Raghunath Thakur had held a rifle since he was twenty.
Its weight never scared him.
Its sound never shook him.
But the night his daughter came home with blood soaking the edge of her dupatta—
his hands trembled.
Not because of the British.
Because of Meera.
“You shouldn’t be part of this,” he whispered, voice cracking in the dark.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t lower her eyes.
“You raised me for this,” she said.
And the silence after her words hurt more than gunfire.
Raghunath trained men to pull triggers.
Meera didn’t need bullets.
She had a tongue sharp enough to cut loyalty
and a spine that refused to bend — even to death.
“If something happens to me—” he began.
“Then they’ll face me,” Meera interrupted.
Her voice didn’t shake.
Her eyes didn’t soften.
“And I will not kneel.”
That night, Raghunath did not sleep.
He stared at the sky, listening to the insects, the distant boots, the breath of a land choking under empire—
and wondered:
Is this how empires fall?
Not with armies… but with daughters who refuse fear.
Far across the British camp, Captain Aaric Grayson poured himself another glass of dark rum.
The village burned quietly in the distance —
not with fire, but with resistance.
“You stare too long at that place, sir,” his junior muttered.
Aaric smiled slowly.
“Because rebellion is beautiful, Harrington,” he said.
“Especially when it bleeds.”
He knew Raghunath Thakur.
He knew his name was whispered like a curse.
He knew the girl too.
What disturbed him wasn’t her defiance—
but the way it scratched inside his chest, raw and relentless.
“She’s just another savage’s daughter,” someone laughed.
The glass shattered in Aaric’s hand.
Blood slid down his fingers.
“She’s mine to break,” he said calmly.
“Not yours to name.”
Moonlight caught his eyes — cold, hungry, patient.
That night, Aaric Grayson made a vow no god heard and no devil refused.
“The day I shoot Thakur,” he whispered,
“I will marry his daughter.”
“In her land.”
“On his ashes.”
History would later call it a war.
But the land remembered something else.
The silence between a father and daughter.
And the footsteps of a man who mistook ownership for power.
Let’s meet the lives that will bleed through this story.
Meera Thakur.
Meera’s POV
I’ve seen the British up close before.
Soldiers, boots heavy on the earth, eyes hollow.
But never one like him.
Not until that day.
Not until he looked at me as if I weren’t a girl,
as if I were a battle he intended to win.
My name is Meera Thakur.
Daughter of Raghunath Thakur — the man they whisper about like thunder in Banaras.
My blood boils when his speeches stir the air.
But it raged hotter the moment I saw him.
I was carrying water from the well.
Hands wet. Heart steady. Until they arrived.
White horses. Red coats. Black hearts.
And him—Captain Aaric Grayson, perched like a predator,
smug, untouchable, claiming the space I had always called mine.
He didn’t glance at my face.
Or my clothes.
He looked straight through me, as though he could see the fire in my spine before I even dared to strike.
Our eyes met.
And in that frozen heartbeat, I knew—war had been declared.
No cannon. No gun.
Just a look that cut deeper than any bullet.
“Tujhse nafrat karti hoon,” I whispered to myself, voice sharp, venomous.
“Tujhe maarne ke liye paida hui hoon.”
But what shook me more than fear…
was that he didn’t look away.
Not even for a blink.
It was as if he already knew something I hadn’t yet learned about myself.
As if he already claimed a victory that didn’t exist.
And in that silence between our gazes,
I understood something terrifying:
he was patient.
And he would wait.
Until he owned me.
......
Aaric Grayson
Aaric's POV
I’ve waged wars.
Slaughtered men who begged on their knees.
Burned villages that dared to defy me.
And yet… I have never wanted anything like I want her.
The Indian girl.
Fire in her eyes, dust on her feet, and pride that refuses to break.
The way she stared at me…
If hatred had a body, it was hers.
If desire had a reason, she gave it to me without speaking.
My men spoke of rifles and orders.
I studied her throat.
The curve of her jaw.
The tremor in her hands when she clenched them tight.
“Thakur ki beti hai,” someone said.
“A rebel.”
Good. Rebels break slower.
And I enjoy hearing their cracks.
I leaned forward just enough for her to see the smirk curling on my lips.
Not threat.
Not promise.
Something worse.
A hunger that waited, patient, hungry for defiance to devour.
“Your father’s rebellion bores me,” I thought.
“But you… you might just make me remember what danger feels like.”
Her eyes didn’t waver.
Good. I like it when they burn, when they think they can fight the storm I bring.
In that instant, I vowed it.
Not just to possess her.
To own the fire she refuses to kneel with, and watch it crumble in my hands.
Meera’s POV — Last Line (Scrollstack-Ready)
He looked at me as if he had already claimed my soul.
I stared back, heart screaming, lungs shaking, teeth gritted.
I would rather die than let him win.
And in that frozen heartbeat…
a British bullet and a rebel heart aimed squarely at each other.
A war neither of us would forget.
💌 AUTHOR'S NOTE
This story is not a history lesson.
It's rebellion, obsession, power - all dressed in fiction.
You may feel anger.
You may fall in love.
But don't expect comfort - this story doesn't offer it.
If you're jumping into the middle, you'll miss the burn.
This isn't just a plot - it's a storm. And it builds chapter by chapter.
🧠 So if you're here, read from the beginning. Feel it fully.
I'll be in the comments, watching every reaction.
Tell me what broke you. Or what thrilled you.
(And actual version which was safest available in my Wattpad here i will write the dark version of this book)
- mythaffair,
writing between textbooks and midnight silence
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