Chapter 11: The Whisper Before War

The threat came quietly.

A coded message.

Intercepted comms from a foreign intelligence cell.

A name whispered in static.

**Major Aryan Rathore.**

Marked for elimination.

The Royal Defence Corps activated immediate protocol-tightened security, reassigned details, encrypted routes. But Aryan, ever the soldier, remained unfazed.

"I've faced worse," he said calmly.

Anaya disagreed.

Not out loud.

But something in her stomach twisted the moment she heard the news-something primal and cold. Not fear. Not anger.

*Dread.*

---

For the first time since their marriage, she followed him to the training compound.

It was an old fort, now converted into an elite tactical base. Sparring rings, weapon vaults, underground bunkers. She arrived unannounced, dressed in navy trousers and a white blouse, no jewels, no entourage.

The guards let her in without a word. No one questioned the *Rathore wife*.

She found him in the inner courtyard, bare-chested, sparring with a fellow officer. His body glistened with sweat, his movements like poetry in motion-sharp, lethal, efficient.

He saw her. Stopped.

Dismissed the officer with a nod.

Then walked toward her, towel slung over one shoulder.

"You shouldn't be here."

She crossed her arms. "You're being hunted."

"I'm always being hunted."

"Don't be arrogant."

He stopped inches from her. "Don't be scared."

She hated how easily he saw through her.

"I'm not scared," she said.

He didn't challenge her. He didn't have to.

She was trembling. Not visibly. But inside.

Because she had built her life around vengeance, around being untouchable.

And now-*now*-she wanted one man to stay alive.

---

That night, she couldn't sleep.

Not even with Aryan beside her.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, mind spinning.

Then, in the dark, she whispered something she never had before:

"If you die... I'll kill every single person who tried."

His arm tightened around her waist.

"I know."