Chapter 81
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On the seventh evening, rain pressed against the tall windows of the bedroom.
The valley below Jogra Palace shimmered in silver mist.
Yamini stood with her arms folded loosely across her chest. They had just finished a small, intimate dinner in the bedroom suite. The air smelled of stone and distant pine.
Bharat stood beside the window, his fingers resting lightly on the carved edge.
“When I was seven,” he began, his voice even, “a palace staff member dropped a brass tray behind me. I bit through my tongue.”
Yamini froze.
“The physicians stitched it back together,” he continued, staring at some fixed point beyond the glass. “But I couldn't speak for three months.”
Yamini pictured a small boy, already too serious, too precise, clutching his bleeding mouth, forced into silence.
The image wrenched at her heart.
Then he spoke again.
“When I was nine,” he said, “temple bells caused physical pain. I would retreat to dark rooms or hide in caves to regulate the noise.”
She thought of the first painting he'd ever made of her— the day she found him in the cave.
“The palace staff whispered,” Bharat said. “About Rani Suchitra's second son, who flinched at thunder. Who counted tiles instead of playing.”
His fingers flexed against the sill.
“A boy who couldn't bear his own mother's touch until he was ten.”
Yamini's breath caught.
“They whispered about the way I didn't react,” he added. “Watching someone cry, or get hurt.”
He didn't look at her. His tone stayed even as he described it all.
“They called me the cold, mad maharaja who was turning mad like his father.”
Yamini flinched because she had thought of him as cold too, once.
She had said it to his face too many times.
She understood now that he had heard it as confirmation of something he had already been told his entire life.
For a moment, there was only the sound of rain.
“My mother dismissed every staff member who repeated the word mad within the palace walls,” he added. “She replaced them with new ones.”
There was no pride in his tone. Only acknowledgment.
“She never allowed the word inside the palace again.”
Yamini always imagined Rani Suchitra as the elegant, formidable queen. But now, she imagined the mother beneath, with protectiveness and fury when dealing with anyone who dared to label her son.
“Do you think I won't protect my child the way your mother did?” she asked softly.
He looked at her. “I know you will,” he said.
The certainty in his voice made her breath catch.
“But you shouldn't have to,” he added.
He said it simply. As though the burden of being loved carefully was something no child should inherit and no mother should endure.
“You're disciplined,” she said. “You're efficient. You overcame being labeled and being misunderstood.” Her voice stayed steady. “You paint beautifully. Why wouldn’t I want a child like you?”
He held her gaze for a long moment.
“It isn't that simple, Yamini,” he said.
“I'm telling you what I see.”
“That's because you only see what I choose to show,” he said.
“I've already seen what I needed to.”
His eyes flickered.
“You believe my paintings of you prove something romantic,” he said.
“They prove I matter,” she replied.
“It proves obsession,” he said. “Nothing more.”
Her heart ached even though she knew he was wrong.
She had photographed things she loved for fifteen years. She knew the difference between obsession and devotion.
She didn't argue the point. She just looked at him.
He held her gaze.
“I'm not capable of feeling love the way others define it,” he said. “I learned to study facial expressions because I didn't intuitively interpret them. I don't understand certain emotional responses without analysis.”
“You gave me the emerald fish pendant,” she said. “You took me to the frozen lake because you wanted me to hear it sing. You pulled me out of a factory before you thought about anything else.”
He said nothing.
“That isn't just an obsession, Bharat.”
His breath hitched slightly when he heard her say his name.
“You're choosing someone you don't fully understand,” he said.
“Then explain it to me,” she replied.
“I already have.”
“No. You explained fear.”
He didn't respond.
“In the studio,” she said, “you told me you liked that I was reckless and impulsive.
That my temper wasn't something you wanted fixed.
You said it without hesitation. Like it wasn't even a question.” She stepped closer until the space between them disappeared.
“Why doesn't that apply to you? Why does my mind get to be exactly what it is, but yours doesn't?”
He didn't answer.
Her hand lifted slowly and rested against his chest.
Over his heartbeat.
It was steady. Controlled.
“I'm not staying because of a contract,” she said softly. “I'm here because I want to be with you.”
He closed his eyes briefly. Just once.
When he opened them again, something in his restraint had shifted.
His hand came up and covered hers, where it rested over his heart.
“You still don't know what you're choosing,” he said.
“I do.”
And then she kissed him.
He froze for half a second, giving her room to pull away.
She didn’t.
His control snapped, and he kissed her back with a deep hunger.
When he pulled back, his eyes were darker.
“You should leave.”
“No.”
That was it.
He lifted her without another word and carried her to the bed.
This time, he didn’t hold himself apart.
Every touch was deliberate, intense.
She pulled him closer.
He let her.
Later, when the rain softened and the room grew quiet, she lay against his chest, listening to his slowly steadying heartbeat underneath.
“I’m never leaving,” she murmured.