Page 225 of Claimed By the Maharaja
“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.”
