Reyansh's Point of View
She didn't even flinch when he touched her wrist.
That fragile pulse fluttered beneath his fingers like the wings of a bird too trusting, too unaware it was perched on the palm of a predator. Arina was soft in places he hadn't known existed anymore—her warmth seeped into the cracks of his hollow chest, filling the spaces where cruelty had long made its home.
And yet, she looked at him with eyes that still held stars.
He wasn't meant for stars.
The scent of the food she had made—for him—still lingered in the air, clinging to his skin like guilt. Not guilt over what he was or what he'd done. He had no regrets about the blood on his hands, no shame in the weight he carried. But her kindness… that unflinching devotion to rituals, the way she'd lit the diya just for him, the small way she folded her hands in silent prayer—those things stirred something feral inside him.
It wasn't love.
He'd never believed in love. Never sought it. What he wanted, what he needed, had always been far more primal.
Possession.
Control.
He could break bones without blinking, snap necks without guilt—but the thought of hurting her now made his breath shallow. That was the most terrifying part.
She didn't know. She couldn't know. If Arina ever truly understood the kind of man he was… the kind of darkness she had stepped into when she said yes to being his wife…
He exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm roaring beneath his skin. His fingers itched with the desire to reach for her, not in violence but in something darker, something tethered to obsession. He had caged his urges carefully for years, feeding the beast only what it needed to stay alive—but she had walked in with her gentle hands and soft voice, and now the cage was rusting.
He had planned everything—this marriage, her move here, the slow way he would build a world around her until she belonged to him entirely. It had been methodical, calculated, flawless.
Until she started smiling at him like he mattered.
Until she started looking like home.
He wasn't supposed to feel this. Couldn't feel this. Soft emotions were for people who hadn't drowned in blood. But now she was brushing past him in the kitchen, her fingers warm as they accidentally grazed his, and he wanted to stop time. Not to admire beauty, but to cage it—to keep her in that moment, where she was real and warm and his.
And that was the problem.
He wanted too much.
Her making food for him, touching his shoulder so lightly, bringing him water without asking, performing rituals not because she believed in but for him. They were enough to destroy him.
Because no one had ever done that for him. No one had ever chosen him, not without fear or bargain.
He'd taken what he wanted all his life.
But she gave.
It cracked something open.
And the man inside—cold, careful, endlessly composed—was slipping.
He stared at her from across the room now, eyes tracking every movement as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her back was turned. Vulnerable.
He could walk to her now, wrap his arms around her waist, press his lips against the curve of her neck. She would stiffen, not out of fear, but hesitation. Then she would relax. That's what she always did around him—she relaxed. Trusted.
And that trust? It was a knife to his gut.
He didn't deserve it. But gods help him, he wanted to keep it.
"I'll destroy this," he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.
Because he would. If he touched her now, with the heat that coiled low in his stomach, with the desperation clawing inside his ribs—he would ruin everything.
She was light, yes, but she wasn't naïve. If he pushed too far, showed too much, let even a sliver of that darkness spill out—she would run. And he couldn't let that happen.
She wasn't just a woman.
She was his salvation.
And salvation should never look at the devil the way she looked at him.
His fists clenched at his sides.
He couldn't go on like this—walking the thin line between restraint and madness. It was easier when she had been just an idea. A plan. But now she was real. Soft lips, uncertain smiles, tiny habits, and quiet rituals. A woman who hummed softly when she cooked. A woman who lit lamps in the morning and remembered how he liked his tea.
He had caged monsters inside himself for decades. But Arina, with her gentle steps and unwavering gaze, had become the first thing he ever wanted to protect instead of control.
And that terrified him.
Because deep down, he wasn't sure he could do both.
He wasn't made for soft things. And if he touched her the way he wanted to, if he gave in even once—he feared she would never be able to look at him the same way again.
So he waited.
Burning, aching, craving.
Holding on to that last sliver of control with bloodied hands and clenched teeth.
But it was breaking.
And when it finally did…
He didn't know if he would claim her with love—
…or destroy her with obsession.
"He planned to seduce her mind. But she ruined him with kindness."