Chapter 50
What will people think?
DHRUV
“What will people think?” she exclaims, half-breathless, half-indignant, her palm pressing lightly against my chest as if that alone might convince me to put her down.
I frown at her. I don’t say it out loud, but the word barely registers anymore.
People. Faces blur together when I try to picture them.
Names, opinions, expectations—they all dissolve into background noise when weighed against the woman in my arms. Against the way she’s tucked so securely against me, like this is exactly where she belongs.
Against the faint soreness she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist, because she’s brave like that.
Because she hates feeling fragile, even when she’s allowed to be.
I shift my hold slightly, careful, instinctive. Her body responds without thought, relaxing into me despite herself.
“What people?” I ask instead, my voice calm, almost amused.
Her eyes narrow at me, a familiar spark flashing there. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
I can’t help it. A smile tugs at my mouth, slow and honest. “It doesn’t. Not right now.”
She scoffs softly, but there’s no real bite to it. I adjust my grip again, one arm firm beneath her knees, the other steady at her back. The movement is unhurried, deliberate—meant to remind her that she’s safe, that I’ve got her, that she doesn’t need to brace herself for anything.
Her breath catches just a little.
“You know,” she mutters, eyes darting briefly toward the corridor ahead, “this is exactly why I wanted to go out. I’m fine. Completely fine. You’ve been hovering since morning.”
Hovering.
I replay the word in my head, turning it over. If hovering means checking whether she’s eaten, whether the soreness has eased, whether she’s walking too fast, too slow, pushing herself without realizing—then yes. Guilty.
“I’m not hovering,” I say mildly. “I’m accompanying.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, despite herself. “You literally wouldn’t let me take three steps on my own.”
“That’s because you tried to pretend nothing happened,” I reply, unable to keep the edge of fondness out of my voice. “And then nearly tripped over the rug.”
“That rug attacked me.”
I glance down at her, one brow lifting. “It did?”
“Viciously.”
I hum, considering. “I’ll have it dealt with.”
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. I feel it in the way her shoulders shift, the way she gives up on pretending she’s not enjoying this at least a little.
We move through the palace at an unhurried pace. Servants glance up, then away. No one stares. No one whispers. If they have thoughts, they keep them to themselves—and even if they didn’t, I wouldn’t care.
Because all I can think about is how light she feels in my arms, despite her protests. How natural it is to carry her. How right.
“What will people think,” she repeats more quietly now, not accusing, just… wondering.
I stop. I meet her eyes, steady, certain. “They’ll think my wife needs me,” I say. “And that I am exactly where I should be.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. The fight drains from her expression, replaced by something softer, something more vulnerable.
“I don’t like feeling… dependent,” she admits. What she means is that she doesn’t want to be a burden, which is a funny word because she can never be that for me.
I nod, because I understand that more than she realizes.
“You’re not,” I say gently. “You’re choosing to let me take care of you. There’s a difference.”
She studies my face, like she’s testing the truth of that statement, turning it over in her mind. Then she exhales, slow and measured, and finally rests her head against my shoulder.
The weight of that small gesture hits me harder than anything else today.
“You’re doing too much,” she murmurs, though her voice lacks conviction.
“Maybe,” I concede. “But I want to.”
Her fingers curl into the fabric of my kurta, not gripping, just… there. I start walking again.
She shifts slightly in my arms, adjusting, and I feel it immediately—the awareness, the closeness, the echo of earlier still humming under my skin.
I keep my focus steady, my hold respectful, but there’s no denying the intimacy of this.
The way her body fits against mine. The way my steps automatically adjust to her comfort.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses quietly.
I glance down at her, catching the glint in her eyes. “What gave it away?”
“The smug look,” she says. “And the fact that you haven’t put me down even once.”
“Correction,” I reply. “I asked you if you wanted to walk.”
“And?”
“And you said you were fine.”
She tilts her head back to look at me properly now. “Which I am.”
“Sitara.” The way I say her name—low, even—makes her pause.
“Yes?”
“If you were fine,” I say, “you wouldn’t be trying so hard to prove it.”
For a moment, she looks like she might argue. Then she sighs, the sound more tired than frustrated.
“Maybe I just wanted to feel… normal,” she admits.
My chest tightens at that.
I don’t stop walking, but my hold shifts again, subtle, protective. “You are normal,” I say quietly. “Needing rest doesn’t change that. Wanting to go out doesn’t change that either.”
She nods, thoughtful.
After a beat, she adds, “Your ‘aftercare’ is still excessive.” Her cheeks redden a bit.
I huff a laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s rich, coming from someone who refused to tell me she was sore until I noticed.”
Her lips twitch. “I didn’t refuse.”
“You redirected.”
“Strategically. I am a king’s wife, after all.”
I shake my head, unable to help the smile spreading across my face. “You’re exhausting.”
She huffs, “I did exhaust you last night.” She wiggles her eyebrows and I smirk.
I lean down just enough for my voice to reach only her. “You did.” Her breath stutters. I feel it against my collarbone, warm and real.
We step out into the open air, sunlight spilling across the courtyard. She squints slightly, then relaxes, letting the warmth sink into her skin.
“I did want to come out,” she says softly. “Not to prove anything. Just… because I wanted to be with you. Not cooped up inside.”
I nod, understanding settling between us. “Then we’ll sit,” I say. “Out there, under the shade and we can have tea.”
“And?”
“And I’ll keep carrying you until you tell me to stop.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then smiles—slow, genuine, a little shy. “You’re really not worried about what anyone thinks, are you?”
I don’t hesitate. “Not even a little.”
Her head rests back against my shoulder, this time without apology.
And as I carry her forward, surrounded by stone and sky and quiet, I know one thing with absolute certainty—If the world wants an opinion, it can wait.
Right now, all that matters is her comfort, her trust, and the simple, grounding fact that she’s here. With me.