The contrast was startling. Her small, dusky hand was slightly trembling against his large, pale, steady hand. She had expected his hand to feel the way he appeared. Cold.
But it wasn't.
His hand was warm. It was solid and steady beneath hers. She felt the heat from his palm seeping into hers. Her cheeks heated with the awareness, but she did not look at him.
She kept her eyes on the fire and told herself it meant nothing. Hands were warm.
The priests continued, and she focused on the words.
The priests then instructed them to rise. They rose together. Bharat Jogra moved first, and she followed, the sacred thread connecting them as they began to circle the fire. The lehenga was heavy, and the stone floor was uneven, and she had to concentrate to keep her steps measured and sure.
On the second circle, her gaze lifted from the fire for the first time and moved instinctively around the temple.
There was no one else apart from the priests.
Both their families were missing.
Taking a deep breath, she fixed her gaze on the flame and kept walking.
They completed the final circle and returned to their places before the fire. Yamini's pulse was louder in her ears than the chanting now.
Then the priest spoke again and held out the crescent-shaped, long gold earrings on a bed of fresh flowers.
Bharat Jogra turned toward her.
He didn’t look at her, but his hands rose toward her ears.
She made herself stay still.
His fingers were steady as he lifted the long earrings from the flowers and placed them, one and then the other, against the curve of each ear with a weight that felt heavier than its size. His hands were close to her face, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
The priests instructed him to place sindoor.
His fingers moved to the parting of her hair. Her breath caught at the nearness, the heat of his body seeping through hers even with the slight distance.
He did not rush as he carefully applied the vermillion.
When he stepped back, she exhaled slowly and hoped he hadn't noticed.
The priests’ voice rose with the final chants. The offerings were completed.
“From this moment,” the head priest announced, “you are husband and wife.”
The words hit her heavily. For a moment, she simply sat with them, the fire warm against her face, the weight of the sindoor new at her hairline. Then her mind caught up.
She was married to Bharat Singh Jogra.
It was done. It was real.
She now understood what it meant.
He had married her in secret. Without any of their families in attendance. The ceremony was witnessed only by priests and men who answered to him alone. She would be his wife in every binding sense and invisible in every other.
Five years ago, she had left him standing alone.
Now he intended to keep her hidden. And let the silence be its own kind of punishment.
This was his revenge.
