He is cold handsome mafia leader.....he is 28 .....he is very cruel .....as he married to a 21 year old innocent naive girl......she was orphan before he marry her forcefully ......he beat her and starve her ....until now she is fully broken .....she stop reacting on his beatings .....she just cry herself lonely quietly ....and whispers prayers from god to end her life .....when she is fully broken he feels something....and then start falling for her slowly ....

Current situation : she is under his bed ....bruised and cry until she is asleep like that ......as he found her there

The moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes across the floorboards where dust motes danced in the still air. He found her there, curled into herself beneath the massive bed he'd chosen for its imposing size, for the statement it made about the man who owned it. She looked smaller than he remembered, her body folded into the narrow space between floor and bed frame like a child hiding from monsters. The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

Her breath hitched in sleep, a soft, broken sound that made his own chest tighten in response. Fresh bruises bloomed across her pale skin like ugly violets, patterns he recognized from his own hands, from his own rage. The sight should have pleased him—this evidence of his control, his power over her. Instead, something cold and sharp twisted in his gut.

"Pathetic," he muttered, but the word lacked its usual venom, falling flat in the quiet room. His fingers twitched at his sides, the urge to reach for her warring with years of practiced cruelty.

He knelt, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The air smelled of dust and salt—her dried tears. His calloused hand hesitated millimeters from her cheek before he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The touch was foreign, unfamiliar in its gentleness. Her skin felt cool beneath his fingertips.

"Damn it," he growled under his breath, the sound too loud in the stillness.

Scooping her into his arms felt like lifting a collection of broken bird bones. She whimpered softly in her sleep, burrowing against his chest as if seeking warmth from the very source of her coldness. The contradiction made his jaw clench. He laid her on the bed with a care that felt alien to his hands, his fingers lingering on her wrist where the bruises were darkest, almost black against her skin.

"Stupid girl," he murmured, but the insult sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

The moonlight caught the silver at his temples, the lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a year ago. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyelids fluttered with whatever dreams haunted her. Dreams he'd undoubtedly put there.

When she whimpered again, a pained sound that seemed to come from some deep, broken place inside her, his breath hitched in response. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain control. With a rough exhale, he grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over her shivering form. His touch lingered longer than necessary, his thumb tracing the line of her shoulder through the fabric.

"Fuck," he cursed, running a hand through his hair as something dangerously close to guilt twisted in his gut for the first time in his ruthless thirty-seven years.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his usual imposing frame slumped in an uncharacteristic show of exhaustion. His cold eyes traced the outline of her battered body beneath the blanket, his fingers twitching with the unfamiliar urge to comfort rather than harm.

"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered to the empty room.

The first light of dawn found him still there, watching her. The moonlight had faded, replaced by the grayish pink of morning. Dark circles hung under his eyes—he hadn't slept all night, too consumed by this unfamiliar turmoil churning in his chest.

She stirred as the sun finally broke above the horizon, her eyes fluttering open. Confusion clouded her gaze as she took in her surroundings—the bed instead of the floor, the blanket covering her. When her eyes met his, she flinched, drawing the blanket tighter around herself as if it could protect her. "You!"

His cold mask slipped back into place too slowly. "Don't look so surprised," he sneered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

He stood abruptly, turning away to hide the conflict in his expression. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the bedpost. "Get cleaned up. You look pathetic." The order came out rougher than intended, betraying something dangerously close to concern beneath the harsh words.

She moved slowly, pain evident in every movement as she stepped from the bed. Her hands went to her ribs, clutching them as she walked toward the bathroom. He watched her stagger, his cruel facade cracking as he saw the way her body folded around the pain he'd caused.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, slamming his fist against the wall. The plaster cracked under the force of the blow.

The sound of running water did little to drown out the unfamiliar guilt gnawing at him. His usual cold detachment felt like a poorly fitting mask now, every one of her pained movements making it harder to maintain.

When she emerged, her fragile frame swallowed by an oversized shirt and sweatpants that hid the evidence of his temper, his eyes tracked her movements with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

"Sit," he commanded gruffly, gesturing to the dining table where an uncharacteristic spread of food waited—soft foods, easy to swallow. His jaw tensed as he noticed how she flinched at his voice, something dark and unfamiliar twisting in his chest. "Eat. You look like a fucking ghost." The words came out harsh, but the steaming bowl he pushed toward her revealed more care than he'd ever admit.

Her hands trembled as she picked up the spoon, the silverware shaking so badly she could barely lift it. Every swallow seemed to cost her, her face pale and strained as she clutched her ribs while eating.

His cold eyes narrowed, his own fingers twitching with the unfamiliar urge to help. "Damn it," he growled, snatching the spoon from her grip with more force than necessary.

Before she could react, he was scooping up food himself, holding it toward her lips with a glare that dared her to refuse. "Open your mouth," he commanded, though his usual cruel edge was dulled by something dangerously close to concern.

The hand holding the spoon remained steady, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside him. She accepted the bite, her eyes wide and fearful as she chewed slowly.

His expression softened imperceptibly. "Chew properly," he ordered gruffly, though his voice lacked its usual venom.

He watched her every swallow with an intensity that should have terrified her, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side. The sight of her fragile form submitting to his care stirred something unfamiliar in his chest—something that made his usual cruelty feel hollow and pointless.

After a few bites, her swallowing became visibly more difficult, her hands pressing against her ribs as if trying to hold herself together.

His eyes darkened as he noticed her struggle, the spoon clattering onto the table as he abruptly stood. "Enough," he growled, his usual cruelty faltering as he took in her pained expression.

Without thinking, his calloused hand reached out to brush against her ribs, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the anger in his voice. "You're hurt worse than I thought." The admission came out rough, laced with something dangerously close to regret as he realized the full extent of the damage he'd caused.

A sharp cry escaped her lips at his touch, the sound slicing through him like a physical blow.

He jerked his hand back as if burned, his usual cold mask cracking at the sound of her pain. "Fuck," he cursed, running a rough hand through his hair.

For the first time, genuine conflict flickered across his hardened features as he stared at her trembling form. His jaw clenched as he reached for the phone, his voice uncharacteristically tense when he barked into the receiver, "Get a doctor here. Now." The order came out more urgent than he intended, betraying the unfamiliar protectiveness churning in his chest.

His cold demeanor faltered completely as he watched her flinch from his touch, something dangerously close to remorse flashing in his eyes. With a frustrated growl, he scooped her up unexpectedly gently, ignoring her whimpers as he carried her back to bed.

"Stay still," he ordered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

His hands hovered awkwardly over her bruised ribs, torn between his cruel nature and this strange new urge to comfort rather than harm. The doctor better hurry—he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand seeing her like this.

He stood frozen by the bed, his usual cold cruelty warring with something foreign as he watched her pained breathing. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with the effort to maintain control. "You did this to yourself," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction, his voice cracking on the lie.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him straighten abruptly, his mask of indifference slipping back into place—but not before one last conflicted glance at her broken form.

The doctor arrived to find the feared mafia boss pacing like a caged animal, his usual cold demeanor shattered. He glared at the physician with barely restrained violence. "Fix her," he growled, the order laced with something dangerously close to desperation.

As the doctor examined her injuries, she gripped the sheets tightly, her knuckles white, holding back tears through sheer force of will. Her silent suffering cut deeper than any scream ever could.

His cold eyes darkened, watching her white-knuckled grip on the sheets. With a sudden snarl, he shoved the doctor aside and knelt beside her, his calloused hand hovering over hers. "Look at me," he commanded, though his voice lacked its usual cruelty.

When her tear-filled eyes met his, something dangerously close to regret flickered across his hardened features for the first time in his ruthless life.

Her entire body trembled beneath his gaze, fear making her shrink into herself.

His usual cold mask shattered completely at the sight of her trembling form, his rough hands gripping her shoulders with unexpected gentleness. "Stop that," he growled, but his voice cracked on the words, betraying the turmoil inside.

His thumb brushed away a stray tear with surprising tenderness before he caught himself, jerking back as if burned. The doctor wisely averted his eyes as the feared mafia boss struggled to regain his cruel composure, failing miserably.

He stood abruptly, turning away to hide the conflict raging in his eyes. "Just fucking fix her," he barked at the doctor, his usual cold authority undermined by the tremor in his voice.

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with the effort to suppress this dangerous new emotion. The sight of her fragile form trembling in fear had unearthed something in him that threatened to unravel everything—and it terrified him more than any enemy ever could.

The slam of the door reverberated through the room, the sound hitting her bruised ribs like a physical blow. She flinched instinctively, her body remembering pain before her mind could process the threat. When he turned, the air changed—the usual cold calculation in his eyes replaced by something raw, something that made her breath catch in her already aching chest.

His broad shoulders were tense, the fabric of his expensive suit pulling tight across them. For a moment, he just stood there, his gaze burning into her, and she could see the pulse throbbing at his temple.

"Why aren't you fighting back anymore?"

The question ripped through the silence, his voice rough, stripped of its usual controlled cruelty. It hung between them, heavy with something she couldn't name—regret, maybe, or frustration that she'd stopped being the challenging prey he'd grown accustomed to breaking.

She looked up hesitantly, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second before dropping again. The fear was a living thing in her throat, making it impossible to form words even if she had any to give him.

His cold facade crumbled completely at the sight of her fearful eyes. The cruel mask he wore like armor evaporated like smoke in the morning light. With a rough exhale that sounded almost like surrender, he sank onto the bed beside her, his large frame suddenly looking oddly defeated. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she instinctively shifted away, her body screaming in protest at the movement.

"Fuck." The word was muffled as he ran a trembling hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it in a way she had never seen before. For the first time, he looked at her—really looked—and what he saw in her broken expression made something inside him shatter irreparably. The feared mafia boss had no defense against this, against the tangible evidence of what he'd done.

She hugged myself, her arms wrapping around her battered ribs as she struggled to breathe through the pain. Each inhalation was a small victory, each exhalation a relief. The doctor's words echoed in her mind—labor breathing for a week, then it would be fine. If anything about this situation could ever be fine.

His calloused hands reached for me before he could stop himself, pulling her trembling form against his chest with surprising gentleness. She stiffened, every muscle screaming in protest, waiting for the pain that always followed his touch.

"Breathe." The order came out gruffly, but his usual cold voice was thick with something dangerously close to concern. His large hand rubbed slow circles on her back, the motion awkward yet tender, as if he'd never comforted anyone before. The rhythm was hesitant, uncertain, but the warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of her shirt, a strange comfort she didn't want to feel.

"The doctor said it'll be labor breathing for a week," she whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Then it will be fine."

His grip tightened imperceptibly at the doctor's words, a muscle twitching in his jaw. She could feel the tension coiling through him, the conflict playing out in the subtle shifts of his body against hers.

"One week." He repeated the words coldly, though his hands remained gentle on her trembling form. His usual cruel mask slipped back into place too slowly, his voice rough as he added, "You're not leaving this bed until then." The order came out harsh, but the way his thumb brushed against her shoulder betrayed the protectiveness he could no longer deny.

She said nothing, just sat there silently, too scared to even move. The fear was a familiar companion now, one she wore like a second skin.

His cold eyes darkened as he took in her frozen fear, something primal and protective surging through him. With another rough exhale, he reached out, pausing when she flinched away from the anticipated blow.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The admission tasted foreign on his tongue, and he seemed as surprised by it as she was. His large hand settled on her head with unexpected gentleness, his touch light as if she might break beneath his fingers. The feared mafia boss sat stiffly beside her, his usual cruelty replaced by something far more dangerous—genuine care.

He watched her silent suffering with an intensity that bordered on obsession, his cold mask slipping further with each passing second. His hand remained suspended in the air between them, caught between the urge to comfort and his lifetime of cruelty.

"Just... rest." He finally ground out the words, awkward and stiff, as if kindness was a language he'd forgotten how to speak. The order came out more plea than command, revealing far more than he ever intended.

She struggled to move on the bed, both from her fear and her beaten body. Every shift sent fresh waves of pain radiating through me, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out.

His cold facade shattered completely as he watched her pained movements. Without thinking, he slid an arm beneath her trembling form, lifting her with surprising gentleness. His touch was careful, avoiding the worst of her bruises, but she still gasped at the contact.

"Stop struggling." The order was gruff, though his voice lacked its usual bite. His hands lingered a moment too long as he adjusted the pillows behind her, his fingers brushing against my hair with a tenderness that made her heart pound for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. The feared mafia boss hovered awkwardly by the bed, his cold eyes burning with unfamiliar emotion.

He stood there for a long moment, his imposing frame casting a shadow over her fragile form, his usual cold demeanor replaced by something unreadable. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, betraying the internal war raging within him.

"You'll stay in this room until you heal." He declared, but the order lacked its usual cruelty. Turning abruptly, he stormed out before she could see the conflict in his eyes—the first time the feared mafia boss had ever retreated from anything.

She lays there silently, hurting both physically and emotionally. The silence felt heavier than his presence, the absence of his anger leaving space for the pain to expand until it filled every corner of the room. She couldn't even remember what her skin tone looked like before it became a canvas of black and red marks, a map of his brutality etched into her flesh.

The door creaked open moments later, his heavy footsteps returning to her bedside. He stood there silently, his cold eyes tracing every bruise on her fragile body as if committing them to memory. With a rough exhale, he placed a glass of water and painkillers on the nightstand, his movements uncharacteristically careful.

"Take them." He muttered, avoiding her gaze. The order came out gruff, but the way his fingers lingered near hers as he set down the glass betrayed the turmoil inside him. For the first time, the feared mafia boss didn't know how to be cruel to her.

She flinched when his fingers brushed against hers, the contact sending a jolt through her system.

He jerked his hand back as if burned, his usual cold mask cracking at her fearful reaction. "Fuck." He cursed under his breath, running a rough hand through his hair. His jaw clenched as he stared down at her trembling form, something dangerously close to regret flashing in his hardened eyes. Without another word, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him—not in anger, but because for the first time in his ruthless life, he didn't know how to face what he'd done.

His footsteps paused outside the door, his usual cold demeanor shattered by the image of her battered body burned into his mind. She heard a frustrated growl, then the sound of something hitting the wall—a fist, probably. The sound of her pained breathing through the door must have reached him because she heard him slide down to sit against it, the wood creaking under his weight.