His Little Storm

His Little Storm
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of her breathing—soft, shallow, but steady.

Ekansh sat still, his gaze locked onto the woman lying unconscious in his bed. His room.

Siara.

His fingers tightened into fists as he took in the sight of her, lying against the silk sheets, her complexion paler than he had ever seen it. The bandages around her arm stood in stark contrast against her soft skin, a cruel reminder of what had happened. A reminder of the blood she had spilled for him.

A reminder of what she had done—what she had risked.

The rage in his chest simmered, burning through his veins like wildfire, but beneath that anger was something worse. Something deeper.

Guilt.

She had cried because of him. She had bled because of him.

And yet, despite everything, despite all the pain and fury between them, she had still saved him.

"Why, Siara?"

Why did she keep doing this? Every time he tried to shield her from the darkness, she walked straight into it, willingly, without hesitation.

And now, she had taken his fate upon herself.

Ekansh exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. His mind was still reeling from the doctor’s words.

"The bullet was laced with poison—not just any, but one of the rarest kinds. Whoever did this made sure that if the target didn’t die from blood loss, they would certainly die from the venom."

It had been a calculated shot, meant to kill. But luck—or perhaps sheer will—had spared her. The bullet had only grazed her, not embedded itself fully. Enough to wound her, enough to send her into unconsciousness, but not enough to kill her.

That knowledge did nothing to soothe him.

Because she had almost died.

And for what?

For him.

For the very man she had started considering a monster.

For the very man who had shattered the little trust, little understanding and maybe something more that she hadn't named but surely felt.

He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to steady his breathing. His emotions were a dangerous thing—uncontrolled, raw, violent. And right now, they clawed at him with an unbearable intensity.

His hands itched to tear someone apart, to hunt down the one who had dared to harm her. But that would have to wait.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was her.

She didn’t know what she had stepped into.

She had no idea just how dangerous this world truly was, how merciless the people in it could be.

But it didn’t matter.

Because from this moment forward, he would protect her.

From everything.

Even if it meant protecting her from himself.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips. He could already predict what would happen the moment she opened her eyes.

She would fight him.

She would throw sharp-edged words at him, accuse him of being controlling, overbearing. She would demand answers, push him away, tell him she didn’t need his protection.

"I am not some fragile thing you can keep locked away, Ekansh."
"You cannot tame me."

No, she wasn’t fragile.

And no, she couldn’t be tamed.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her anyway.

A soft noise escaped her lips, and his body went rigid. His gaze snapped to her face, his heart clenching as she stirred slightly, her brows furrowing in discomfort.

Even in unconsciousness, she was uneasy.

He hated that.

Without thinking, he moved.

Slowly, carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed beside her, his touch featherlight as he reached out, threading his fingers through her hair.

The moment his fingers touched her, the tension in her body melted away.

His jaw tightened.

She had no idea what she did to him.

Ekansh exhaled slowly, his fingers continuing to move in soothing motions. He had no idea if she could hear him, if some part of her subconscious registered his presence, but he spoke anyway.

"You really are something else, aren’t you?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers lingered in her hair, his touch gentle, almost absentminded. Memories flickered through his mind—of her sharp wit, her stubborn defiance, the fire in her eyes every time she stood against him.

And yet, despite knowing exactly who he was, despite seeing the monster in him, she had still saved him.

A bitter chuckle escaped him.

"Foolish," he whispered, shaking his head. "You’re so damn foolish, Siara."

His gaze darkened.

She had bled for him.

She had cried for him.

And she would cry one last time.

One final time.

Because after tonight, he would make sure she never shed another tear.

Not because of him.

Not because of anyone.

This—this—would be the last time she suffered.

His jaw clenched as he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen. He sent the message, his eyes never leaving her face.

Then, slowly, he leaned down.

His lips brushed against her forehead, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

A sigh left him, and when he pulled away, his expression was unreadable.

She would hate him after this.

Despise him, even.

She would fight him with everything she had.

But he didn’t care.

Because even if she never forgave him, even if she pushed him away, he would protect her.

Even if it meant enduring her wrath.

Even if it meant letting her hate him.

His fingers traced the edges of her bandaged arm one last time before he stood, his movements slow, calculated.

His gaze softened—just a fraction—as he looked at her peaceful face.

She had no idea what was coming.

Ekansh exhaled, running a hand through his hair before leaning down one last time.

His lips barely ghosted over her temple as he whispered against her skin:

"I'm sure you'll hate me more after this... even despise me for what I'm going to do."

A pause.

His l
ips curled into a bitter smile, his voice dropping lower, almost reverent.

"But until then..."

A soft kiss against her forehead.

"Rest, my little storm."