He hated her.
He hated her more than he had ever hated anyone before. He had been reinstated into the BSD without a second glance when they found out he was married, but he still had to live with the consequences of his rash actions. He had to see her every, single day.
He stumbled in for the seventh time that week, his eyes bloodshot and dark with the haze of alcohol. He held a bottle of whiskey in his hands, the amber liquid sloshing against the thick glass as he tripped through the door.
He felt himself stumbling over air in his drunken stupor, bracing himself for the impact of the fall that was sure to come, the dark liquid that had been his savior and demon for the past week sure to splash all over the shining, marble floors.
But it never came.
Turning his half-lidded eyes downwards, he saw the small, dainty hands steady him against herself, gently reaching for the bottle in his hands. Once she was sure he was standing, she walked behind him, pulling off his BSD coat with a practiced ease. He shivered at the feeling of her hands brushing against his quivering biceps, tugging the stubborn, tight coat off of his shoulders.
He hated her.
He hated that every, single night for the past week, she was standing at the door when he came in, ready to take off his coat. He hated that she would hand him the steaming, spicy dal, its aroma wafting out through the doorway outside the haveli, luring him in.
He hated that her rotis were soft, melting in his mouth along with the butter that would slowly sink into the pillowy dough, a far cry from the papad-like, smoked taste of his own. He hated that he had come to depend on the savory aloo methi that she made, the slightly bitter taste of the methi complemented perfectly by her silken aloo that she would send everyday in a metal tiffin box.
He had thrown away the box on the first day, refusing to eat it. But then the second day came, and it was still there, and he was starving from a long, exhausting mission. So he had unwittingly slipped the carefully prepared meal into his mouth, the savory flavors entrenching them in his tongue. By the third day, he was addicted, just as he was addicted to her.
He hated that when he walked into the haveli, drunk beyond all measure, the first thing he would see was those beautiful, almond shaped hazel eyes, reeking of her innocence, the familiar red streaks of sindoor left in her hair from the morning puja. He hated that she would patiently sit him down and hand him a plate, feeding him with her own hands as he mumbled insults at her. He hated that he wanted her fingers to stay in his mouth a little longer, so that he could brush the tip of his tongue against her delicate fingers and watch her shiver with pleasure, goosebumps erupting on her arms as she pulled away.
He hated that she would lead him to their room, handing him a worn kurta and sending him to the bathroom as she prepared their bed. He hated that when he walked out of the bathroom, she would be bent over, revealing that endless stretch of skin that was not covered by her tiny choli, her creamy back calling to him.
He hated that he wanted to pull her close to him and run his hands all over her back, stroking as she would arch back in ecstasy. He wanted to rip that sinful choli off of her shoulders, not even stopping to untie the doris, pull the damned dupatta away, and slide her flaring skirt down her silken legs, laying her down on the plush bed with reverence.
He would leave her payals and her jewelry on, so that he could hear them chime as she wrapped her legs around his waist and cried out his name, again and again, as he thrust deep within her. He wanted to see her necklace sway as she leaned over him, her hair falling in a thick, velvet curtain around his face, her perfect, round breasts taunting him teasingly from above.
He wanted to hear her moan and gasp as he nipped at her deliciously soft skin, leaving bruises there and marking her as his own for the morning. He wanted to initiate her to every portion of pleasure, and keep the siren that was within her to himself. He wanted her to beg him to take her, call for him in a voice laden with desire.
And he hated it.
He had tried, oh, he had tried. Every single night, he would make a visit to the local bar, looking at the women who would seduce him gladly. He couldn't go to Laila, not after he had shunned her so. It would not be good for his prideful heart that refused to let him admit defeat.
He would sit at the bar, taking large swigs of whiskey as a woman would sit on his lap. She would lean over and look at him with her smoky eyes, inviting him in. And he would go. They would make it to one of the private rooms in the back, complete with their shimmering drapes of red and gold, the candles barely lighting the area.
The woman would seduce him, pressing nipping kisses to his neck, and grind herself against him. He would run his hands down her back, reaching for the doris that held her blouse shut, allowing the piece of cloth to fall to the ground in a heap.
He would allow her to unbutton his uniform, dropping the clothes one by one. And then finally, when they both lacked a stitch on them, he would freeze.
Her hair was too wavy, not the silken locks that flew as the payals chimed when she ran down the hallway. Her waist was too small, not letting him rest his hands there comfortably. Her eyes were too done up, a far cry from the simple kohl lined hazel eyes that haunted his dreams. Her voice was too deep, too husky, lacking the soft innocence of the woman waiting for him in the empty haveli with her round rotis and her sinfully delicious aloo methi.
He would put on his clothes and walk out, not offering the distraught woman inside a second glance. Grabbing a bottle, he would drink himself silly as he leaned against the motorcycle. And then he would stumble home, opening the door to see the familiar, hazel eyes he hated so much, looking up at him with a dewy sweetness, a smile creasing her soft cheeks.
He would settle down on the bed, reaching for the other bottle of alcohol he always kept by his bedside, longing for more of that familiar burn before he had to lie down next to her, testing every inch of his self control.
Unfailingly, she would place her own, tiny hands over his and pull the bottle out of his weak grasp, handing him a glass of thick milk instead. He would glare at her in anger, challenging her, and she would only stare back at him with love, her eyes encouraging him to drink the sweet, white liquid that was occasionally flavored with just the right amount of Bournvita. He would open his mouth to protest, insults ready to hurl at the tip of his tongue.
But he wouldn't hurl them. He couldn't. He would silently take the glass of the milk, down it in one go, and wipe his mouth messily with the back of his hand, before collapsing down on the bed into a fitful sleep. He would feel her weight sink down beside him and he would turn away, angry that he was so lost to her charms.
He whispered the word off his dry lips, the one insult he threw at her every day.
He hated her, he hated her so deeply that he didn't even know if he hated her anymore. He hated her beauty, her innocence, and the fact that he knew that she wasn't guilty of anything, not at all. He hated the fact that he had married her not only because he wanted to save his job, but because he couldn't bear to see her leave him.
He clenched his jaw, steeling himself as his muscles stiffened. He would win. He would break her, destroy her, ruin her for everything she had done to him by entrancing him with her resplendent beauty. He would fulfill every, single vow he had made that day. He would make sure of it.
Shaadi mubarak, Major Rudra Pratap Ranawat. Or as his wife would say it, shaadi mubarak, Major Saab.
Topic started by chotidesi
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