The room was still, the shadows long and warm. Myra lay motionless, her breath soft, and everyone who passed her door believed the same thing:
That Aditya saw her first.
That it was Aditya who knew her before anyone.
But only Ranvijay knew the truth.
And tonight, sitting at her bedside while the rest of the palace grieved in silence, he let the memory rise—unfiltered, unhidden, sacred.
He closed his eyes.
---
Years Ago – Jaipur Orphanage Grounds
He had run away that day.
Ranvijay was just a boy then—fists clenched, heart wild, torn between palaces and punishments. It was one of those days when everything inside him had turned into fire and he didn't know how to breathe without burning. So he'd run—barefoot, ragged, angry—into the crowded streets of Jaipur.
No guards. No titles.
Just a broken boy.
He had hidden behind the orphanage wall, his knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight. He remembered bleeding slightly from the elbow. Dust on his face. Tears drying sharp on his cheek.
And then—she appeared.
A tiny girl, no older than eight or nine, wearing a yellow frock and oversized chappals. Hair tied messily. She wasn't looking for anyone. She just walked by, humming a made-up song and dragging a little broken toy in her hand—a butterfly on a string.
Then she stopped.
Looked at him.
He had prepared himself for pity or mockery.
But she didn't speak.
Instead, she knelt down, looked at his elbow, and frowned.
"You're bleeding," she said softly.
He hadn't replied.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper tissue and gently pressed it against his wound.
Ranvijay remembered thinking, Why are you helping me? You don't even know me.
Then she smiled.
It wasn't a dazzling smile. It wasn't angelic.
It was kind.
And when she stood up again, she placed the little butterfly toy beside him on the ground.
"You can have it," she said. "It doesn't fly anymore… but maybe it will for you."
Then she ran off toward the orphanage gates, a woman calling her name—Myra.
He had whispered it once to himself. Held the butterfly close to his chest like a promise.
She didn't know who he was.
But she had seen him.
Before the name.
Before the legacy.
Before anyone else.
---
Now – Present
Ranvijay opened his eyes, throat thick, staring at the woman lying unconscious on their bed.
His voice was a whisper of ache and wonder.
"You gave me something no one else ever did. You made me feel seen. Like I wasn't a burden. Like I mattered."
He exhaled shakily, blinking back tears.
"You probably don't even remember that day. But I've lived it every time the world became too much."
His lips trembled.
"I didn't know your name then. But I knew your heart."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small—a tiny paper butterfly, carefully laminated, worn from years of being carried.
He placed it gently on the nightstand beside her.
"I've carried this… all this time. Because even when I didn't believe in light, I believed in you."
He looked at her, voice breaking into reverence.
"So no matter who tries to write themselves into your past… just know, I am the one written in your past."
The golden evening light filtered softly through the sheer curtains, spilling into the bedroom like liquid warmth. The room had been quiet for two days, save for the rustle of silk sheets and the quiet hum of a fan above.
And in those two days—
Ranvijay hadn't moved.
Not from her bedside.
Not from the chair where his hand rested in hers.
He hadn't changed his clothes. The black shirt from that night still clung to his frame, crumpled and stained. His stubble had grown in thick, shadowing his jaw. Eyes rimmed red from exhaustion, but he was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Breathing—only because she still was.
Not a command left his lips. Not a step out the door. Palace affairs could wait. The world could burn.
Until Myra opened her eyes.
And now—
Her fingers twitched.
Barely.
He didn't dare move.
Then her lashes fluttered. Her breathing shifted. And slowly… ever so slowly… her eyelids parted.
She blinked.
The ceiling came first. Then the blur of soft lights. And then—
Him.
Myra's heart stuttered at the sight.
Ranvijay, slouched forward in the chair, holding her hand like it was the last piece of the earth he could trust.
His head jerked up at the movement.
And when her gaze locked with his—
He didn't say anything at first.
Didn't rush.
Didn't speak.
He just looked at her. Looked at her like a man crawling out of hell and finding the first drop of rain.
Then his throat moved, and his voice came out raw. "Myra…"
She blinked again, slowly. Her lips parted. Dry.
"You're awake." He sat up straighter, disbelief flickering in his eyes like lightning over water. "You're… awake."
She nodded faintly. Confused. Tired. "How… long?"
"Two days," he whispered. "You've been asleep for two days."
"And… you didn't leave?" Her voice cracked.
His hand squeezed hers gently. "I couldn't."
She turned her head, saw the untouched food tray on the table, the folded blanket on the couch he never used. The man in front of her wasn't the prince everyone feared.
He was the storm that refused to move until she stirred.
"Ranvijay…" her voice was hesitant, unsure if she was dreaming.
But he leaned in closer, his voice quiet but shaken. "You don't have to say anything. Not now."
Her throat tightened.
The moment spun between them, filled with silence, with gratitude, with weight.
"…You stayed," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
He just brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles softly, reverently.
And that was enough.
For now.
Because the man who conquered empires, who made the world tremble—
Had waited two days beside a sleeping girl.
Without leaving.
Without asking.
Just staying.
Myra opened her eyes fully this time and turned to him. Her voice was hoarse, but clearer now. "You haven't eaten."
He didn't answer.
She studied him.
The dark shadows beneath his eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders. The slight tremble in his fingers, no longer from fear—but from the fatigue he refused to acknowledge.
"You need to rest," she said, more firmly.
"I'm fine," he replied, his voice low.
"You haven't slept."
"I can't."
"You haven't changed. You're still in that—"
"I said I'm fine."
His tone wasn't angry—just stubborn. Unyielding. And deeply afraid.
She turned slightly, wincing at the soreness in her muscles. But her gaze didn't falter. "Ranvijay…"
He finally looked at her. Really looked.
And it broke her heart.
There was so much love in his eyes. So much helplessness.
So much madness, contained only by the thin thread of her heartbeat.
"I'm not leaving this room," he said, his voice like stone. "Not until you're able to walk out of it with me."
Her breath caught.
She sat up slowly. "You can protect me better if you're not on the verge of collapsing."
"I don't care."
"I do."
That made him pause.
She reached out, weak fingers brushing against the creased collar of his shirt. "Ranvijay, you look like you've walked through a war."
"I have," he whispered. "You were the battlefield."
Myra's throat tightened.
She blinked away the sting in her eyes. "Then I'm asking you to rest now. For me."
He shook his head.
She took a breath, sat up straighter despite her sore limbs, and said—soft but firm, like only a woman who knew her place in his heart could say:
"Then I order you."
His brows rose.
"What?"
"I order you to go. Freshen up. Eat. Sleep, even if it's for an hour. This is my first order to you." Her voice was stern, though her hands trembled.
A beat of silence.
Ranvijay didn't move.
He just stared at her.
Then—slowly—his body lowered.
Knees hit the floor with a dull thud.
He bowed his head, hands resting on the mattress like a knight at his queen's feet.
Myra's breath hitched.
She hadn't expected him to fall like that.
And yet… something about it broke her completely.
He whispered, almost to himself, "You don't know what that means to me…"
His voice was raw.
Wounded.
Worshipful.
Still not looking up, he said again, this time louder, steadier, "You don't know what it does to me when you care—even if it's only a little."
Myra's fingers twitched against the blanket. She wanted to touch him. But she didn't. She couldn't. She wasn't ready.
And still…
She couldn't look away.
Ranvijay finally looked up.
That same storm in his eyes—but softened by exhaustion, reverence, and a kind of devotion that scared her more than obsession ever could.
A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth—just a shadow of one—as he stood.
He backed away slowly, gaze fixed on her like he was leaving something sacred behind.
Then he nodded once.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Obedient.
"As you wish."
He turned and walked toward the door.
And just before leaving, his voice dropped low—deeper, like a promise wrapped in silk and steel.
"I'll return in an hour. And I expect you to still be here, Myra."
The door clicked shut.
And Myra stared at the space he left behind, heartbeat echoing in her chest like thunder in a quiet sky.
Her first command.
And he had bowed.
Not because he had to.
But because to him…
She had always been royalty.
The clock ticked past midnight.
The palace had long slipped into silence—vast halls asleep beneath chandeliers, moonlight pouring through embroidered curtains like whispers of forgotten dreams.
The door creaked open.
Ranvijay entered quietly.
His damp hair clung to his forehead, the black kurta he had changed into fitting him like second skin—clean, crisp, but his eyes told a different story. Sleepless. Still storm-touched.
He paused at the threshold.
Myra was still awake.
Her back rested against the headboard, eyes steady but heavy-lidded, as if even blinking cost her too much.
She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
He simply walked to her—no hesitation, no words—just that weight of unshakable presence.
A soft knock followed.
A maid entered with a silver tray, head bowed. She placed it gently on the bedside table: warm khichdi, soup, soft rotis, and a small bowl of jaggery and ghee.
Without a word, Ranvijay dismissed her with a slight nod.
The door clicked shut again.
Myra looked toward the tray. "You should eat," she murmured, softly.
He pulled a chair close to the bed, then sat beside her again—his every movement quiet, precise, as if afraid the air around her might shatter.
"I will," he said. "But only if you do."
Her throat tightened.
He took the bowl of soup first, tested the temperature, then lifted a spoonful to her lips.
Myra hesitated—but he raised a brow, calmly expectant.
She leaned forward.
Sipped.
He fed her in slow, quiet motions, never once forcing, never asking questions.
And when she finally gestured that she couldn't take more, he nodded once—without protest—and placed the bowl aside.
He took the spoon next and ate the same soup from the same bowl, without saying a thing.
The silence between them wasn't heavy.
It was warm.
Soft.
Shared.
When he finished, he wiped his hands and turned to her again.
His fingers hovered near hers for a second—then, barely brushing, he took her hand in his.
Not like a lover.
Not like a man obsessed.
Like a man home.
"I know you don't trust me yet," he said quietly, eyes on their entwined hands. "And that's alright. Just…"
He looked up.
"Let me take care of you until you do."
Myra didn't answer.
But she didn't pull her hand back either.
And that was enough for him.
Ranvijay set the empty tray aside, blew out the extra candles around the room, and slowly stood up from his chair.
"I'll be right there," he murmured, eyes softening as they flicked to her once more. He turned toward the long couch near the balcony, unbuttoning his kurta at the collar.
But before he could take a step, he felt a gentle tug on his wrist.
He looked down.
Myra's fingers were wrapped around the edge of his sleeve—delicate, unsure.
"Don't…" she whispered, eyes barely meeting his. "I—stay. Please. Just… sleep beside me."
His heart paused.
No storm outside could match the thunder that erupted inside his chest in that moment.
He didn't ask again. Didn't tease. Didn't say anything at all.
He walked back.
Pulled the blanket aside and carefully slipped beside her—keeping his body at a respectful distance, hands still at his sides, his breath held like a vow.
Myra turned her face away, staring at the ceiling.
But her fingers didn't let go of his shirt.
Silence settled once more—until the thunder cracked.
Loud. Sharp. So sudden the entire sky seemed to shudder.
Myra flinched hard.
She let out a broken gasp, her hand immediately reaching across the gap, searching for him blindly in the dark.
Ranvijay shifted, reaching out instinctively.
"It's okay," he murmured, catching her trembling hand in his. "It's just a storm."
But she didn't answer.
Instead, she turned—slowly, breath erratic—and buried her face into the curve of his chest. Her arms wrapped around his torso tightly, clinging.
"I hate the dark," she admitted in a broken whisper. "I hate being alone in it."
Ranvijay's throat tightened.
He wrapped his arms around her gently—firm, protective.
"You're not alone," he said. "Not anymore."
She stayed silent, only holding him tighter, face hidden.
His hand found her hair, combing through the strands with careful fingers.
Outside, the sky roared again—but this time, it didn't feel as loud.
Because here, in the dim quiet of the royal bedroom, two storm-touched souls had found their shelter in each other.
And for the first time in days—
Myra slept.
Wrapped in the heartbeat that never once stopped searching for her.
She fit against him like she'd always belonged there.
Ranvijay didn't move, didn't breathe too loud, as if even the rise of his chest might startle her away. Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin, and her fingers—those fragile, shaking fingers—were clutching his shirt like she would drown if she let go.
His arms held her tightly.
But inside… he was crumbling.
Not from pain.
From relief.
From the unbearable ache of having her so close after nearly losing her to shadows he still hadn't wiped clean.
He pressed his lips against her forehead, feather-light. She didn't stir.
And that's when his mind whispered the truths he never dared say out loud.
"You have no idea what you've done to me, Myra."
"I've crossed oceans of sins to reach you. Buried men, buried pieces of myself. And yet, nothing broke me like the thought of losing you."
She whimpered softly in her sleep. He held her closer.
"I used to think I was made for war. Made to protect. Made to destroy."
"But the night you came into my life… I knew I was made for something else entirely—"
"Made to love you. Even if you never love me back."
Thunder cracked again, and she clutched him tighter.
His grip tightened, his palm spread wide across her back, grounding her, guarding her.
"If fear ever touches you again, it'll have to tear through me first."
And in that sacred silence—beneath the storm's roar and her gentle breathing against his heart—Ranvijay made a vow no god would ever hear.
"You're not just mine to protect. You're the reason I'll become a man worthy of peace."
"I'll carry your past, your pain, your future—everything. So sleep, Myra."
"Just sleep. I've got you now."