Page 93 of Heal my Heart


Font Size:

I lean in, voice barely above a whisper. “You hurt Shivani. For that… you’ll suffer.”

I straighten up, and my voice grows cold. “Ten days, Nitin. That’s how long you’ll live. And every second will be agony.” That's how old she was.

His eyes go wide as the words sink in. I grab his hair and yank his head back so hard that he winces as he looks right at me. “You were brave enough to touch her,” I hiss, “but now? You’re just a fucking coward begging for mercy.”

Without hesitation, I slice downward, aiming for his dick. The knife moves with precision, and his scream is louder than anything he’s let out so far.

He jerks and flails, blood spraying everywhere.

I order my men, calm as ever, “Stuff it in his mouth.”

They do as told—no hesitation. His muffled screams are pure chaos, wet and broken, as they sew his lips shut, needle piercing flesh with every stitch.

His body convulses, but it’s no use. The damage is done. “You will suffer, just like she suffered,” I whisper as they finish the last stitch.

His eyes—wild, bloodshot, teary—meet mine one final time. Blood all over his face and body.

“Take him away,” I order the guards at the door. “Keep him alive for ten days. No more, no less. Let him feel everything.”

They drag him out, his muffled screams fading into the distance. I wipe my hands again, calmer now. Steady.

Now that's called justice. I pull out my phone and dial.

“Atharva,” I say into the phone. “Ask your capo, Varun, about Ranveer Singh Rathore. I need that piece of shit.”

52

SHIVANI

I bury my face in Rudraksh’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. His arms are strong and warm around me, holding me close like I belong there. I close my eyes and inhale his scent—it’s a mix of his cologne and the familiar musk of his skin. This is what home feels like.

"Did you know?" I whisper, my voice barely audible. "You're the first guy to ever touch me." It’s not just about the physical touch. It’s the emotional weight behind it. The safety. The intention. Dr. Mehta told me in one of her therapy sessions that the people who used me without consent don’t matter. That they don’t deserve a space in my story if I don't want them in it. So I will only keep the ones who love me; they truly get to stay.

Though my therapy isn't completed yet—I attend the session twice a week. Rudra always makes sure that I am comfortable before and after the session.

Dr. Mehta made me understand so many things about the trauma I went through. I am so grateful to her, because now I know that this happiness is mine and only mine. My past shouldn't hold me back from embracing my happiness. And that was happening because I was letting it happen—not anymore.

Rudraksh pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. There’s so much tenderness in his gaze it makes my chest ache. "So, I’m considering this as my teenage love," I tell him softly. "I’m just in my twenties anyway."

He smiles at that, shaking his head. "But there's a problem," I continue. I watch the way his brow immediately creases. That little concerned frown he does—it gets me every time. Before he can ask, I continue, "You give me butterflies in my stomach so easily. What can I do to give you that same feeling?"

I read it on the internet while researching for one of the books I am writing, and apparently butterflies in my stomach actually means anxiety. But I don't believe it. It’s not anxiety—I know the difference. Anxiety feels like a storm, heavy and choking, but this… this is light. A flutter full of warmth. Like tiny wings brushing against the inside of my stomach every time Rudraksh looks at me like I matter, like I’m his entire world. These butterflies aren’t fear; they’re anticipation. Hope. That makes you crave more.

Rudraksh’s frown softens into a small, warm smile. He brushes a loose strand of hair from my face, his fingertips trailing lightly across my skin. It sends a shiver right down my spine.

"You don’t have to do anything," he whispers.

A frown covers up my face. "What do you mean? I have to do something," I insist, sitting up a little.

"Nope." He shakes his head, his tone light but firm. "Every time I see you, I feel that way. Whether you’re sleeping with your hair all messy, wearing mismatched pajama pants andmy shirt... you still give me butterflies. You’re the cutest, most beautiful, most amazing person I’ve ever known."

My heart flutters at his words, warm and tingly and full. It’s like someone’s pouring sunlight into my chest.

"You really think that?" I ask, a smile already tugging at the corners of my mouth even before I finish the sentence.

Rudraksh grins, his eyes twinkling. "Of course I do," he admits, his voice full of warmth, tugging me closer. "I love seeing you in my clothes, all messy and adorable. It's like my own personal brand of cuteness overload."

I laugh. And then he adds, "And more than that, you turn me into a teenage girl. I want to squeal and giggle when you're around. It's fucking ridiculous."