“Karz sirf paison ka nahi hota,
Kabhi kabhi yeh rooh se bhi utara jaata hai.
Aur jab rooh udhaar ho jaaye,
Toh jism apne aap girvi ban jaata hai.”
(Debt is not always of money.
Sometimes it is paid with the soul.
And when the soul is mortgaged,
The body becomes collateral on its own.)
Haya woke up with the aftertaste of last night still clinging to her skin.
His voice. His nearness. His hand pressing against her wrist, her waist, her breath.
She sat up in bed, pressing her palms to her ears as if she could force Rudraansh out of her mind. But the silence of the morning only made his words louder.
“Next time, main rukunga nahi.”
A shiver crawled down her spine.
She stumbled through her morning ritual—tidying her room, making tea, draping her dupatta loosely around her shoulders. The house was quiet, too quiet. Sameer hadn’t returned until late last night, and when she peered into his room now, she found him awake already, hunched over scattered papers, phone pressed to his ear.
His eyes flicked to hers. He gave her a smile that didn’t reach his face.
“Haya… tu bas apna dhyaan rakha, theek hai?”
She frowned. “Bhai, sab theek toh hai?”
“Bas… kaam ka pressure hai.” He waved it off too quickly, shoving a few crumpled bills beneath a file. “Tujhe tension lene ki zaroorat nahi.”
But she saw the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The way his hands trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette.
Something was wrong.
By evening, the air inside their small home felt like it was suffocating her. She tried distracting herself—reading, sketching, listening to Aaliya’s voice notes full of random gossip—but her brother’s tension was contagious. He kept pacing, muttering into his phone, slamming drawers shut.
And then—
The knock.
Slow. Heavy. Certain.
Haya’s breath caught. Her stomach turned cold before Sameer even opened the door.
And when the door creaked wide, her world tilted.
Rudraansh stood there, filling the threshold like a shadow made flesh. His shirt was black, sleeves rolled to his elbows, veins flexing along his forearms. Rings caught the dim light as his hand gripped the doorframe. His gaze—molten, piercing—slid past Sameer, landing squarely on her.
Haya’s lips parted, but no sound came.
Sameer tried to mask his panic with a smile. “Rudraansh bhai… aap yahan? Aaj…?”
Rudraansh stepped in without asking, without hesitation, without even glancing at Sameer. His eyes were locked on Haya, devouring, claiming, burning holes in her skin with every second.
“Main lena aaya hoon jo mera hai,” he said simply, his baritone smooth but razor-edged.
(I’ve come to take what belongs to me.)
Haya’s pulse thundered in her ears.
Sameer paled, moving quickly to block Rudraansh’s view of her. “Main… main paise arrange kar raha hoon. Bas thoda waqt—”
Rudraansh’s laugh was low, dangerous. He clapped Sameer’s shoulder with deliberate weight, the way a predator might test the fragility of its prey.
“Waqt.” His smile didn’t touch his eyes. “Tumhare paas waqt khatam ho chuka hai.”
(Time. You’ve already run out of time.)
Sameer swallowed hard, glancing at Haya, as if silently begging her not to ask questions. His lips moved, muttering apologies, promises, anything to fill the silence.
But Rudraansh wasn’t listening.
He turned, slow, deliberate, his eyes finding Haya again.
“Tumhari behen bahut pyaari hai, Sameer,” he said softly, almost tenderly, though his voice dripped with something darker. “Aur shayad tum bhool gaye ho… karz sirf paison se nahi chukta.”
(Your sister is very precious, Sameer. And maybe you’ve forgotten—debts aren’t always repaid with money.)
The words struck Haya like a slap. Her spoon slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered to the floor, echoing louder than it should have.
Her breath locked in her throat. She felt pinned, stripped bare, even though he hadn’t touched her. Not here. Not yet.
Sameer tried to laugh, tried to deny, tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Rudraansh had already said enough.
He lingered long into the evening, eating their food like he owned their table, his every glance at Haya a silent threat and a promise. When he finally stood to leave, he brushed deliberately close to her, the scent of his cologne searing her lungs.
He bent just enough, his lips ghosting her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered:
“Agli baar, main tumhare kamre mein aunga. Tumhara bhai bhi mujhe rok nahi payega.”
(Next time, I’ll come to your room. Not even your brother will be able to stop me.)
And then he was gone.
Haya stood frozen in the silence that followed, her heart a wild thing in her chest.
Her brother’s debt was no longer just his.
It had become hers.
The house was supposed to feel safe.
But that night, Haya’s room felt like a cage—one with the lock on the outside, and the key in Rudraansh’s hand.
She lay curled beneath her thin blanket, eyes wide open in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Sameer had been restless, pacing long after Rudraansh left. Eventually he slammed his door, leaving the house in uneasy silence.
But silence was never safety.
Silence was waiting.
The knock didn’t come.
The creak of hinges didn’t come.
What came instead was softer, subtler—the brush of air as her window slid open.
Her breath caught. Her body went rigid.
And then—his scent.
Masculine, sharp, threaded with danger. It curled into her lungs before she even saw him.
“Main kaha tha na, Haya…” His voice slid through the dark like velvet and a knife. “…tumhare kamre mein aane se koi mujhe rok nahi sakta.”
(I told you, Haya… no one can stop me from entering your room.)
Her pulse thundered, her body stiff as she pushed herself up against the headboard. “Aap… yahan… bhai—”
“Tumhara bhai nashe mein dooba so raha hai.” He stepped closer, boots soundless on the floor, his shadow swallowing her small space whole. “Mujhe rokhne ki himmat usme kabhi thi hi nahi.”
(Your brother is drunk, sleeping. He never had the strength to stop me.)
The moonlight through the curtains revealed him—shirt half-unbuttoned, the gleam of his rings, his eyes glowing with hunger that was anything but gentle.
He reached her bed in two strides.
Haya’s hand shot to her dupatta, clutching it against her chest like a shield.
“Please…” her whisper cracked, “chale jaiye.”
Rudraansh’s lips curved, but his eyes stayed cold. He leaned down, palms braced on either side of her head, trapping her completely. His voice was low, rough, meant only for her.
“Paise tumhare bhai ne liye the, Haya. Karz uska tha.”
He dipped closer, nose grazing her hairline, making her shiver.
“Magar chukana tumhe padega.”
(Your brother took the money. The debt was his. But you will pay it.)
Her nails dug into the blanket. “Main… main kaise chuka sakti hoon—”
His laughter was a dark rumble in his chest.
“You already know, jaan.”
One hand slid to her wrist, pinning it to the mattress with bruising strength. The other gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“Main tumhari saans ban jaaunga. Tumhari zindagi. Tumhara zeher.”
His forehead pressed to hers, his words scorching.
“Tum meri ho, chahe tum maan lo… ya tod kar maan’na pade.”
(I’ll become your breath. Your life. Your poison. You’re mine, whether you accept it… or whether I have to break you until you do.)
Her throat worked, tears brimming but refusing to fall. She hated the way her body betrayed her—the way her pulse jumped under his touch, the way heat coiled low in her belly even as fear choked her.
And Rudraansh felt it.
Of course he did.
His thumb stroked her lower lip slowly, deliberately, before pressing inside, silencing her broken protest. His gaze darkened as she gasped around his touch.
“That’s it…” he whispered, leaning closer, his breath fanning hot against her ear. “Even your body knows who owns it.”
His hand slid lower, claiming, exploring, not asking—never asking—while his voice stayed calm, lethal, intoxicating. He didn’t ravage; he studied her, learned her boundaries only to break them, leaving her gasping between terror and something else she couldn’t name.
Her heart screamed wrong.
Her body whispered more.
And when his lips finally pressed to her throat, biting hard enough to bruise, his words sank deeper than his teeth ever could:
“Tu karz nahi hai, Haya.” His voice was low, guttural, drenched in possession. “Tu meri jagaah hai. Aur main apni jagaah kabhi kisi ko nahi chhodta.”
(You’re not just a debt, Haya. You are my place. And I never let anyone else touch what’s mine.)
She sobbed, trembling, torn apart in ways she couldn’t explain.
And then, just when she thought he would devour her completely—
He stopped.
Pulling back, his fingers still dug into her wrist, he studied her with dangerous calm.
“This is just the beginning.” His smile was cruel, promising both torture and worship. “Aaj raat tumhe mehsoos karaya. Kal se tum sirf meri rahogi.”
(Tonight I showed you what it feels like. From tomorrow, you’ll belong only to me.)
He pressed a final kiss to her bruised throat—soft, almost reverent, in contrast to the violence of his touch—and then he was gone.
Leaving the window open, the room cold, and Haya shaking beneath the weight of a truth she could no longer deny.
Rudraansh wasn’t just her brother’s creditor.
He was her captor.
To be continued....
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