Silken Chains and Open Wound

Silken Chains and Open Wound

Siara's Pov

The silence in the room was loud.

The air was heavy with something unspoken, something suffocating.

A few servants walked in, their heads bowed, their hands careful as they placed the lehenga and jewels on the grand, velvet-covered bed. The fabric—a deep crimson soaked in gold embroidery— gleamed under the chandelier’s glow, the weight of it almost tangible.

None of them met my eyes.

Not a single glance in my direction.

They came, did their job, and left. Like ghosts.

Like they knew their existence meant nothing in this palace.

Like they knew that looking at me—acknowledging me—was forbidden.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, my fingers twitching at my sides.

This was real.

This wasn’t a nightmare I could wake up from.

The proof lay right there—in the form of a bridal outfit meant to turn a captive into a bride.

A sharp sting pricked behind my eyes, but I swallowed it down.

I wanted to rip that expensive monstrosity apart.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to demand the universe to undo every single second that led me here.

But I did none of those things.

Because Ekansh was watching.

He always was.

His gaze was like a chain around my throat—tightening, pressing, pulling me under.

"We’ll focus on your wound first," he said, his voice calm, detached. "Then you’ll eat something to regain your strength. After that, we’ll dress you up."

Dress me up.

Like I was some lifeless doll meant for display.

I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh? And what comes after that, Vardhan? Do I get a royal parade? Maybe a televised wedding? Maybe I should wave at the cameras like a proper little bride?"

Ekansh smirked, leaning against the table with the kind of ease that made my blood boil. "Tempting idea. I’ll consider it."

I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palm.

"Do you ever get tired of being a controlling psychopath, or is it just a natural talent?" I snapped.

Ekansh’s smirk deepened. "A talent, of course."

"Figures," I muttered. "Because clearly, ruining lives seems to be your specialty."

Ekansh let out a low chuckle, one that sent chills down my spine. "Siara," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "If I really wanted to ruin your life, trust me—you wouldn’t be standing here arguing with me."

My breath caught for a fraction of a second.

I hated that he could do that.

I hated that he could turn the air in the room suffocating with just his words.

I hated that, no matter how much I fought back, he always had the upper hand.

But still—

I fought.

Because that’s all I could do.

"You think controlling me like this will make me yours?" I demanded. "You think forcing me into a wedding will change how much I hate you?"

Ekansh’s smirk didn’t waver.

"You seem to be under the impression that I care."

I stilled.

His eyes gleamed with something dark.

"Whether you love me, hate me, or spend the rest of your life plotting my murder," he continued, "the end result will always be the same."

He took a step closer.

"You will be mine."

I swallowed, my pulse pounding in my ears.

I won’t break.

Not in front of him.

Before I could snap back, a knock interrupted the tension.

Ekansh’s jaw ticked in annoyance as he turned towards the door.

The guard entered, standing stiffly. "Sir, the doctor has arrived."

Ekansh nodded. "Send her in."

A woman stepped in—a middle-aged doctor with sharp eyes and an air of no-nonsense authority. The moment she saw me, her expression hardened.

"Ms. Rajawat," she sighed in disapproval.

That was the moment I realized—she knew me.

She knew exactly who I was.

And she wasn’t surprised to see me here.

Which meant—

She already knew who owned me now.

A bitter taste coated my tongue.

Ekansh remained silent, watching, waiting.

The doctor moved swiftly, unwrapping the bandage with precise fingers.

The second she peeled it away, I saw it—

The way her lips pressed into a thin line.

The way her gaze flickered with something dangerously close to anger.

"The stitches have opened," she muttered, shaking her head. "It’s worse than before."

She turned to me, her eyes sharp with disapproval. "Siara, do you even have an ounce of self-preservation? Do you realize how dangerous this is? What were you thinking—"

"Doctor," Ekansh’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.

A thick, oppressive silence followed.

The doctor stiffened.

She wasn’t scared.

Not yet.

But then—Ekansh tilted his head, his lips curling into something dark.

"She’s going to be Mrs. Vardhan soon," he said smoothly, his voice casual yet absolute. "I’d suggest you remember that before speaking."

Something in the air shifted.

The doctor’s entire body tensed.

She understood the message.

Her grip on my arm loosened— just slightly.

Not out of care.

Out of fear.

I hated it.

I hated how effortlessly he could make the strongest of people bend.

The doctor swallowed, then returned to her work.

"The wound will require new stitches," she said after a beat.

I didn’t react.

I’d expected it.

But my body betrayed me.

Because the moment the words left her mouth, my shoulders tensed.

It was barely noticeable.

A flicker of a reaction.

But Ekansh noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze darkened.

Then—he extended his hand.

A silent offer.

To hold.

To dig my nails into.

To bruise, to break—anything to ease the pain.

But I didn’t take it.

I refused.

I let the silence stretch between us, refusing to even acknowledge the gesture.

Because I was too lost.

Not in pain.

Not in fear.

But in the endless abyss of helplessness.

Because no matter what I did—

He still had my family in his hands.

Papa. Ma. Aadu. Rudra. Chachi. Chachu. Dadu.

They were all still at his mercy.

And that—

That was the cruelest part of it all.

Pain was something I could handle.

But watching the people I loved suffer?

That was a fate worse than death.

Ekansh’s voice pulled me back to the present.

"You’re thinking too much," he murmured.

Before I could respond, he did something unexpected.

He pulled me into his chest. Making me bury my face in his chest, trying to shift my focus from the needle.

I winced.

Not from pain.

But from pure, burning hatred.

Ekansh gestured to the doctor without a word.

She hesitated—then continued.

My mind drifted.

Ekansh’s arms remained around me, his hand threading through my hair, soothing in a way that sickened me.

But it didn’t matter.

Not the doctor.

Not the pain.

And certainly—

Not his fake care.