ANNARIEVETTA

The Unfolding Of Marriage Life

The king dismissed Karan with mocking words, his voice dripping with disdain. As Karan was escorted away, King Ishmael remained seated, legs crossed in his chair, a glass of wine elegantly held in one hand. He observed impassively, watching his son being beaten by the guards. The cruel see-through whip had done its work—Karan's back was a bloodied mess, the marks a testament to the king’s wrath.

Karan stumbled to his feet, his body screaming in pain, but he refused to show weakness. He avoided all contact with the others as he made his way back to his chambers, his movements stiff, each step a reminder of the brutal punishment he had just endured.

Once inside, he collapsed onto his bed, his eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. The pain was unbearable, yet he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes. His body ached, every inch of him sore and raw.

Then the door creaked open, and Veta stepped into the room. Earlier, She had left her window open, allowing her to see Karan as he passed on his way to his room. Her heart twisted in her chest, watching him limp, his body battered and bruised. Without a second thought, she rushed after him, tears already streaming down her face.

She didn’t ask him any questions—she didn’t need to. The silence between them spoke volumes. She moved swiftly, her hands trembling as she grabbed the aid kit from the shelf. She opened it carefully, the scent of antiseptic filling the air.

Veta dipped a small cotton ball into the solution, her movements gentle as she dabbed it against Karan’s wounds. Each touch was tender, though the act itself felt like a small attempt to undo the cruelty he’d endured. The sting of the antiseptic against his raw skin mirrored the pain they both shared at that moment.

Like an afterthought, Karan tried to push her away, his voice low and stubborn. "I’ll do it myself," he argued, but Veta wasn’t having any of it.

"How could someone in this state want to take care of himself?" she snapped. "No way."

Before she could react, in the blink of an eye, Karan had her pinned to the wall, his weight pressing against her. His eyes were dark, filled with so much pain that it seemed to consume him. She struggled, trying to push him off, but his grip was stronger than she'd anticipated. He was determined—his body trembling with unspoken emotion.

But after a long moment, he seemed to snap back to reality. He released her abruptly, and Veta let out a quiet moan, her arms marked with red from where his weight had bruised her. She shot him a furious look before shoving him onto the bed.

"Don’t make me feel like this" Karan murmured

She muttered, frustration edging her tone. "Stop acting like you’re the only one who wants to please someone."

Ignoring him, she continued to clean his wounds, her hands firm and deliberate. She intentionally pressed down hard on one of the cuts, expecting him to scream in pain. But not even a whimper escaped his lips. He stayed completely still.

Frustration boiled inside her, and she bit her lip, trying to fight back the urge to give up. Why wasn’t he reacting?

With a quiet sigh, she finished treating his wounds, placing the bandages with precision. A mischievous thought crossed her mind, and she let her fingers lightly trace imaginary shapes on his chest. At first, he remained perfectly still, not a single movement, but then, just as she thought it would have no effect, he let out a quiet moan.

Veta smiled inwardly, feeling a moment of satisfaction. Without another word, she stood up and left the room, her heart racing, but the expression on her face mischievous and triumphant.

Once outside, she couldn’t hold back the laughter. A wicked, playful sound escaped her lips as she walked away, knowing she had finally cracked him—just a little.

Karan cursed under his breath, glancing down at the stubborn ache between his thighs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. Even with women he had summoned in the past—courtesans known for their skill—he had always sent them away untouched, unimpressed, unmoved.

But now?

A mere touch from Veta—a fleeting brush of her fingers and the glint in her eyes—had ignited something fierce in him. Something primal. Something terrifyingly real.

He groaned again, the sound low and gravelly, as he leaned back against the pillows, fists clenched at his sides. There was no denying it now: there was something different about her. Something in the way she looked at him—not with fear, but with fire. Something in the way her hands worked—both cruel and tender, fierce and soft. She had seen his brokenness, and instead of backing away, she leaned in.

He wanted more.

He wanted all of her.

“Javain!” His voice rang out like thunder, urgent and commanding. Within seconds, his personal guard appeared by the door.

“Bring her,” Karan growled. “Bring my wife.”

After receiving the summons, Veta slipped on her footwear and made her way to Karan’s chambers. She wondered if he had sent for her to apologize—perhaps the weight of his earlier behavior had finally sunk in.

She wore only a silk dress, soft and sheer, and hadn’t bothered with anything but her underpants beneath. The palace was warm, and modesty wasn't her priority tonight.

She stepped into the room.

Karan was already standing. His ash-grey eyes locked on her, unreadable and intense. Veta hesitated.

“What took you so long?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

He didn’t wait for her reply. In a blink, he closed the space between them, and his lips crashed onto hers. It wasn’t tender—it was desperate, demanding. Veta froze, then pushed against his chest.

“Karan—” she gasped.

But he didn’t stop immediately. He scooped her up and moved toward the bed. That was when Veta’s fear kicked in, strong and cold. She twisted in his arms and broke free.

“No,” she said sharply, breath trembling. “Not like this.”

Without another word, she ran from the room, her heart pounding in her chest.

Karan stood still for a long time.

He finally sat down, guilt creeping into his bones like winter frost. What had he just done? Being married to her didn’t give him the right to disregard her will—her voice.

He lay back on the bed, eyes open, haunted. He would need to keep his feelings in check. Or risk losing the only woman who had ever truly moved him.

It had been three days since Veta last saw Karan. I caused it all, she thought bitterly, blaming herself. Was she truly being a good wife? She wasn't so sure anymore.

But then again… wasn’t she too young for this?

Nineteen. Just nineteen. The weight of a crown, a kingdom, and a husband—one she hardly knew—was far too much. Her heart still recoiled at the thought of consummating the marriage. Not out of hatred, but out of fear. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Still, how she’d run from him—maybe that hadn’t been right either.

With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and dragged herself toward the bath. Warm water soothed her skin, but not her thoughts. As she washed, memories of Astria came rushing in—Yexzi and Yvonne, their laughter echoing in her head. The way they used to hand-wash her clothes, singing and chatting with her until dusk—it had always made her feel seen. Safe.

Tears mingled with bathwater as they slipped silently down her cheeks. The maids here in Zerubabel tried, but nothing felt like home.

After her bath, she dabbed on light makeup, then slipped into a simple, short dress—not enough to give herself away, but enough to tease him. No, she wasn’t going to surrender her body—but she also wasn’t going to let him shout at her and get away with it. Not once. Not twice. He was going to pay.

Her heels clicked confidently against the polished floors as she left her chambers, two thoughts battling in her mind—revenge, and reconciliation.

But just as she neared Karan’s corridor, a small body crashed into her legs.

A boy. No older than six, with wild curls and bright, curious eyes. He blinked up at her in surprise.

"Oh! Sorry, my princess," the little boy said, stepping back as he bumped into her.

Veta smiled softly. She adored children.

She knelt down to his level, gently patting his head. “Baby, don’t run like that. You could trip and fall,” she said kindly.

The boy nodded, cheeks puffed with apology.

“So, where are you off to?” she asked, her voice light.

“I was going to Uncle Karan’s Jamba,” he replied innocently, “but I was told he’s been out for work since two days ago.”

Veta froze.

Karan… gone?

Fear clutched at her chest. “Where to?” she asked quietly, her voice suddenly tight.

“Baobab,” the boy said casually.

She gasped. Baobab? That kingdom was just as powerful as Zerubabel—and far more ruthless. Why would they send Karan there?

Her hands trembled as she asked, “And who are you to him?”

“I’m Jamal, his nephew! My dad is Prince Havard,” he beamed.

Veta nodded, trying to gather her spiraling thoughts. “Nice to meet you, Jamal. I’m Anarievetta—Karan’s wife.”

“I’ll call you Princess Anna,” he declared cheerfully.

Veta laughed softly, her chest loosening slightly. “Okay, Jamal.”

But before the moment could linger, a voice rang out, sharp and angry.

“Hey! You stubborn boy! You’re here again—with this…”

A woman stormed into the corridor, eyes blazing and full of disdain as they raked over Veta.

“Oh, Mum! You found me!” Jamal said with a mischievous grin.

“How many times has your father told you never to come here again?” the woman snapped.

Jamal shrugged with playful defiance. “Up to a thousand times.”

“Bye, Princess Anna!” he called as his mother seized him by the arm.

“Bye, Jamal,” Veta replied, forcing a smile.

But before she could even rise to her feet, the woman shoved past her roughly, dragging her son away without a second glance.

Veta sat frozen for a moment, heart racing—not just from the encounter, but from the truth that had just slapped her awake.

Karan was in Baobab.

And no one had thought it necessary to tell his wife.