Prologue
"Touch her again,” he growled, voice so low it was barely human,
"and I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”
Eraya had never seen him like this. This wasn’t the suave prince. This was a storm in human form-a man possessed.
Armaan stumbled, disoriented, his jaw already swelling.
“I-I didn’t-”
THUD.
Another punch-this time to his ribs.
THUD.
To his face.
Armaan doubled over, gasping.
Vidhart grabbed him by the collar, dragged him upright like a ragdoll. His knuckles were already torn, bloodied-but he didn’t stop.
“VIDHART!” Eraya screamed, running toward him.
“Please-he’s bleeding-stop!”
But Vidhart’s world had tunneled. It had narrowed into red and fire and the image of her being touched.
Of someone daring to lay a hand on what was his.
"I told you once,” he snarled between punches,
“You come near her again... and you won’t leave with bones intact.”
He slammed Armaan into the wall. Again. Again. Until the bastard slumped, half-conscious, moaning in pain.
________
A ripple of horror spread through the crowd.
Silk gowns rustled as women covered their mouths.
Men stood frozen, unsure whether to intervene or hide.
But no one moved.
Because Vidhart wasn’t just angry.
He was vengeance incarnate.
Blood dripped from his knuckles.
His jaw was tight.
His eyes-God help anyone who met those eyes-blazed with a wrath ancient and royal.
"She is my WIFE!” he thundered, voice thick with menace, slicing through the silence like a blade.
"If any man-any soul-dares to look at her with dirty eyes, if anyone even dreams of touching her again, I swear to every god that exists-I will bury him alive with my own bare hands.”
Gasps rang louder. A woman fainted near the corner.
But Vidhart didn’t care.
His gaze-his fury-was locked on the man crumpled before him.
He yanked Armaan up by the blood-soaked collar, their faces inches apart.
“She is not just Mrs. Ranawat,” he growled, each word a blade dipped in hellfire.
"She is mine-in name, in to soul, in every breath she takes.”
He yanked him closer. ”And you-you touched her.”
