His Grumpy Wife

you did the right thing

"Mistake? You call it a mistake, after what you did? You think Alisha is a plaything for your curiosity, a doll to be prodded and poked?" Aniket's voice rose, cracking with fury, and his fists rained down on Rohan.

Blood bloomed on Rohan's face, painting a gruesome portrait of Aniket's wrath. His once clean knuckles were now slick with crimson, staining the air with the metallic tang of violence. Each punch fueled Aniket's rage, a vicious cycle of fury and retribution.

With each blow, Aniket's own hands turned crimson. The leather of his gloves tore, revealing raw knuckles, the pulsing veins beneath like angry rivers. But the pain, the sight of his own blood, only fueled the fire within.

Rohan, once arrogant and smirking, crumpled under the onslaught. His protests were reduced to whimpers, swallowed by the rising tide of his own blood. With each blow, Aniket chipped away at the facade of Rohan's facade, revealing the cowering coward beneath.

Finally, Aniket stepped back, chest heaving, eyes burning with a cold fire. He surveyed the scene he'd created: the shattered chair, the crumpled figure, the crimson tapestry painted on both faces. A hollow satisfaction settled in his gut, a bitter echo of justice served.

He had broken Rohan, yes, but something within Aniket, a sliver of doubt, whispered another question: Had he also broken himself? The answer, like the blood staining his fists, remained uncertain, hanging heavy in the air.

The men in the room, though hardened by their trade, averted their eyes. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, a grim counterpoint to the rhythmic thud of Aniket's fists. It wasn't a fight, it was a ritualistic sacrifice to a god of vengeance.

Finally, spent, Aniket stumbled back. His chest heaved, his breath a ragged rasp. He looked at his ruined hands, the blood a gruesome mirror reflecting the consequences

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of broken bones and shattered trust. Rohan, barely conscious, lay crumpled against the wall, a testament to the fury unleashed. Aniket, his rage spent, felt the hollowness of victory. He had broken Rohan, but in the process, he had shattered a piece of himself.

: )
A cold satisfaction settled in Aniket's gut as he surveyed the wreckage of Rohan. The broken chair, the whimpering form, the crimson symphony on both their faces – it was a tableau of retribution painted in blood. He had rained hell upon Rohan, extracted his pound of flesh for Alisha, and now, it was time to leave.

Aniket's fists throbbed, a dull pulse echoing the fading rage He cleaned his bloodied hands with a practiced efficiency, the ritualistic act a futile attempt to scrub away the stain of violence, a futile attempt to erase the crimson stains that mirrored the ones blooming across Rohan's face. Satisfaction, he thought, tasted bitter on his tongue, metallic with guilt. 

Back in the cavernous mansion, the silence was deafening. He had expected solitude, a space to nurse his own wounds, which, like Rohan's, remained unattended. But in the dim hallway, fate had other plans.

Alisha.

The sight of her, a beacon of light in the shadows, sent a jolt through him. All the righteous fury, the cold justification, it all evaporated in the face of her wide, worried eyes. They held a kaleidoscope of emotions – fear for him, an echo of the chaos he'd unleashed, and beneath it all, a flicker of something else, something tender, something…caring.  But beneath it, something deeper, something he hadn't dared to hope for – love .

The guilt, which had been a dull ache in the corner of his mind, flared into a searing inferno. He had done this for her, for her safety, for her justice. But seeing her now, seeing the fear and concern etched on her face, the justification seemed hollow.

"Alisha ji ," he rasped, his voice thick with the aftermath of his brutal act.

"Aniket ji ," her voice was a whisper, barely audible in the stillness. "What happened? Kya hua apke sath?"

His lies died on his tongue, choked by the raw honesty in her gaze. He looked at his bloodied hands, at the tear in his shirt where Rohan's fist had connected. These weren't marks of victory, but symbols of a battle he'd fought on two fronts – against Rohan, and against the justice for Alisha

He took a step towards her, hesitant, unsure. "I...I protected you, Alisha, ji " he rasped, the words heavy on his tongue. "He…he hurt you, and I made him pay."

There was a whirlwind of emotions that was swarming around her head then she realised what aniket was talking about he was talking about the man who had physically tried to hurt her

Her eyes flickered, the fear giving way to something else, a flicker of understanding, of shared pain. She reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The touch, light as a feather, sent a shock of warmth through him, a stark contrast to the icy guilt that had gnawed at him.

"You did the right thing," she whispered, her voice laced with a newfound strength. " Par apko bhi toh lag gayi na mujhe insaaf dilane ke chakkar mein ."

In that moment, beneath the weight of his actions, Aniket found solace. He wasn't alone in this. Alisha understood, not just the violence, but the love that had fueled it, the desperation to shield her from harm. And in her eyes, he saw not just fear, but a silent promise, a shared burden of their tangled past.

The mansion remained silent, yet it no longer felt empty. In the unspoken understanding between them, Aniket found a fragile hope, a glimmer of light in the aftermath of the storm. He'd sought vengeance, but instead, he'd found something far more precious – a connection forged in the crucible of pain, a promise of healing, and the chance to face the future, together.
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