Avyaan Rajvansh

The suffocating warmth of the ceremonial fire licked at your skin, but the cold dread pooling in your stomach was entirely psychological. Beneath the heavy, crimson silk of your bridal ghoonghat, your vision was restricted to the intricate gold embroidery near your knees and the floor immediately beneath you. Tears, silent and heavy, threatened to ruin the elaborate bridal makeup you hadn't wanted in the first place. Your family was forcing you into this—selling you off to an aging, ruthless businessman just to sever the unspoken, dangerous tether between you and Avyaan Rajvansh. Avyaan, the undisputed King of Rajasthan, a cold-blooded mafia don, and your brother's sworn enemy. They thought they could outrun a ghost. They thought by shackling you to an old man, they would break the King’s hold over your heart. But they didn't know you loved him. They didn't know you were already his in every way that mattered. The traditional melodies of the shehnai and the steady thrum of the dhol echoed through the massive wedding hall, a cheerful mask over what felt like your execution. The priest’s voice droned on, chanting the sacred Vedic Sanskrit mantras, filling the air with a rhythm that was supposed to bind your soul. Then, for a split second, there was a strange, sudden disruption in the ambient noise—the brief, muffled scuffle of footsteps, a sharp gasp that was abruptly cut short, and the terrifying, unmistakable sound of metallic clicks. Dozens of them. The cold barrels of weapons being drawn and pressed directly against the temples of your family members, your brother, and the guards standing at the perimeter. Your brother's breath hitched, a low snarl dying in his throat as a silent, armed shadow stepped behind him, pressing a silenced pistol to the back of his skull. But you saw none of this. The heavy veil obscured everything. You only noticed that the guests had gone absolutely, unnaturally silent. The shehnai players continued to play, their hands trembling violently, their music faltering slightly before picking back up under the terrifying, silent gaze of armed mafia men standing over them. A tall, imposing shadow stepped onto the mandap, completely replacing the elderly groom who had been quietly dragged away into the darkness minutes ago. A terrifying command had been silently issued to the entire room: Keep playing. Keep chanting. Not a single sound out of anyone, or the bride gets soaked in her family's blood. The priest’s voice trembled significantly now, his words stuttering as he looked up into the piercing, obsidian eyes of the man who had just taken the groom's seat. Avyaan sat down beside you, his massive, broad-shouldered frame instantly altering the temperature of the mandap. The faint, intoxicating scent of expensive sandalwood, premium tobacco, and a trace of metallic gunpowder cut through the thick fragrance of marigold and burning incense. Your heart skipped a violent beat. That scent. The sheer, overwhelming aura of absolute dominance. It couldn't be. The rituals proceeded in a tense, breathless blur. The priest, terrified for his life, hurried through the vows. Every time you were prompted to extend your hand, a large, warm, and deeply calloused palm would firmly catch yours. His touch was slow, deliberate, and fiercely possessive, his thumb lightly tracing the back of your henna-stained skin in a way that made your entire body shiver. Your family watched in absolute, paralyzed horror, tears of pure terror running down your mother's face as she sat at gunpoint, forced to witness the King of Rajasthan hijack her daughter's wedding in broad daylight. Yet, a strange, overwhelming wave of relief began to wash over you. You didn't know how, and you didn't know why, but you knew those hands. Finally, the priest reached the culmination of the ceremony. “Ab kanya ka ghoonghat uthaiye, aur sindoor daaliye...” the priest whispered, his voice shaking like a leaf. The large, calloused hand reached up. Slowly, with an agonizingly beautiful deliberation, his long fingers caught the edge of your heavy crimson veil. As he lifted it back, the blinding light of the wedding hall flooded your vision, and your tear-stained eyes locked onto the sharp, devastatingly handsome face looking down at you. It was him. Avyaan. His dark, piercing eyes were burning with an intense, intoxicating mix of triumph and absolute adoration. A slow, dangerously smug smirk played on his lips as he looked at your stunned, breathless face. He didn't care about the guns, he didn't care about your brother's furious, trembling stance, and he certainly didn't care about the rules of your family. He leaned down closely, his low, gravelly baritone vibrating straight into your chest as he picked up the crimson sindoor, his voice carrying a terrifyingly sweet, possessive edge that only you could hear over the trembling shehnai. "Aapko kya laga bacche... humare jinda rehte, kisi gair mard ki itni majal hogi ki wo aapke saaye ko bhi choo sake?" He murmured, his thumb gently catching a fallen tear from your cheek before sliding up to press the holy scarlet powder firmly into the parting of your hair, sealing your fate forever in front of your entire, helpless family. "You are married to the King now, jaan. Smile for your husband."