Chapter 6 – The Price of My Story

Avani’s POV:

I’m curled on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., knees to my chest, cramps ripping through me like knives.

The heating pad he bought is useless tonight.

I didn’t even hear the door open.

Strong arms slide under me.

I flinch hard, ready for the usual roughness, but he’s… gentle.

Aryan lifts me like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his bare chest.

“No touching tonight,” he murmurs, voice low, almost human. “I’m not an animal every second, babygirl.”

I’m too weak to fight.

He carries me to the bed, lays me down, then climbs in behind me.

Instead of pinning me, he pulls me on top of him—my back to his front, my head tucked under his chin, his arms loose around my waist, careful not to press my stomach.

I hate how safe it feels.

I hate that the pain eases just a little because his body is warm.

Minutes pass.

I still can’t sleep. The cramps come in waves, and every wave brings fresh tears.

He feels them on his skin.

“You want to know why I’m like this?” he asks suddenly, voice rough against my hair.

I don’t answer.

I don’t trust my voice.

“There’s a price,” he says. “If I tell you everything, you never get to use it against me. You never get to feel sorry for me. You listen, you hate me the same, and tomorrow we go back to the way we were. Deal?”

I nod once, barely.

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding this in for years.

“My mother didn’t die in an accident, Avani. My father pushed her down the marble stairs when I was three because she threatened to take me and leave. I watched from the top. I still hear the crack of her neck in my dreams.”

His fingers stroke my hair, slow, mechanical.

“I was seven the first time he made me watch a man die. Debtor who couldn’t pay. Dad put the gun in my hand after and said, ‘Clean up your future kingdom.’ I was shaking so bad I dropped the rag in the blood. He beat me until I stopped.”

His voice stays flat, like he’s reading a grocery list.

“Fifteen, he handed me the gun myself. ‘Prove you’re my son.’ I shot the man in the knee first so he’d beg. Then the head. No nightmares after that. Just… nothing.”

I’m crying harder now, but not from cramps.

“Seventeen, I tortured a man for three days because he tried to kill my father. Cut pieces off him while he screamed. Dad promoted me that night. Said I was ready to rule. I smiled while I washed the blood off my hands.”

His arms tighten, just a fraction.

“I’ve never had a real friend. Never had someone touch me without wanting something. Never had someone look at me without fear in their eyes… until you. And the second I saw you, all I could think was: I have to break her before she breaks me.”

A long silence.

“That night at the party, when they pulled me off you… I wasn’t mad they stopped me. I was terrified. Because for the first time, I felt something when you screamed. Not just want. Guilt. And I hated you for it.”

His voice cracks—just once.

“So I took more. And more. Because if I keep you scared, keep you crying, maybe that feeling goes away. Maybe I stay empty. Safe.”

He presses his lips to my temple, soft, almost broken.

“That’s the price, Avani.

Now you know the monster was made, not born.

And tomorrow, when your period ends, I’ll go back to being him.

Because it’s the only thing I know how to be.”

I don’t speak.

I can’t.

I just cry quietly into his chest while he holds me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And for the first time since he stole me,

I’m not sure who the real captive is anymore.

He’s holding me like I’m glass.

His heartbeat is steady under my ear, slow, calm, like a lullaby I never asked for.

And I hate him.

I hate him so much it feels like acid in my veins.

But I’m not moving.

I’m not pushing him away.

I’m not screaming.

I’m just… lying here, letting the monster cradle me while the worst cramps of my life fade against his warmth.

Because the story he just told me is carving something open inside my chest that I don’t know how to close.

I want to feel nothing.

I want to stay ice-cold, pure hate, pure fear, pure survivor.

But every word he said is a blade sliding between my ribs.

His mother’s neck snapping.

A seven-year-old boy wiping blood off marble floors.

A fifteen-year-old pulling a trigger so his father would love him.

A seventeen-year-old cutting pieces off a man and smiling afterward because that was the only way to feel powerful instead of broken.

I want to scream:

That doesn’t excuse you.

That doesn’t make what you did to me okay.

You are not a victim.

You are my rapist.

But the words stick in my throat because…

Because a tiny, traitorous part of me just whispered:

He never had a single person choose him without fear.

Not once.

Until he forced me to.

And that thought terrifies me more than his hands ever did.

Because if I feel sorry for the boy he was…

If I start seeing the child who watched his mother die and learned love is a weakness to be beaten out of you…

Then what does that make me?

I’m shaking again, but it’s not from pain anymore.

It’s from the war inside my own head.

Part of me wants to claw his eyes out while he sleeps.

Part of me wants to trace the scar on his shoulder I’ve never asked about and whisper, “It wasn’t your fault.”

I disgust myself.

He said tomorrow he’ll go back to being the monster.

And I should be relieved.

I should be counting hours until I can hate him cleanly again.

But I’m not.

I’m lying on his chest, listening to the heartbeat of the boy who never got to be a boy,

and I’m terrified that when tomorrow comes…

I might miss this version of him.

The one who held me without taking.

The one who let me cry without punishing me for it.

The one who paid a price to tell me the truth.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.

But tonight, for the first time since he stole me,

I’m the one holding him back.

And I don’t know how to stop.

End of Chapter

Vote if this chapter wrecked you in a different way.

Comment “he’s still a monster” or “I wasn’t ready” — I need to know.

Author’s Note: 10votes = next chapter drops tonight. The monster comes back… and this time, she might not cry.

To be continued…

🖤