Page 82 of The Defiant Wife

But somehow . . . Having this girl quietly holding onto me makes that certainty feel less . . . certain.

She's dangerous.Not because she's reckless.Not because she argues with me every chance she gets.

She's dangerous because she makes me care.She frustrates me more than anyone I've ever met.

She questions everything I say. Challenges every decision I make. Refuses to let me have the last word.

And yet . . . I find myself thinking about her far more than I should.

I wonder what she's doing when she's not around.I notice when she's unusually quiet.I catch myself waiting for that tiny dimple that appears whenever she thinks she's won an argument.Without realizing it, she walked straight into my carefully organized life and made herself comfortable there.

The truly irritating part?

I'm no longer sure I want her to leave.

We've been riding for almost half an hour when I feel her shift slightly behind me.

Her grip loosens just enough for her to lean closer.

"Veeraj . . . "Her voice is muffled by the helmet, carried away by the wind, but I still hear the roughness in it."Can we get ice cream . . . if you don't mind?"

I slow the bike a little.In the mirror, all I can see is the dark visor covering her face. But I don't need to see her expression.The way she asks tells me enough.There isn't even a hint of her usual teasing.

Something happened tonight.Something's hurt her.

I don't know what it is. I don't know who caused it. But I don't like it. I don't like hearing sadness in her voice.I don't like the thought of her carrying whatever this is by herself.

Without saying anything, I switch on the indicator and take the next turn.Instead of continuing down the highway, I head toward the market area where a few roadside ice cream stalls stay open late into the night.

I don't tell her that a Shekhawat prince probably isn't expected to be standing at a roadside stall at one in the morning.

I don't tell her this wasn't part of my plan.

I simply keep riding.

Then, almost without thinking, my gloved left hand slips over hers where it's resting against my chest.

I give her fingers a small, reassuring squeeze, hoping it tells her more than I can ever say. That, in my own grumpy way, I am with her.

28. ICECREAM AND HONESTY

DIYA

The little ice cream stall near the city is exactly the kind of place my parents would've driven past without a second glance.

Bright tube lights buzz overhead. A tiny freezer hums in the corner. A couple of plastic tables wobble on the uneven pavement, and the air smells faintly of vanilla, dust, and pre-winter nights.

Yet here I am.Sitting on a faded plastic stool with a cup of mango kulfi slowly melting in my hands.

A few feet away, Veeraj's motorcycle is parked beneath a streetlight, looking completely out of place beside old scooters and bicycles. He sits next to me on another tiny stool that clearly wasn't designed for someone his size. He's taken off his riding jacket and rolled the sleeves of his charcoal-grey shirt to his forearms. Three college boys at the next table keep sneaking glances at his bike, then at the expensive watch on his wrist, probably trying to figure out why someone like him is eating roadside kulfi after midnight.

I take another bite.

The cold sweetness settles on my tongue, easing the heaviness sitting inside my chest, even if only for a moment.

From the corner of my eye, I look at Veeraj.

He isn't really eating. He's absentmindedly holding a plain malai kulfi while watching the occasional cars pass on the road.