Page 140 of Storm of Ink and Blood

When she fell silent, she watched as Row blinked several times, a myriad of emotions she could only guess at passing over his expression.

He sighed and then leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “When you were little, you were already so headstrong. I remember when you were about eight or nine, I told you starflowers would only bloom at night, and you insisted that couldn’t be true. So you set up a camp for days next to those damn flowers, trying to prove me wrong.”

He chuckled at the memory as his soft gaze found hers.

“You were right,” he said. “They did bloom during the day sometimes.”

Zarya smiled, remembering her excitement, jumping up and running back to the cottage to claim she’d known it all along.

“And maybe you’re right about this, too.”

She reached out a hand and squeezed his. “Will you come?”

He covered her hand with his. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my girl.”

She threw her arms around his neck as they hugged tightly. “I’m sorry I was so horrible to you,” she said softly as he patted the back of her head.

“All is forgiven,” he said. “What kind of father would I be if I didn’t understand your need to learn who you were while perhaps being a little hard on the people who loved you the most? It’s simply the natural order of things.”

She pulled away. “I’m so lucky that my mother chose you to raise me.”

He gave her a soft smile and then pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m the lucky one, Zarya. I never expected to be a father, but you’ve brought me more joy than you can possibly understand.”

Once they were done talking, Zarya returned to her flat to raid her closet for something suitable to wear. She didn’t have anything that was right for a wedding, and she spared only a passing second of regret that she wouldn’t get a stunning custom-made lehenga and all the usual fanfare with hundreds of people and mountains of food and hours of dancing.

Though she’d daydreamed about a wedding like that, she also understood it didn’t suit this moment. She wanted and needed to marry Rabin now and this was enough. So she opted for a dressier lehenga she’d purchased when they’d first arrived.

It was elegantly simple in a soft dusty pink, beaded with silver. She then braided her hair and made up for the dress by going all out on her makeup with thick lines of kohl, deep pink lips, and long lashes.

As she admired the results in the mirror, she noticed Yasen leaning with his arms crossed in the doorway and one ankle over the other.

“You look nice,” he said, and she grinned. Rabin, Row, and Miraan had all gone ahead to meet with the cleric who would perform the ceremony while she and Yasen would follow behind.

She spun around and then dropped into a curtsy. “You think he’ll like it?”

“He’d be a fool otherwise,” he answered. “But he’s obsessed with you. You have nothing to worry about.”

Zarya walked over and stared at Yasen before placing a hand on his forearm. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “I kind of dragged you to Ishaan with me, and I’ve been so grateful to have you at my side during all of this.”

He smiled. “You didn’t drag me anywhere, Zee. I wanted to come. Leaving Dharati was for me, too.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “You deserve the world.”

They paused for a beat, and she wondered if she caught the barest hint of tears lining his eyes. He blinked and shook his head. “Quit getting sappy on me, Swamp Girl. Let’s go or you’ll be late for your wedding.”

They both donned scarves to conceal their identities, and Yasen took her hand before winding their way through Ishaan’s alleys. They reached a squat, nondescript building and entered through the back entrance.

Zarya and Yasen found a room that was little more than a box with two small windows at one end, a white marble floor, and painted white walls. There were no flowers and no rings and no fancy food. Row, Miraan, and Rabin all turned at the sound of their entrance, and Zarya couldn’t take her eyes off the man who would soon become hers forever.

He wore a black sherwani borrowed from Miraan embroidered with deep purple thread, and his dark hair fell in midnight waves around his shoulders. Her breath stuck in her chest as she stared at him, and his gaze roamed over her from head to toe.

He held out his hand as her stomach did a little flip and her heart squeezed in her chest. Any lingering reservations or doubts she had—this was too fast, this was too reckless—evaporated in that moment. She glided towards him, taking his hand as he pulled her in close and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Ready, Spitfire?” he asked.

“Ready,” she whispered.

“You are breathtaking.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I love you. I will protect you until the end of our days.”