It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Our lips collide like fire. Her fingers twist into my shirt, and I groan into her mouth.
“You’re scary,” I pant between kisses. “You’re so scary, mywarrior ghost.”
She smirks. “You like it.”
I kiss her harder. But she’s only half right. “Iloveit.”
She’s unbothered. Unapologetic. Unhinged. Utterly, irrevocablymine.
And God help me…
I’m so in love with this woman who just exiled someone with a text.
My wife.
My. Fucking. Wife.
And may the universe have mercy on anyone who ever crosses her. BecauseIsure as hell won’t.
BONUS EPILOGUE TWO
Khushi
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
I was nameless for the first two years of my life. Or so I was told.
Then they started calling meChhutki—“the small one.”
I can’t even argue with that. I was small for a two-year-old, apparently.
Now I know it’s because I was born premature—somewhere, to a girl who couldn’t afford to have a child.
So yes, I was small. But I’ve never once been curious about finding her.
Why would I?
I have a mother. And she’s everything I could ever need. Mumma and Papa told me the full story when I was fourteen. It happened after I asked the question—casually, over dinner—like it was no big deal.
Aarambh had already passed out like the over-energized little tornado he was.
He was four then—just two years into being my brother. Two years since we brought him home fromSunrise Home.
I had spentmonthsafter his adoption searching for similarities between me and my parents. My eyes, my nose. My mumma’s smile didn’t match mine. Papa’s eyes were poles apart from mine.
But it didn’t matter. Not for a while. I was simply mesmerized by my new brother. Because the moment we’d met him at the orphanage, I knew.
I knew he was mine.Ours.
I loved him immediately—just like my parents. Hopelessly, endlessly.
And when he called medidifor the first time, I cried. I was twelve.(Didi = Older sister)
Papa held me the whole night.
So, one night at dinner, when I was fourteen, the question just slipped out—without warning.
“I’m adopted too, aren’t I?”
