Asra’s sobs had quieted into small, hiccupping whimpers, but she was still muttering against his chest.
“I hate you… very very much…”
Ather held her close, one large hand cradling the back of her head while the other rubbed slow circles on her back. He let her finish her little rebellion, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the room.
Then, very softly, in that deep, velvety voice of his, he murmured:
“Okay… okay… shh, meri bacchi.”
The words slipped out naturally — a rare slip of his half-Bengali blood showing through the cold Italian exterior. His accent wrapped around the endearment like warm honey, low and soothing.
Asra froze against him. Her breath hitched at the unexpected gentleness in his tone. Meri bacchi. My little girl. The words made her heart flutter even as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.
Ather tilted her chin up with his fingers so he could look at her properly. His thumb gently wiped away the tears from under her eyes.
“Okay… okay,” he repeated quietly, almost like he was calming a frightened kitten. “Shh, meri bacchi. Bas karo ab. Stop crying now.”
He leaned down and pressed another soft kiss on her damp cheek, then the other one, repeating the same tender gesture from earlier. His lips lingered a little longer this time.
Asra sniffled loudly, her small hands still clutching his shirt. “You’re still bad…” she whispered, voice thick with tears, but much weaker now. “I still hate you…”
Ather’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, but his eyes remained intense as he stared down at her.
“Hate me all you want,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. “But you’re still my bacchi. My wife. And I’m not letting you go.”
He pulled the silk sheet higher over her bare shoulders and tucked her closer against his warm, muscular body. One arm locked around her waist possessively while his free hand gently stroked her hair.
“Sleep now, meri bacchi,” he whispered against her forehead, pressing one last kiss there. “I’ve got you.”
Asra wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him again how much she hated him. But the exhaustion, the soreness, and the strange comfort of his rare softness won over. Her eyelids grew heavy as she curled tighter into his chest, still sniffling softly.
“…I hate you,” she mumbled one final time, almost sleepily.
Ather chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“I know, meri bacchi. I know.”
He kept stroking her hair long after she finally fell asleep in his arms — the dangerous, ruthless mafia boss cradling his crying little wife like she was the most precious thing in his dark world.
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