Tethered by Blood

Tethered by Blood
The gunshot rang through the air like a death sentence.

Ekansh barely registered the way his guards reacted, forming a protective barrier around him, their guns drawn, scanning the area for the threat. He wasn’t looking at them. He wasn’t looking at anything but her.

Siara.

She stood frozen, her eyes wide in shock, and then—blood.

A dark red stain spread across her sleeve, slow but damning. Her body swayed, balance faltering.

No.

He reached for her just as she collapsed. His arms caught her before she hit the ground, cradling her against his chest, and that was when the world truly shattered.

“Siara…” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

She had taken the bullet meant for him.

Why?

Every time he had tried to keep her away from inferno, she had dived straight into it. She was reckless, stubborn, infuriating—but she was his.

Every time he had tried to shield her from danger, she had walked straight into it. But this time… this time, she had taken his fate onto herself.

He didn’t even realize his hands were trembling until he saw the blood seeping between his fingers where they gripped her arm, desperate to stop the flow.

She let out a soft, pained whimper, and it was like someone had driven a knife straight through his ribs.

“Siara, stay with me,” he murmured, his breath uneven as he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to—”

Her lashes fluttered weakly, and then she went still.

His heart stopped.

No. No, no, no—

He barely registered pulling out his phone, dialing Kabir with a sharp, commanding voice he hadn’t even meant to use.

"Get the villa ready. The doctors. Now."

"Sir?" Kabir’s usually calm voice was laced with tension.

"Siara’s been shot," Ekansh snapped. "ETA—less than ten minutes."

Silence. Then, "Understood."

He lifted her carefully, ignoring the way his fingers curled protectively around her body, how she felt too light in his arms, too fragile. The scent of her—vanilla and something softer—was tainted with iron now.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She wasn’t supposed to bleed because of him.

He carried her to the car, his grip steady even as his insides churned with something wild and uncontrollable.

The moment he set her down in the backseat, his hands instinctively pressed against the wound, applying enough pressure to slow the bleeding.

She stirred slightly, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something—but no words came out.

Ekansh’s jaw clenched.

"Just hold on, Siara," he murmured, reaching for his handkerchief. He tied it around her arm as tightly as he could, knowing it wasn’t enough. Knowing she was still losing too much blood.

He didn’t allow himself to think. He didn’t allow himself to feel.

Not yet.

Instead, he drove.

The city blurred past him in streaks of light and shadows, but all he saw was her.

Her head resting against the seat, her face pale, her breath uneven.

He pushed the car harder, faster, until the roads were nothing but a distant memory beneath his tires.

By the time they reached the villa, Kabir was already waiting outside with a team of doctors.

Ekansh stepped out, holding Siara close to his chest, unwilling to let anyone else touch her.

"Fix her," he ordered, his voice dangerously low. "I don’t care what it takes. Save her."

The doctors rushed forward, carefully pulling her from his arms, placing her on a stretcher.

His arms felt empty the moment she was taken from him.

As they disappeared inside, Ekansh stood frozen at the entrance, his hands still stained with her blood. The same hands that had once built an empire from nothing, the same hands that had destroyed lives without a second thought—and now they were shaking.

Minutes passed. Then an hour.

And then, finally, the doctor stepped out.

Ekansh didn’t wait. He moved forward immediately, his tone sharp. “Tell me.”

"She's stable," the doctor said.

A breath Ekansh hadn’t realized he was holding left him, but the relief was short-lived.

"The bullet was laced with poison."

Silence.

A slow, deadly silence.

Ekansh’s fingers twitched, his entire body going rigid.

Poison.

Not just any poison. The rarest kind. The kind that ensured death, if not from blood loss, then from venom sinking into the bloodstream.

Whoever did this had wanted her dead.

"They made sure that if the bullet didn’t kill her," the doctor continued cautiously, "the venom would."

Ekansh exhaled slowly, his jaw clenching so tightly he felt his teeth ache. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, a steady, rhythmic reminder of the rage burning beneath his skin.

"But," the doctor added quickly, "luckily, the bullet only grazed her. A deeper wound would have allowed more poison to enter her system. We've neutralized what little entered her bloodstream. She's out of danger, but her body is weak. She needs rest."

Rest.

Ekansh barely heard him.

Something dark was curling inside him, something monstrous, something that had been kept in chains for too damn long.

He turned and pushed past the doctor, entering the dimly lit room where she lay.

Siara.

She looked small in the hospital bed, her arm wrapped in white gauze, her skin still too pale, her chest rising and falling too softly.

Ekansh walked toward her, his steps slow, controlled—deceptively calm.

He sank into the chair beside the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, exhaling sharply.

She had called him a monster.

A murderer.

And yet, despite everything, despite her hatred, despite the fact that she had every reason to let him die—she had still saved him.

Even when she should have walked away, she had chosen to stand in front of the bullet meant for him.

Why?

He didn't know.

And that infuriated him.

His hand hovered over hers, hesitant. What was he supposed to do? Touch her? Hold her? Apologize?

No.

Because no words could ever make up for what had happened.

She was here because of him. Because of his world. Because she had walked into something she was never supposed to be a part of.

And still—he couldn’t let go.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, a quiet sigh escaping her lips, and something inside him fractured.

She might despise him now. She might push him away. She might never forgive him.

But none of that mattered anymore.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Because despite all of it, despite everything—

She was his.

And no one—no force in this world—was going to take her away from him.