The ride back to Jodhpur was quieter than usual. Veeresh’s hand rested casually on the seat between them, close enough that Poornima felt the warmth of his presence, but not close enough to touch. She stared out the window, the desert breeze tangling through her thoughts, while Veeresh’s sharp eyes flicked toward her now and then, studying her silence.

When they stepped inside the palace, both freshened up in their rooms. Poornima adjusted her simple saree, tying her hair into a bun, trying not to overthink the stolen kiss in the hotel restroom—the kiss that still burned on her lips like spice and fire.

Veeresh returned, his shirt open at the collar, his gaze softer than usual. In his hand gleamed the mangalsutra, the black beads shimmering like a quiet promise. He stepped close, so close she could feel the authority in his breath.

Without asking, he looped it gently around her neck. The cold metal brushed her skin, followed by the warmth of his touch as he fastened it.

His voice dropped low, possessive yet vulnerable. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Poornima’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. The weight of the mangalsutra wasn’t just tradition anymore—it was him, his claim, his stubbornness, and somewhere buried beneath, his plea.

She opened her eyes to meet his. “Can I trust you, Veeresh?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You can.”

She searched his face, as if testing the truth of his words, then gave the smallest nod. He pulled her into a sudden embrace, arms firm around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“Poornima,” he murmured, voice rough, “my past… it’s not good. Not everything I’ve done deserves forgiveness. But I will tell you. All of it.”

Her fingers, trembling at first, slid up into his hair. She smiled faintly, ruffling it as if breaking the intensity of his confession. “I’ll listen,” she said softly.

For the first time in a long while, Veeresh let out a breath that wasn’t a command or a burden—it was release.