Chapter 56: Scars Under the Skin

Chapter 56: Scars Under the Skin
Raaz’s POV

The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor felt like they were burning into my skull. Too bright. Too sterile. The antiseptic smell clung to my clothes, mixing with the faint scent of her hair that was still on my shirt from carrying her. I paced outside the emergency ward, my boots heavy on the polished tiles, each step echoing like the beat of a war drum in my head.

Through the glass, I could see her. Small. Still. Surrounded by doctors and nurses in pale scrubs. Their hands moved fast—checking vitals, hooking her up to IV lines, cleaning the dirt from her skin.

My fists clenched. Dirt that wasn’t just from the earth they tried to bury her in. Dirt mixed with blood.

Mikhail stood near the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning every person who entered or left the room. “They’re good here,” he muttered when he caught me watching. “She will be fine.”

“Fine?” I snapped, my voice rough. “You call this fine?” I gestured toward the room, my throat tight. “She’s lying there like she’s—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Mikhail’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second. “Alive. That’s what she is. Focus on that for now, my friend.”

But my mind wasn’t built for patience. Not when she was hurt. Not when I could still see the faint outline of a handprint blooming on her cheek from Kartik’s slap.

The doors swung open, and a middle-aged doctor stepped out, pulling down his mask. His expression was calm but serious. “Mr. Singh?”

I was in front of him before he could take another step. “How is she?”

“She was saved in time,” he said, glancing at his clipboard. “If she had been without air even a few minutes longer, it could have been irreversible. Physically… she’s weak, dehydrated, and malnourished from the last few days. There are bruises on her wrists and ankles—likely from being tied tightly for extended periods. The marks on her feet suggest she was either dragged or forced to walk barefoot over rough surfaces. And…” He hesitated.

“And?” My voice was low, dangerous.

“Slap marks. On both cheeks,” he said finally. “Repeated blows. She will recover from the physical injuries, but the mental trauma—” He shook his head. “That will need time. A safe environment. Someone she trusts.”

I felt the air leave my lungs in a slow, controlled exhale, the kind that kept me from breaking something in that moment. “Someone she trusts,” I repeated. My jaw clenched. “She has me.”

The doctor nodded cautiously. “Then she’ll have the best chance.”

As he turned to leave, I caught his arm. “Keep every detail of her condition between us. No one outside this floor hears about it. No media, no hospital gossip. If even a whisper gets out—”

He swallowed hard. “Understood.”

When the door closed again, I stayed rooted to the spot, my eyes fixed on her through the glass. The nurses were gently washing her face now, the slap marks stark against her pale skin. Her hair was damp, plastered to her temples. The IV line trailed from her hand, delivering the fluids she desperately needed.

Every mark on her skin was a story. A story I was going to rewrite with Kartik’s blood.

Mikhail came to stand beside me. “You’re vibrating with rage,” he said dryly.

I didn’t look at him. “He put his hands on her. Tied her. Hurt her.” My voice was a growl. “He will not walk away from this. I will tear him apart, Mikhail. Bone by bone.”

“Good,” Mikhail said simply. “But wait until she’s safe in your arms again. Strike when your mind is clear, not when it’s clouded with fury. That’s how you make it hurt the most.”

The door opened again, and a nurse waved me inside. I didn’t waste a second.

The room was warm, softly lit now, the hum of machines steady in the background. She lay on the bed, her face turned slightly to the side, an oxygen tube resting under her nose. The bruise on her cheek looked darker up close, the kind of mark that made my blood boil. Her wrists were wrapped in light bandages, her feet cushioned under the blanket.

I took the chair beside her and leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. My hand hovered over hers before I finally let my fingers wrap gently around it. Her skin was still cooler than I liked, but there was warmth there—life.

Her lips parted slightly, and I thought for a second she might wake, but it was just her breathing deepening, the sedation keeping her under.

I brushed a strand of hair from her face, my knuckles grazing her temple. “I’m here, jaan,” I murmured. “No one will ever touch you again. No one will ever make you cry again… except me, and only if it’s because you’re angry I bought you too much jewellery.”

It was an empty attempt at humour, my voice breaking halfway through.

I sat there for hours, ignoring the outside world. Mikhail brought me coffee at one point, but I barely touched it. I didn’t care about anything except the slow rise and fall of her chest.

The doctor came back to check on her, adjusting the IV drip. “She might wake by morning,” he said softly. “Talk to her when she does. Keep her calm.”

“I will,” I promised.

When he left, I leaned closer, lowering my forehead to rest against her hand. My mind replayed every detail of the doctor’s words, each one another nail in Kartik’s coffin. Bruises. Slaps. Rope burns.

I lifted my head and looked at her face again, the faint tremor in her lips as she dreamed. “You’re mine, Aanya,” I whispered. “And God help the man who thought he could hurt what’s mine.”

My fury was no longer just heat—it was ice. Cold, precise, and deadly. Kartik had made the gravest mistake of his life.

Aanya’s POV

The first thing I felt was the heaviness. Not the kind that sleep brings, but something deeper, like my body was anchored down, too weak to move. My eyelids fluttered open, and the light above me blurred into a haze before slowly sharpening.

White ceiling. Soft beeping. A faint sterile smell.

A hospital.

My breath caught. Memories rushed in all at once—the sound of dirt hitting wood, my lungs screaming for air, Kartik’s face twisted in hate, the sting of his hand on my cheek. My fingers twitched against something warm, and only then did I realise someone was holding my hand.

I turned my head, slowly, as if afraid of what I might see.

Raaz.

He was sitting in the chair beside me, his head bent slightly, his other hand resting against his lips, as though deep in thought. His eyes were closed, but even like this he looked… intense. A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and there was a tension in his shoulders that told me he hadn’t rested.

For a long moment, I just stared. Part of me wanted to feel safe seeing him here, alive and unhurt. The other part of me—the part that remembered every locked door, every command—felt a cold shiver of fear.

As if sensing my gaze, his eyes opened. They found mine instantly, and something raw flickered in them—relief, anger, something I couldn’t name.

“Aanya,” he said, his voice low but sharp with emotion. He leaned closer, his grip on my hand tightening just enough to make my pulse quicken. “You’re awake.”

I swallowed. My throat felt dry, rough. “Where…?” My voice cracked.

“You’re safe,” he said before I could finish, as though that was the only answer I needed. “You’re in a hospital. You were… found in time.” His jaw clenched, and I could see the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Kartik didn’t win.”

The name alone made me flinch. I turned my face away from him, toward the pale wall. “He almost did.”

There was silence. I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and unyielding. Then I felt the brush of his fingers against my temple, tucking my hair away from my face. “He will never touch you again,” Raaz said, each word carved out like stone. “Never.”

I closed my eyes. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” he said. “Because I will kill him before he ever comes near you again.”

The matter-of-fact way he said it made my stomach knot. Raaz’s world was painted in absolutes—protection meant violence, love meant possession, safety meant control.

“I’m tired,” I whispered, hoping he would leave.

Instead, I heard the scrape of the chair against the floor as he moved closer. “Rest, jaan,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

But that was the problem. Part of me didn’t know if I wanted him here.

I tried to turn further away, but the IV in my arm tugged, and pain shot up my hand. A small gasp escaped me. Immediately, his hand was on my cheek, steadying me, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

“You’ve lost weight,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Your face… your wrists…” His voice trailed off, replaced by the tightening of his jaw. “They hurt you.”

“They?” I asked bitterly. “You mean him? Or… everyone who’s ever decided what I should or shouldn’t do with my life?”

His gaze snapped to mine. “Don’t compare me to him.”

“I’m not sure there’s a difference sometimes,” I shot back, my voice shaking but my eyes holding his.

Something dark passed over his face—hurt, anger, something else I couldn’t decipher. But instead of exploding, he exhaled slowly, the kind of controlled breath that meant he was holding back. “You think I would bury you alive?” he asked softly, dangerously.

“No,” I said after a pause. “But I think you would lock me away if it meant you got to keep me.”

The truth hung between us like a blade.

He didn’t deny it.

His hand slid to the back of mine, his thumb tracing the line of my bandaged wrist. “You’re mine, Aanya. That hasn’t changed. But I will find the man who did this to you, and when I do—” He stopped, his lips curling into a grim smile. “You don’t need to know the rest.”

I turned away again, closing my eyes, trying to shut him out. But even with my eyes closed, I could feel him there, his presence wrapping around me like a cage.

Minutes passed. The steady beeping of the monitor filled the silence, a metronome for the storm in my head.

Finally, I felt him move. A warm weight settled over my hand again. “Sleep,” he said, his voice lower now. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And somehow, that promise felt both like a shield and a shackle.