath. His voice drops an octave, becoming deeper, darker.

"Bahar koi nahi hai. Aur jab tak hum hain, koi aapko chhoo nahi payega. Baith jaiye." (There is no one outside. And as long as I am here, no one can touch you. Sit down.)

I slowly let go, my face burning hotter than his heater. I slide back into my seat, my heart thudding against my ribs.

"Aur jab tak hum hain...." Why did that sound like a promise?

I look out the window at the swirling mud trying to stay awake, to keep an eye on my silver coin on the dashboard, but the darkness of the road is hypnotic. My head lolls against the window.

I sit there, tucked into the corner of the seat, my knees pulled up to my chest. My face is still radiating heat from where it was pressed against his spine.

Don't sleep, Meera, I tell myself. He's a stranger. He's a giant. He has your mother's coin. And you just stabbed him! He will kill you.

I grip the door handle, trying to use the cold metal to shock my system awake. But the heater.... oh, the heater is a traitor.

It's blowing a steady stream of warmth over my frozen toes, and the hum of the engine is a deep, vibrating lullaby that feels like it's massaging my tired brain.

My head lolls to the side. No! I jerk it back upright, my eyes snapping wide. I look at the dashboard. The silver coin is still there, glinting.

Keep your eyes on the coin.

My eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them. They flutter, closing for a second too long. I snap them open again, blinking rapidly.

I look in the rearview mirror and catch his eyes. He's watching me—not with the intensity of before, but with a strange, guarded curiosity.

"Aap so sakti hain," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Rasta lamba hai." (You can sleep. The way is long.)

"Nahi," I snap, my tongue feeling heavy. "Main.... main bilkul nahi so rahi. Main monitor kar rahi hoon. Navigation.... aur.... observation."

I try to sit up straighter, but my spine feels like a wet noodle. My chin drops to my chest. I jerk it up again, my head hitting the headrest with a dull thwack.

From the driver's seat, I hear it.

It's not a loud laugh. It's a low, dry, raspy sound—a huff of air that vibrates through the small cabin. A chuckle.

"Kyun hans rahe hain?" I mumble, my eyes already half-closed again. (Why are you laughing?)

"Aapki 'observation' kafi prabhavit kar rahi hai humein," he replies. I can hear the smirk in his voice, even if I can't see it. "So jaiye. Hum bhagne waalo mein se nahi hain." (Your observation is impressing me. Sleep. I am not the type to run away.)

"Haan.... thik hai.... bas.... do minute," I whisper, my voice trailing off into a sigh.

I try to count the raindrops on the window, but they start to blur. The smell of the Jeep—oil, rain, and the faint, spicy scent of him wraps around me. My grip on the door handle loosens. My fingers slip, landing softly on the leather seat.

RANVIJAY VARDHANA POV

The silence from the backseat finally changes. The frantic, jagged breathing slows into a steady, rhythmic pattern. I glance in the rearview mirror.

She's asleep.

Her head is resting against the cold glass, her face pale and streaked with dried mud. She looks so small, huddled there, still shivering even in her sleep. I sigh, pulling the Jeep over near an old, flooded bus stand. The area is deserted and swallowed by the dark.

Itni dari hui hai ki thik se saas bhi nahi le rahi. Par phir bhi.... khanjar par grip dheeli nahi ki. Ziddi.

I reach for the pashmina shawl wrapped around my neck—the one with the royal seal hidden in the embroidery. I lean back and carefully drape it over her. She flinches slightly in her sleep, her body sensing a change, but she doesn't wake.

I look at the weapon she was holding and then at my own hands—hands trained to snap a rifle.

Seriously? Is chote se khilaune se ye Tiger of Aravati ka shikaar karne wali thi? Isse toh seb bhi mushkil se katta hoga. Aur pakadne ka style toh dekho.... agar maine gaadi zor se roki hoti, toh ye khud ko hi chubh jayegi.

I shake my head, a dry smile tugging at my lips. Jorah sahi kehta hai. Sar toh mera footta hi, par iski dushmani se nahi.... iski masoomiyat se. Ajeeb ladki hai. Soti hui bilkul shant lag rahi hai, jaise abhi-abhi mujhe marne ki kosis nhi ki ho.

(Jorah was right. If she breaks my head, it won't be with this knife; it'll be because she makes me lose my mind with her innocence. Strange girl. She looks so peaceful while sleeping, as if she didn't just try to kill me moments ago.)

I turn my attention back to my own neck. The blood has dried into a dark, jagged crust. I reach into the glovebox and pull out a small, silver-cased medical kit—royal military grade. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet cabin.

I tilt my head, looking at my reflection. The cut isn't deep enough to kill, but it's deep enough to stay.

Ziddi khanjar, ziddi malik. Dus saal mein bade-bade yoddha meri talwar tak nahi pahunch paye.... aur isne ek hi jhatke mein mera guroor tod diya.

I take a sterile wipe and dab at the wound. A white-hot sting flares up, but I don't flinch. I've survived explosion, but this sting feels personal. I reach for a specialized herbal balm.

I wipe away the dried crimson, revealing the thin, angry red line. It's right over the pulse point. Another inch, and Jorah would have been singing at my funeral tonight.

Is nishaan ko chhupane ki zaroorat nahi hai. Ye yaad dilayega ki Aravati ke sher ko ek choti si hiran ne ghayal kiya tha. (No need to hide this mark. It will remind me that a small deer wounded the Lion of Aravati.)

Suddenly, she stirs. Her lips move, and a tiny, sleepy smile touches her face.

"Nahi.... bhoot.... seeng nahi hai...." she whispers, followed by a soft, muffled giggle.

I freeze, my hand hovering near my neck. A genuine, quiet laugh escapes my chest.

Kamaal hai. Neend mein bhi chup nahi hoti, bolti hi rehti hai. Yahan bhi mujhse hi ladd rahi hai. (Even in her sleep, she won't be quiet. She’s still fighting me here).

How can a woman who looks so peaceful be such a chaotic radio when awake?

I put the kit away and snap it shut. I don't cover the wound with a bandage. I want the air to hit it. I want to feel the sting every time I turn my head.

I step out of the Jeep to keep watch, leaning against the hood as the rain turns into a drizzle.

Suddenly, a beam of flashlight cuts through the mist. Three men—not the ones from before, but older, village-types approach the jeep. They look suspicious, holding sticks.

"Aye! Kaun ho tum? Itni raat ko yahan kya kar rahe ho?" one barks.

I straighten my posture. I don't need a crown to look like a King. "Gaadi kharab ho gayi hai," I say, my voice dropping into a deep, authoritative tone.

They shine the light into the back seat, catching a glimpse of the red. "Yahan ek ladki bhaagi hai.... tumne dekha kisi ko?"

I think of her—clutching that toy dagger, terrified.

"Nahi. Humne kisi ko nahi dekha."

"Toh pichhe kaun soya hai?" they ask, stepping closer, reaching for the door handle.

I step into their path, my shadow looming over them. My hand rests on the door, a silent warning.

I shift my weight, blocking their view. My eyes turn cold. "Hamari dharam patni," I declare, the words feeling strange on my tongue.

To be continued....

Mahadev be like: "Tathastu, beta."

So what do you guys think?

Should I make his lie come true?

Thank you for reading.