33. FEVERISH
DIYA
The worst part about getting sick isn't the fever. It isn't the pounding headache, the aching body, or the way every bone feels sore.
It's the person I become.
The moment my temperature shoots up, all my patience disappears. I turn into the world's grumpiest patient. Everything annoys me. Everyone annoys me.
Especially people who keep telling me to drink water. Or eat. Or rest.
I know I'm being impossible. I know I'm throwing the kind of tantrum a five-year-old would be embarrassed by. But I can't help it.
My throat feels like I've swallowed sand. My head pounds every time I open my eyes, and even this enormous bedroom suddenly feels cold and lonely.
Veeraj stands a few feet away from the bed, watching me quietly. He hasn't said anything for the last ten minutes.
Every time he walks closer, I pull the quilt over my head like it'll somehow make him disappear.
He doesn't argue. He doesn't sigh dramatically. He just watches. Finally, he lets out a slow breath, turns around, and walks out of the room.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind him.
For some ridiculous reason, my chest immediately tightens. A stupid tear slips down my cheek.
I bury my face deeper into the pillow, feeling even more miserable than before.
Of course he left.
Why would he stay here and deal with someone who's done nothing but snap at him all morning?
He probably has actual work to do. Meetings. Files. A kingdom. And one cranky wife who keeps telling him to go away.
The room suddenly feels much bigger. Much emptier. The loneliness creeps in so quickly that it reminds me of feelings I'd buried years ago.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. A few moments later, the bedroom door opens again. I peek out from under the quilt.
Veeraj walks back inside carrying a silver tray. A bowl of steaming soup. A glass of water. Medicine. Without saying anything, he places the tray on the bedside table before sitting on the edge of the bed beside me.
I immediately turn my face away. "Go away," I mumble, my voice rough and scratchy. "I don't want your charity, Veeraj."
"Go back to your palace work. Just . . . leave me alone."
He completely ignores me. Instead, his hand comes up and rests gently against my forehead. His palm is cool. The relief is so instant that a quiet sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
He checks my temperature for a few seconds, his thumb brushing lightly across my forehead. Then, with surprising ease, he slips one arm behind my shoulders and helps me sit up against the headboard.
The quilt stays wrapped securely around me. "You can fight with me after you're better," he says calmly.
"But right now . . . " He picks up the spoon and stirs the broth once. " . . . you're going to eat."
I stubbornly look away. "I'm not hungry."
"I know." He brings the spoon closer anyway. "But you're still going to eat."
I shake my head. "No."
He lowers the spoon and looks straight at me. Really looks at me. The usual unreadable expression on his face is gone.
All I see is quiet concern. "I don't like seeing you like this, Trouble," he says softly.
His voice is lower than usual. More honest. "You have absolutely no right to torture my wife." He pauses for a second before adding quietly, "No one does, not even you."
"So eat. And take your medicine."
My chest tightens. My wife. He says it so naturally. So simply. Not because anyone is watching. Not because we're attending some royal event.
Just because that's who I am to him.
His wife.
The word settles somewhere deep inside me, quietly pushing away memories that have lived there for years.
For one brief moment, I don't feel like the unwanted girl from the orphanage. Or the daughter who was never enough. I just feel . . . cared for. Veeraj lifts another spoonful of broth toward me.
I keep staring at him.
He waits patiently. Then, very quietly, he says one word. "Please."
That's all it takes. Every bit of stubbornness I've been holding onto melts away. I open my mouth and take the first spoonful.
The warm broth eases the ache in my throat.
A few minutes later, I swallow the medicine without another argument.
Veeraj doesn't say, I told you so. He simply hands me the glass of water and waits until I've finished. Looking at him now, I realize something that scares me a little.
He isn't taking care of me because he has to. He isn't doing it because we're married on paper. He's doing it because seeing me hurt hurts him too.
And somewhere along the way without either of us noticing . . . The stone prince stopped feeling like a stranger.
He started feeling like home.