Page 138 of Scars and Crowns

"Yuvaan—"

"I promise you, Daisy." His voice is firmer now. "She will never have to earn anyone’s love, especially not mine." I stare at him. "She will never have to apologize for being born. Not to me. Not to anyone." My eyes fill again. "And if she ever asks me where she came from, I'll tell her the truth in whatever way is right for her age. I'll never make her carry the shame of something she had absolutely no part in."

His thumb brushes over my cheek. "She did nothing wrong." I nod, tears slipping freely now. "Nothing." He leans forward and presses his forehead against mine. "And neither did you."

I close my eyes. For a few seconds, I simply breathe. Then a thought comes to me, one I've been afraid to ask since the moment I saw that man's face. "Do you still want me?" His expression changes. I almost regret asking. But I need the answer. "Now that you know everything?" My voice drops to a whisper. "The whole thing. The ugly parts. The parts I don't even know how to look at myself."

He doesn't hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat. His hands frame my face. "Daisy." I open my eyes. "Nothing you told me tonight made me want you less." His thumbs brush away my tears. "Nothing." I search his face, looking for pity. I don't find it. I look for hesitation. There isn't any. "I've wanted you for most of my life," he says quietly. "You think hearing what happened to you could somehow erase that?"

I shake my head, crying silently. "You are not that night." His voice softens. "You're not what he did to you." He strokes his thumb along my cheek. "You're Anamika."

My breath catches.

"The woman who came back here after seven years and somehow built a life while carrying things nobody else could see. The woman who raised Sara. The woman who still laughs at terrible jokes and gets angry when someone underestimates her and steals the crispy edges from my plate."

A wet laugh escapes me. "You noticed that?"

"I notice everything you do." He smiles.

"Unfortunately." I shake my head, but I'm smiling now too.

Then his expression turns serious again. "I don't love you because you survived perfectly." His voice is softer. "I love you because you're you." My eyes close. "Loving you is like breathing for me. If I don’t love you . . . that means I am dead. I love the parts of you that are still healing. I love the parts that are angry. I love the parts that don't know what they need yet."

His forehead rests against mine. "And if there are parts of you that never heal completely, I'll learn how to live beside them."

My breath catches.

"You don't have to become easier to love." A tear slips down my cheek. "You don't have to become someone else." His hands remain warm against my face. "And you never have to let me touch you just because I'm your husband. If you don't want something, you tell me. If you need space, you take it. If something frightens you, you stop me." His eyes hold mine. "I will listen." Something inside me finally gives way. “Always.” He says firmly.

Not painfully. Not like breaking. More like unclenching.

For seven years, I've been terrified that if anyone ever knew the whole story, they'd look at me differently. That they'd see the girl who was raped before they saw the woman standing in front of them. That they'd see Sara's father in her face before they saw Sara. That Yuvaan, of all people, would look at me and somehow find me damaged beyond wanting.

Instead, he is sitting here with my face between his hands like I'm something precious.

And he stayed.

He knows.

And he stayed.

I close my eyes and lean into him, letting his forehead rest against mine, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

For the first time in seven years, I don't feel like I am hiding from my own life. I feel seen. And somehow, impossibly, I feel safe here.

RAGE

YUVAAN

I don't sleep.

Anamika eventually does, exhaustion finally winning over everything else, her breathing evening out sometime after three in the morning. One of her hands remains curled loosely around mine even after she falls completely under, her fingers warm against my palm, trusting me in a way that still feels almost unbearable after everything she told me tonight.

I lie beside her and stare into the darkness. I don't think about the gala. I don't think about the council. I don't think about what tomorrow will look like.

I think about my Daisy sitting alone in a police station while a man behind a desk decides her pain isn't important enough to investigate.

I think about a clinic waiting room. A hospital bed. A stranger holding her hand because nobody who loved her was there. I think about Sara. And then I think about him.