Her Only Fault

Control Fractured

The storm outside raged like the one inside him. Thunder cracked, lightning flashed against the farmhouse windows, and in the dim glow, Avyan Singh Rathore stood like a beast pacing in his cage.

Anshita sat bound, her breaths uneven but her eyes still burning with defiance. That fire—God, that fire—was driving him insane. He had dragged men to their graves for less than the way she dared to look at him now.

And yet… he couldn’t look away.

“Tumhe samajh hi nahi aa raha, Anshita,” he growled, his voice rough, strained. “Main chahta toh tumhe ek goli se khatam kar deta. Lekin tum mere liye ek saza ho. Ek zinda zakhm.”

Anshita’s lips trembled, but her chin lifted. “Mujhe laga tum darinda ho… ab lagta hai tum buzdil ho. Apni takat sirf ek bandhi hui ladki pe dikha rahe ho.”

The words pierced his composure. His fists clenched, his chest heaved, and in two long strides he was in front of her. His hands slammed on the arms of the chair, trapping her in. Their faces were so close, she could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint whiskey on his breath.

Her heartbeat raced, but she refused to flinch. That only stoked his fury further.

“Buzdil?” he echoed, his jaw tightening. “Tumhe lagta hai tumhari zubaan mujhe chot nahi pohchati? Tumhe lagta hai main bas tumhe baandh ke dekhta rahunga?”

His hand shot out, gripping her jaw, tilting her face upward. His thumb pressed against her lips, silencing her. The touch was harsh, possessive, but there was something dangerously restrained in it—like a man fighting with his own demons.

Her muffled words broke against his thumb, her eyes wide but unyielding.

“Main tumhe tod sakta hoon, Anshita… issi waqt,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Lekin tumhe todne ka maza… tumhari aankhon ka yeh sholaa bujhane mein hai.”

Lightning split the sky again, illuminating his face—conflicted, enraged, hungry.

For a moment, his grip softened, his thumb tracing the corner of her mouth unconsciously. The air grew thick, suffocating, charged with something neither of them could name. Her breath hitched—not in fear this time, but something she hated herself for feeling.

She snapped her head away, her voice breaking through his control.

“Kabhi nahi jhukungi main. Chahe tum… kuch bhi kar lo.”

That defiance hit him like a blade. With a strangled growl, he released her jaw, only to grab the back of her neck, forcing her to look at him again. His eyes were wild now, his restraint crumbling.

“Tum mujhe pagal kar rahi ho, Anshita,” he hissed, his forehead almost touching hers. “Na tumhari cheekhne se darr lagta hai… na tumhari aankhon ki aag se. Main khud se lad raha hoon… tumse nahi.”

Her breath shivered against his, her pulse hammering in her throat where his fingers pressed. For a terrifying, suspended moment, it felt like he would close the distance, cross the line neither of them could return from.

But then—he froze.

As if realizing what he was about to do, he wrenched himself back, stumbling a step away, his chest heaving like he had been the one shackled. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.

“Tum meri dushman ho… aur dushman pe kabhi… kabhi bhi kamzori nahi dikhata Rathore,” he muttered, his voice breaking on the edges.

Anshita, still trembling, swallowed hard, eyes wide but burning. She had seen it. The crack in his armor. The beast wasn’t untouchable—he was breakable.

And maybe… that was her only weapon.