Chapter 33 Collateral Hearts
In the flicker of a candle, even guilt finds a shadow to dance with.
- Author
Vritant stepped out of the car, Rawat close behind. Ahead of him loomed a magnificent door, carved like the gate of a royal palace. Above it, in bold letters, gleamed: Hall of Fame.
He walked over the red carpet, the absurdity of the name not lost on him, and Rawat opened the door. The hall beyond was empty, pristine, almost ceremonial.
Vritant moved to the left side, his gaze scanning every corner, until he reached the end of the corridor. A discreet door led to a staircase descending into the basement.
He scanned his palm and face; the lock clicked open.
Below, the dungeon awaited. As beautifully, cruelly, and sarcastically named as ever: Hall of Fame.
A few men sat shackled against the cold stone walls, their eyes darting up as footsteps echoed.
Neil trailed behind Vritant, while Rawat entered with a small leather bag. Another man hurried forward, offering a plate of flowers with trembling hands.
"Neil, I'm in an important meeting with party members," Vritant said lightly, a flick of his fingers dismissing him. Neil left without a word.
Vritant plucked flowers from the plate - roses laced with stinging nettle. A slow smile curved his lips.
"Baharo phool barsao... inka mehboob aya hai," he drawled, lifting the silver plate from the attendant's hands as though it were part of some grand ceremony.
With a mocking flourish, he tipped it toward the prisoners - petals and nettles raining down like a parody of welcome. The shackled men flinched, then jerked as the sting set in, scratching themselves raw and cursing under their breath.
Vritant didn't so much as brush a leaf; he held the empty plate like a host who'd just served his guests, expression carved in cool amusement.
He drew a neatly folded dupatta from his coat pocket - not just any cloth, but hers, the one Adhrita had lost in the chaos that day.
He twisted the fabric tight around his palm, the silk bunching between his fingers like a small, private grief.
The gesture was casual and brutal all at once. Then he lifted his gaze to the men.
"So," he began, voice calm, too calm. "Start your story again. Why riots? Whose orders?"
He lowered himself into a chair, picking up a peculiar blade and dragging it across the table's edge with a slow, deliberate scrape. The sound sliced through the silence.
"You know," he added, almost conversational, "I'm starting to lose count. Third time? Fourth? You boys really need a scriptwriter - repetition doesn't suit you."
As though the men weren't even there, he reached into Rawat's bag and pulled out a half-finished chess piece - a knight carved from bone-white ivory. Knife in hand, he began whittling, shaping, cutting, the rhythm of steel against wood echoing in the dungeon.
The message was clear: answers would come, one way or another.
The man began, voice trembling, "We were given money by CM Abhijeet Bapat. He asked us to threaten PM's daughter-in-law. We were following orders."
He repeated the same story - the exact words, the exact sequence - like a parrot trapped in a loop.
Vritant didn't look up from the chess piece. "Rawat, please bring the guest of honor," he said, voice calm, almost bored.
Rawat left and returned moments later with Karma. The dog bounded onto Vritant's lap, sniffing the hand wrapped in Adhrita's dupatta. Then he barked sharply at the man, tilting his head.
"Rawat, why did you torture his soft hands?" Vritant asked, voice dripping mock outrage. "Don't you know a palm has life lines?"
Rawat swiftly removed the shackles. The man immediately began rubbing his hands, still itchy from being tied so long.
Vritant stood, eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Do you know who can change the lines of palms?"
He smirked, letting the leash fall. "Karma."
The dog leapt forward, teeth flashing, and sank them playfully into the man's hands. The man yelped, twisting and trying to pull away, while Vritant watched with quiet satisfaction, the chess piece resting on the table like a silent observer.
He turned, and Rawat began carefully packing the knife and the half-finished chess piece into the bag. Vritant untwisted one fold of the dupatta when a sharp scream from the man made him pause.
He whistled, and Karma immediately halted, racing to his side.
"Clean him up," Vritant said coolly, eyes glinting. "My wife should never know about Karma's... behind-the-scenes deliveries."
Without another word, he started walking toward the exit, leash dangling loosely from his hand, leaving the prisoners scrambling and the dungeon echoing with muffled curses.
??? V ? A ???
Adhrita saw her father-in-law heading toward his room. She wanted to check on her mother-in-law, so she walked in that direction and knocked.
"Papa, woh..." she began, peeking into the room. It was empty. She looked around. The room was simple, sober - a single frame of his children rested near the table.
"What happened, beta?" he asked.
"Woh... mummy," she started again, glancing around.
"Vedashree's room?" he interrupted, flatly. She nodded.
"Opposite one," he said, and without another word, left. The subtle finality in his tone made it clear: her mother-in-law wasn't staying with him.
Adhrita nodded and stepped out, spotting Aasha Tai entering the opposite room. She followed.
Vedashree was resting, a file balanced on her lap. She wore a simple kurti, spectacles off, exuding calm that made Adhrita pause.
"Aasha," Vedashree commanded softly. Aasha Tai left immediately.
"Are you fine?" Adhrita asked, approaching.
"Perfect," Vedashree replied, her voice carrying a faint edge of amusement, as if the very question were slightly unnecessary.
Adhrita fidgeted, twisting her fingers, unsure what else to say. The room was filled with family photographs - over the bed, a wedding picture of Vedashree and Shaurya.
Papa left already? she wondered.
Vedashree's calm gaze followed her as she moved toward a drawer. She opened it and pulled out three bunches of keys.
"Take these," she said, her tone clipped but playful, carrying the weight of authority with a hint of sarcasm that said, "Control your hands, control the situation. One tremor and someone pays."
Adhrita took the keys into her palm, silently noting the mix of warmth and quiet command in Vedashree's presence.
??? V ? A ???
Adhrita sat with her laptop, but her mind was elsewhere.
The kiss she had shared with her husband replayed in her head - the way he had held her, the way his lips had lingered over the moles on her neck.
A faint blush rose to her cheeks. She twisted a strand of her hair between her fingers, remembering how he had gently tugged her hair to access her neck.
The memory of the kiss replayed over and over, and a small smile played on her lips. Then it shifted - she remembered how she had kissed him first, and how he had lost control.
The kiss happened because I teased him? Did he lose control? Or did I force myself on him? She struggled to make sense of it. He had never initiated a kiss. His touches were always appropriate - even in sleep, he never crossed a boundary.
She remembered him massaging her back that night; both of them had fallen asleep like that.
The next morning, his hands were still resting gently on her lower back under her t-shirt.
At the lake house, however, he had stopped himself.
Even with my wordless consent, he didn't kiss me.
Did he feel physical attraction? Or just the tension of intimacy?
Did he regret it? Why wouldn't a husband want to kiss his wife unless he truly didn't want to?
She was lost in this endless labyrinth of overthinking when Karma barked at her in excitement. Startled, she looked up and saw Vritant entering. Karma jumped onto the seat beside her, and a small smile broke through her reverie as she finally noticed him.
Vritant, calm as ever, began undoing his cufflinks and unbuttoning his shirt.
"I'm leaving for Mumbai," he said as he walked toward the washroom.
After some time, he came out in a casual linen olive-green shirt and beige pants.
"I'll also leave for the hospital," she said, gathering her bag, her expression falling.
"I'll drop you on the way," he said. She nodded.
They drove in silence for a while. Vritant cut a rare backseat call and looked at her. He gently took her hand and checked the faint mark on her skin. It was hardly visible - but still.
So it was regret, she thought.
Her overthinking spiraled further, an unending loop of self-doubt and guilt.
When the car stopped, she saw the airport, and media cameras flashed.
"Vritant, hospital," she murmured, looking at him.
"You wanted to go? Your face said otherwise," he said, opening the door and taking her hand.
"Sir, we heard PM ma'am is sick and went to the hospital," one reporter called out.
"My wife is also sick," he replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "She goes to the hospital daily. And I... I'm apparently terminally ill from being hounded by all of you, so I go there too. Thank you for your concern."
Adhrita couldn't help the faint smile tugging at her lips. That was Vritant - composed, deadly serious, yet effortlessly sarcastic, turning irritation into a weapon.
??? V ? A ???
They stepped onto the jet, the cabin quiet except for the soft hum of the engines. Adhrita slid into the window seat, eyes on him.
"You're really taking me with you?" she asked.
Vritant leaned against the doorway, smirk sharp, voice low and deliberate.
"My Eos," he said, letting the name linger like a warning, "can't survive a single night alone without scheduling night shifts at the hospital. Apparently, darkness is lethal. So yes... I'm bringing her along. Consider it disaster containment."
Adhrita blinked, half amused, half exasperated.
"What's... Eos?" she asked, curiosity breaking through her smile.
Vritant moved closer to sit beside her, but just as he opened his mouth, his phone rang. He answered, slipping into conversation smoothly, gesturing occasionally at Neil and his laptop.
Adhrita relaxed against the seat, watching him, and a small smile played on her lips. She hadn't packed her clothes and felt a twinge of panic, but then her eyes fell on his hand - thumb idly stroking his engagement ring. Was he anxious about something?
He rose and went to Neil, giving instructions while still on the call. Both men were now fully absorbed in work. Adhrita sighed, turning her attention elsewhere. She reached into his bag and pulled out a deck of cards.
A smile spread across her face. She remembered Saanvi's wedding - how he had bluffed through every hand, impossible to read.
She flipped through the cards, and her eyes caught the Ace of Hearts.
The same card where she had written her name in Hindi and Gujarati after leaving Aaradhya's office. Her cheeks warmed.
She glanced at him. He was watching her, eyebrows slightly raised. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus, and began sorting the deck.
Counting the cards carefully, she noticed something was off: fifty cards, three extra. The two jokers were present, along with a single blank card. Two were missing: Seven of Hearts and Seven of Diamonds. Strange. She rearranged the deck, puzzled.
Vritant moved back to his seat, sighed, and leaned against her shoulder. His hand found hers, fingers toying with her bracelet.
"Want to talk about something?" she asked softly, tracing her fingers with his thumb. She was feeling the nervous flutter his touch always brought.
"We'll be attending CM Abhijeet Bapat's party tomorrow," he said. She grasped his hand, attentive.
"So you're taking me to the party? I thought we were going to Shweta Bua's house," she asked, surprised.
"Of course you'll meet Saanvi and Aryan there," he said, sitting up straight and locking eyes with her. "But I want you to meet someone else."
"Samarjeet Mama ji?" she guessed.
"He'll be there, yes. But someone else," he added, and she simply nodded.
Gently, he tucked her hair behind her ear, and she closed her eyes. The world narrowed as he pulled her close, enveloping her in his embrace.
??? V ? A ???
The lights were dim, casting soft shadows across the small cabin. Vritant took her hand and bit her finger slightly; she hissed, a sharp little sound that made him smirk.
"Are you nervous about something?" she asked, eyes fixed on him. He looked down, meeting her gaze, and for a fraction of a second, a flash of fear crossed his face as the jet hit a brief turbulence.
"Rest," she whispered softly. He nodded, removed his hand from her shoulder, and gently held hers, leading her to the bedroom. It was cozy, compact - the perks of being the wife of a billionaire.
She lay by the window, pulling the comforter close. He lay beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"Why are you always in 'I am Mr. Vardhan' mode?" she asked, turning toward him.
Vritant's eyes darkened as she moved her hair aside, exposing her neck. His gaze fell on the familiar moles. "Don't," he murmured.
She blinked in confusion, but before she could respond, his hands were around her, pulling her closer. His teeth grazed her skin, eliciting a yelp as he planted a hickey, followed by wet, possessive kisses.
He lifted his eyes to hers, lingering on her lips, then returned to her gaze, pulling a little closer. His forehead pressed against hers, rubbing tenderly.
"Elpis," he whispered. She whispered back, barely audible, and he leaned in again, tracing her lips with his thumb, following the curve down her neck. Her hand found his hair, caressing as he guided them both to a different world.
Slowly, his lips brushed hers, a teasing, almost torturous touch that made her pulse stutter.
She parted her lips instinctively, and he deepened the kiss, his mouth pressing urgently against hers.
Every movement was deliberate, yet urgent - a mix of need, control, and devotion that left her breathless.
His hands traced her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and she felt the warmth of his body fuse with hers.
Soft gasps escaped her lips as he kissed her neck, nipping and licking in a way that made her arch into him.
Every brush of his teeth, every wet, lingering press of his lips against her skin ignited a fire that spread through her entire body.
"Elpis," he murmured against her lips, his voice raw, intimate.
Slowly, he turned her onto her back, one hand sliding to caress her waist while his foot thumb traced her leg.
Her shirt rode up slightly as his hands roamed her tummy and back, tracing her curves with deliberate, teasing touches.
When his palm brushed the hook of her inner wear, he bit her lip playfully - she yelped - and he immediately released, coming back to his senses.
He broke the kiss and looked at her, eyes cautious. She opened hers and caught him instantly withdrawing his hand from her back.
"You're regretting," she murmured.
"What? No," he said quickly, though his voice was clipped. "I am not regretting the kiss. You... you don't love me, and I was touching you like..." His words trailed, unspoken.
"Yeah, I don't love you," she said, removing her hand from his hair and looking out the window.
"I meant... you don't know me yet. How could you love me? And I know you, Ace. This isn't just physical intimacy for you - it always carries meaning."
"If you know me so well, then why did you kiss me?" she asked, her tone edged with anger.
He moved to sit opposite her, tilting her chin up with two fingers to make her meet his gaze.
"If I wanted, I could have taken you right here, claimed you in every sense. But Hri... wouldn't you regret giving yourself to someone you barely know? Sure, you could rationalize it as your duty to your husband. Every marriage has its intimacy, yes, but..." His voice lowered, taut with intensity.
"But you hesitate, Vritant. I can see it. Regret..." she whispered, struggling to understand.
"You're not ready," he said softly. "Because you're still unsure what's between us."
She said nothing.
"Want me to prove it?" His fingers took hers and placed them on his shirt. "Unbutton it."
"You really think I can't?" she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the first button, then the second. By the third, she hesitated, her touch lingering but unsure.
His hands slid lightly to her waist, grounding her, but also reminding her of his presence. She froze.
"Open it," he murmured near her ear, his voice low and deliberate. Her breath hitched, and her hands shook harder.
"If you were ready, your hands wouldn't stop here," he said softly. "You've been close to me so many times, Hri, yet never once touched these buttons. You always grab the collar instead... never daring more. Open the last one... Jaan."
(Life)
Her hands stilled, suspended over the fabric, her entire body tense. The word Jaan made her chest tighten, but instead of boldness, uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
"You could open the first buttons easily because you're a trauma surgeon. Bare men don't faze you. But this..." His voice dropped to a low growl. He guided her hands, and together they removed his shirt. For the first time, she saw him bare.
"Come," he ordered, catching her wrists and pressing her palms flat against his chest. "Touch your husband."
Her fingers quivered, brushing his skin like she was afraid of being burned. They lingered, hesitant, before slipping away.
His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on her. "That's all? You tremble like a stranger. Not like a wife. Even now... you want to, but you can't." His voice was low, steady - not mocking, but exposing her truth.
He exhaled, pulling back slightly, giving her space instead of pressing further.
"You couldn't," he murmured. Rising, he reached for his shirt, stepped down from the bed, and turned to leave.
But before he could, she slipped behind him, arms circling his waist. Her lips pressed against the nape of his neck, not in passion, but in something quieter, heavier. He stilled.
She wasn't kissing him - she was kissing the scar etched just beneath his skin.
The scar near his neck, the one that carried a story she didn't yet know, but could feel.
Her breath lingered there, soft, reverent, as if trying to soothe the pain carved into him long ago.
Her fingers traced its uneven line, tentative, delicate, like she was afraid he might break.
His eyes closed against the rush of feeling, and then he caught her hands gently, drawing her forward until she was in front of him.
"You're my wife, Adhri. You have every right to me. But you still don't know what's between us, and it's messing with your head. I know every wife wants love from her husband, but look at me."
"I don't want to..." she whispered, hesitant, fighting her own feelings.
He wiped a tear with his thumb and pulled her into his embrace.
"I thought... My wife is very innocent. But well..." he murmured, a half-smile breaking through, and she slapped him playfully on his chest.
??? V ? A ???
As they touched down in Mumbai, Vritant led her into their suite at the Taj. The windows opened to a vast stretch of the Arabian Sea, glittering under the night sky.
"This is so beautiful," Adhrita whispered, sliding the glass open to let in the salty breeze.
"Freshen up. Your clothes are in the wardrobe," he said, already unpacking his bag.
Puzzled, she opened the wardrobe - only to freeze. Rows of silk nightgowns, tailored suits, even soft loungewear, hung neatly inside.
Her fingers hovered over a kurta set.
"No dupatta," his voice cut across the room, firm, almost instinctive.
"I'm just wearing a night suit," she countered, pulling out a pale pink set. She glanced at the label. Rū by Iva × Agnivanshi.
Her eyes widened. Of course. He had planned this. Not just the suite - the clothes, the designer, everything. Manipulator.
Before she could give words to her rising irritation, he emerged from the washroom in a plain black T-shirt, blue shorts, and simple slippers, phone in hand.
"I'll step out for a while. Need to meet someone for tomorrow's security," he said casually.
She frowned. Since the riots, he had hardly left her side without layers of protection. "Are you okay? You're... not being sarcastic lately."
He slipped his phone into his pocket, meeting her gaze with the faintest smirk.
Then, he leaned in, tone calm but sharp, words laced with his usual edge.
"Sasumaa ne sikhaya nahi kya," he murmured, "tooti hui cheezon ko haath nahi lagate?"
(Didn't my mother-in-law ever teach you," he murmured, you shouldn't touch broken things?)
Adhrita blinked, momentarily thrown. She had asked about sarcasm, and instead, he gave her a warning wrapped in a riddle. It wasn't about sarcasm - it was about her prying, her fearless curiosity, her tendency to touch what wasn't meant for her.
The corners of his mouth tugged upward faintly. Dark. Playful. Dangerous. She realized too late that he could scold and tease at the same time, leaving her both amused and cautious.
Before she could reply, he was already at the door, phone in hand, his profile sharp against the sea-lit glass.
"Stay inside," he added, voice clipped, practical again. "This city knows how to bite."
The door shut behind him. Adhrita let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
She tossed the night suit on the bed and muttered under her breath, "What kind of husband I got..."
Not dreamy, not adoring - more like she was trying to make sense of a puzzle that only grew sharper every time she touched it.
A man who arranged wardrobes like business deals.
Who mocked her without raising his voice.
Who could smirk and scold in the same sentence, then vanish into the Mumbai night as if danger was just another item on his to-do list.
She stepped out onto the balcony, the cool night breeze brushing against her skin. The city lights scattered across the coastline, the sea restless beneath them. And yet, all she could hear was his voice echoing in her ears.
"You've been close to me so many times, Hri, yet never once touched these buttons. You always grab the collar instead... never daring more. Open the last one, Jaan."
Her eyes squeezed shut, the memory unfolding vivid and merciless.
"You could open the first buttons easily because you're a trauma surgeon. Bare men don't faze you. But this..."
The way he'd said this, the weight behind the word, made her chest tighten.
Moments flashed: their first meeting, the quiet inevitability of marriage, the odd comfort she had learned to lean on. Trust during the riots. And then - the shift. The way she'd begun to see him differently. The way every sentence of his seemed to cut and tether her in the same breath.
"You're my wife, Adhri. You have every right to me. But you still don't know what's between us, and it's messing with your head. I know every wife wants love from her husband, but look at me."
Her eyes flew open, heart racing. He was right.
It wasn't that she didn't feel for him. She did - more than she had dared admit.
His words lingered like fingerprints on her mind.
His nearness made her heart stumble. His presence steadied her like no one else ever had.
Those forehead kisses - so deceptively simple - left her aching for something she had never craved before.
What they shared wasn't normal. Not responsibility, not obligation. Something more. Something she hadn't put a name to.
The riots had taught her that much. In those chaotic hours, when she had thought she might not survive, the only thing she had wanted was to see him one last time. In his arms, she had felt untouchable. Safe. Untouched by nightmares since.
A breeze slipped in, tossing strands of her hair across her face. She brushed them aside, smiling faintly. He liked to play with her hair. Always had. And she knew with a startling clarity - it wasn't just physical tension.
It was him. She liked him. Maybe she-
Her lips parted, the thought daring itself into the air.
Love him.
The word made her still. Could it be possible? A few months, and already he lived in her mind, constant, unyielding. Every glance, every touch, every careless remark had sunk deeper than she realized.
The thought was wild, terrifying, but it made her pulse race instead of her steps retreat. Because she knew herself-she was sensible enough to accept what her heart already knew.
??? V ? A ???
Vritant went to the half-constructed building and climbed the stairs. At the edge, a man sat staring at the city below. Vritant settled beside him.
"Agnivanshi," he called.
The man turned. "Vardhan."
"Ika?" Vritant asked.
"Hrita?" Agnivanshi replied, and both let out a soft chuckle.
Vritant stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city below.
"Ghar se thaka hua insan ghar jata hai," Adwait said quietly.
Vritant laughed-a rare, unguarded laugh. He remembered the text he had sent:
'Ghar se thaka hua insan kaha jata hai?'
The reply had been simple: Thak ke insan ghar hi jata hai.
"Dead people don't have homes. They have graveyards," Vritant muttered.
"Rakh kitna bhi upar udle, aani zameen pe hi hai," Adwait said. "Anyways... how's Vardhan as a husband?"
Vritant's lips twisted. "After every kiss, my wife looks at me-not with joy, not with blush-but asking if I'm regretting it. That's the kind of shitty husband I am."
"And you can't burn her with your truth," Adwait concluded.
Vritant glanced at him. "Could you ever burn Ika with yours?"
"Eventually, I had to. Wives are stubborn creatures," Adwait said with a wry chuckle.
"Ika had her family. She could have gone back. My Hrita... she has no one. If she gets burned, she comes to me. And if I burn her... where will she go?"
"You know everything about her. Try to..." Adwait began.
"Even you knew about Ika for eight years, and never tried to see her. I watched you go through hell. We can't burn the people we love-especially if we're the flame," Vritant said.
Adwait's gaze softened. "So you admit it... you love Hrita." He handed him a wallet-sized picture: Adhrita on a step, Karma in her lap, and Vritant behind them, arms wrapped protectively.
"Don't you know my truth?" Vritant asked. Adwait said nothing.
He then passed a small pouch. "Everything you asked for. This tracker... slightest movement, and you'll know. And you were right about the riots-it wasn't Abhijeet Bapat. Everything was offline. Online footprints lead straight to Abhijeet, so it's someone else."
"And Dr. Aman?" Vritant asked.
"Too clean to be good. No messages, no calls to Hrita, no research in the past year. He's not involved."
"Someone from politics," Adwait said.
"Probably Veda aunty's enemy," he added. Vritant's jaw clenched.
"She ruined my brother, made my life hell... and now my wife's?" Vritant's hand balled into a fist.
Adwait placed a hand on his shoulder. "Adhrita Vardhan is already on Shuny's family list. No mafia, no foreign agency would touch her."
"If I want lotus, I have to go in the mud," Vritant said, voice low.
"You're not thinking to..." Adwait began.
"I have to become what I hated most... to protect the one I..."
"Love?" Adwait finished, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Vritant didn't answer. After a long pause, he muttered, "Do you ever stop... and think about what it means to be the flame?"
Adwait's eyes followed his gaze across the city. "Every flame burns something," he said softly. "Sometimes it's the world. Sometimes... ourselves."
"But... why do I feel that the water in her eyes could dim your flame?" Adwait asked, and then laughed softly.
Vritant turned to him, eyes narrowing. "Because... it's not the world I have to fight. It's her. And if I hurt her... if she loses herself because of me... then all the burning in me won't matter."
Adwait nodded slowly, understanding more in silence than words could convey. "That's the risk of loving someone truly. It doesn't wait for permission, doesn't care for safety. It just... exists. And sometimes it's heavier than the world itself."
Vritant pocketed the small pouch, eyes sharp, mind resolute. The city was calm, but the storm was coming-and he would meet it head-on.
Vritant left the unfinished building and made his way to his suite at the Taj. The city outside was alive with distant sounds, but inside, the room was calm. His wife slept peacefully, oblivious to the storm swirling beyond these walls.
He stepped in quietly, careful not to disturb her. The soft glow of the nightlamp fell across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. In her hand, she clutched his lighter, as if it were a talisman.
Vritant smiled, a mix of tenderness and quiet awe. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, savoring the simple intimacy of the moment.
"Mriga Trishna," he whispered, letting the name fall like a vow between them.
A wry smile tugged at his lips as he muttered under his breath, "Happiness is a luxury... and mine's apparently out of stock."
He gently took the lighter from her hand and pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes to let the quiet warmth soothe him. For a moment, the world fell away, and calmness settled over him like a soft cloak. Soon, he drifted into a deep, untroubled slumber.
Love, chaos, vengeance-three fires, and he is holding all the matches.
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