ADHVAY's POV

My chest ached at the thought of leaving her, even for an hour. She had finally fallen asleep after the medication I practically forced down her throat. Fever flushed across her cheeks, brows furrowed her breathe, memorizing the steady rise and fall. I told myself it would only be an hour. I repeated it silently—like a promise. Before stepping out, I made my order clear to everyone in the palace: if anything happened to her, if she woke up without water next to her bed, they would be out. Every last one of them.

The city of Amaravathi greeted me with warmth, as it always did. Familiar bows of respect, eager smiles, voices slowing to whispers as I passed. At the school trust, children ran to me with their drawings, eyes shining with excitement. One little girl, no older than eight, stepped forward to offer juice to everyone. Rudra uncle's hand moved immediately to stop me. "Your Majesty, we must be alert. You cannot drink this." He reached for the glass, caution etched across his face.

But the girl only stared up at me with wide, honest eyes.

"If I cannot trust my own people, what kind of king will I become?" I said quietly, taking the glass. Rudra uncle lowered his head and stepped back. I drank. It tasted normal. Sweet. Harmless. "Thank you, little one," I said, and she smiled—a small, pure smile that didn't belong in the world we lived in.

We continued reviewing documents, discussing future expansions for the trust. Then the world shifted. My vision wavered, the ground swayed beneath my feet. I saw Rudra uncle stumble, guards faltering. Realization hit like a blade to the chest. They had used a child. A coward's tactic.

Before I could steady myself, someone struck Rudra uncle from behind and he collapsed. The world blurred, sounds dulling, my limbs heavy. My last thought before the darkness swallowed me was her name. Myra. At least she is safe.

When I woke, coarse rope bit into my wrists and the stench of damp concrete filled the air. My vision was still fogged, shapes shifting into the outlines of four—no, five—men. One laughed when he noticed I was awake. "So, this is the Crown Prince?"

"You didn't have the spine to face me, so you drugged me," I said, voice low, jaw tight. "Whoever sent you is already a loser."

"He's on his way," another sneered. "You'll see him yourself in thirty minutes."

Footsteps echoed in the distance. A familiar rhythm. A sound I knew as clearly as I knew my own breath. A slow, dark smile curved across my lips.

The men stiffened, weapons raised. "What is that?" one muttered.

I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as if I were simply lounging. "My woman is here."

They laughed. "A woman? You hide behind a woman and call yourself Crown Prince?"

I tilted my head, voice smooth and deadly. "Have you ever seen Kaali Maa descend in her wrath? You are about to. And I will gladly be the ground she steps on."

The shadow appeared first. Then she stepped into the light. Myra.

She didn't speak. She didn't warn. She moved. Swift. Precise. Terrifying. Bullets cut the air but none touched her. Before the men even understood what happened, they were on the ground—groaning, bleeding, defeated.

But she was pale. Her steps unsteady. Fever still burning her from within. She came straight to me.

"Adhvay... are you okay?" Her fingers trembled, but her hands worked fast, untying the ropes with practiced ease.

"Yes," I said, catching her shoulders. "But why did you come? I told you to rest."

"I'm fin—"

Her sentence broke. Her strength gave out. She collapsed into my arms before she could finish the word.For a moment, I could not breathe. She came for me. Fevered. Weak. Barely standing. She still came.

I gathered her into my arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. My hold was firm, protective, desperate.

"Damn you, Myra," I whispered into her hair, my voice rough. "How am I supposed to resist you, when you are the only one I breathe for?"

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MYRA's POV

I woke with my own voice tearing through my throat.

"Adhvay!"

My breath was ragged, the room unfamiliar for a second, my mind still tangled in the memory of him unconscious, rope, gunfire—everything crashing into me all at once. But then I saw him. He was right beside me, sitting on the edge of the bed as if he had never left. His eyes immediately found mine, steady and grounding. And his hand—warm around mine—tightened with a grip that said more than words ever could.

"I'm here," he murmured, voice low, rough from exhaustion.

I tried to pull my hand away, out of habit—because closeness has never been safe for me. But he didn't allow it. His hold only grew firmer, as if any distance between us was unbearable now.

"Are you alright?" I asked, though my voice barely carried.

His jaw flexed, and something sharp flickered through his expression—fear disguised as irritation. "Who said you could come for me? Didn't I tell you to stay at the palace?" His voice rose—not angry, but wounded in a way I didn't know how to respond to. His brows drew together, eyes storming with concern .

"You were not at the location you were supposed to be," I answered, meeting his gaze directly. Running is easy. Looking at him is the hardest thing I have ever done.

He lifted one eyebrow slightly, a challenge. "And how exactly did you know that?"

"I planted a tracker in your watch." My voice held no shame, no hesitation, only truth. I had done what I needed to do.

His eyes flickered downward to the watch on his wrist. Disbelief touched his face for only a second—then he laughed softly. And then he smiled.

His smile is a quiet kind of ruin. The kind that does not break you—only alters you entirely.

My stomach twisted, my chest tightened, something warm and unbearable coiling under my ribs. I have never known that feeling. I don't know the name for it. No one taught me the language of gentle things. My life was forged from discipline, pain, and the necessity to be stronger than my loneliness. People cared about my skill, never about me.

I learned how to fight. How to kill. How to endure.

But I never learned how to be held. How to be seen.

Until him.

He notices everything. Whether I've eaten. Whether I sleep. Whether my breathing is steady or strained. He watches me like he is reading something precious—something fragile he is afraid to break. I have never been fragile. Yet with him, I feel like I could be. Like it would be allowed.

But he is the sky—vast, untouchable, revered.

And I am the earth—rooted, quiet, ordinary.

We were never meant to meet. But destiny is a violent architect.

He doesn't know that I have always noticed him. Even when he thought he was hidden outside my window at night, thinking I would not feel his presence. I can recognize him by his breath alone. By the shift of air in the room. By the way silence changes when he is near.

"What you should have done," he said, voice deeper now, "was send other guards. Why did you risk yourself?" The question struck like iron. Practical. Logical. Merciless.

"I am your personal bodyguard. It's my duty." I forced my gaze away from him before my heart revealed itself on my face.

He moved closer. Not abruptly—just enough. Enough for his presence to swallow the distance between us. The air thickened. My pulse stumbled, unsteady. His voice dropped to something intimate, something dangerous.

"Since you are my personal bodyguard, when I give you an order, I expect you to follow it, Myra."

He wasn't looking at me; he was seeing me. And that was worse.

I could not move. I did not want to. For a suspended second, everything inside me leaned towards him. Reckless. Human. Wanting. I tilted my head away only because I knew I was about to fall into something I did not know how to return from.

"I will follow your orders next time," I managed. My voice did not sound like my own. I tried to stand. I needed distance, air—anything.

"No." His hand caught my shoulder, firm and he guided me back to the bed as if I weighed nothing. There was no force in it—only unwavering certainty.

"You are not leaving this room," he said. "You're sleeping." He lowered himself to my level, face inches from mine, his breath brushing my cheek. My heart was no longer beating; it was sprinting.

He has no idea what he does to me.

My body stayed still, but everything inside me was chaos—fire, trembling wings desperate to escape. I pulled the blanket up to hide myself, to hide what I felt, because if he saw it—if he knew—there would be no turning back for either of us.

"I will sleep," I whispered. "Please... go."

He paused. Just for a moment. Then he smiled again—devastating, inevitable.

"I'll check on you, Myra."

When he left, I shut my eyes hard, forcing myself to remember every brutal, cold days of my life—because if I didn't, my heart would choose him.

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