Chapter 2: The Collar and the Chain

Mmm…

Kabir lets out a low, muffled groan.

A fresh red welt appears instantly on his strong, pale chest, criss-crossing the earlier marks from my grabbing and kneading. He narrows his eyes, veins bulging at his neck, jaw set tight as a nut.

His chest rises and falls, sweat glistening on his skin. I catch the earthy, raw scent—like mitti after the first rain. Outside, a stray dog howls, the sound echoing through the narrow lanes of Rajpur. Inside, it’s just the two of us: tense, silent, broken only by Kabir’s ragged breaths.

The subtitles explode:

[This supporting character really doesn’t want to live—just wait for the male lead to tear her to pieces later!]

[So heartbreaking! The cold, abstinent MLA’s son—so many people’s unattainable dream—is being humiliated like this by the supporting character…]

[The MLA’s son’s gaze after being beaten is off, he must hate the supporting character to death!]

Kabir lowers his head, face unreadable.

Hate me? Is that why he torments me so fiercely at night, as if he wants to finish me off?

My whole body feels numb and weak. Anger and confusion prickle along my skin—old fear creeping in. Maybe I’ve pushed too far. But I swallow it; pride wins. I’ll never show weakness in front of him.

Fuming, I lift my leg and press my foot to his chest. My toe slides up, skimming his neck and the collar, arching beneath his chin to force him to look up.

Kabir’s eyes meet mine. Marble face, sharp brows, those deep black eyes fixed on me. His back is straight as a lone neem under the moonlight. I’ve always hated that unbending look.

Before, it made me want to torment him more. Today, I can’t hold back either.

I rub his face deliberately with my foot, my voice rough: "If I say I’ll hit you, I’ll hit you. Still daring to act stubborn?"

His skin, cool as always, trembles beneath my heel. I feel his breath quicken, but his eyes—deep as a monsoon well—never blink. Suddenly, I remember the look a bull gave me in the mandi once, proud even with a rope at its nose.

Kabir’s Adam’s apple bobs. Suddenly, he grabs my ankle—his grip iron-strong, palm hot and unyielding. My anklet jingles with the sudden movement. For a second, the world stops; I suck in a sharp breath, heart hammering.

Startled, I kick him in the chest. "Who told you to touch me?"

He refuses to let go, his slender fingers gliding over my fair ankle. He lets out a low, mocking laugh.

"Kal raat toh aap hi ro rahi thi, biwi madam—yeh naukar ko haath lagane ke liye."

He drags the words, his city accent thick and insolent. There’s a glint in his eyes, like a juggler at the village mela teasing the crowd. I imagine the neighbours whispering behind their curtains—tauba tauba, what shamelessness!

Furious, I raise my hand and slap him. My palm stings, and the sound echoes off the bare plaster walls.

"Let’s see you spout nonsense again."

After a night of exhaustion, I barely have the strength to turn his face aside. His skin is so pale that a red mark blooms slowly on his cheek. He pushes at it with his tongue, then turns back, eyes sharpening to meet mine.

His chest rises and falls, anger flushed from his cheeks to the roots of his ears.

The tension is thick—a ceiling fan creaks overhead, stirring hot air, while outside, the distant call of a chaiwala floats through the night. My palm throbs, but I refuse to look away. Even now, something inside me quakes at his gaze.

I grab the chain attached to his collar, yanking him closer, chin high. "Forgot how I taught you?"

His eyes are bottomless, locked on mine, his grip on my ankle still firm. His Adam’s apple moves. After a long silence, he grits his teeth, voice hoarse:

"Naukar… wife madam ka shukriya ada karta hai, inam ke liye."

I snort, patting his cheek like I’m taming a wild colt. "That’s obedient."

I almost expect him to spit something back, but he’s silent, lips pressed tight. The hush is deep—only the distant whistle of a pressure cooker from next door reminds me the world is still turning.

After venting my anger, a chill creeps in. I look down and realize the bedsheet at my chest has slipped away, revealing mottled red marks and soft curves.

Heat floods my face. My whole body burns. Embarrassment hits me, sharper than any shame I felt in the bazaar when men stared at me for doing a man’s job. I quickly wrap my arms around my chest, both angry and embarrassed, and give Kabir another slap.

"Don’t look! If you keep staring, I’ll gouge your eyes out!"

Kabir presses his lips together, silent, but his gaze—lowered now—grows even sharper.

He’s never been one for words. In the past, I could never read his eyes. Now, after seeing those subtitles, I finally understand.

So, he really does hate me.