Anchored in you

Chapter 19: The Saffron Thief and the Pink Sunset

The eve of the wedding felt like a living, breathing entity. The Srinivasan household had been swallowed by a sea of marigolds, the yellow and orange blossoms draping over every banister and doorway like liquid sun. My skin felt tight with the cooling weight of the Mehendi-the intricate, dark paste that was currently being etched onto my palms and feet in a map of Mandalas and hidden initials.

I was a captive of tradition, seated on a low wooden platform in the center of the courtyard. I was wearing a silk saree that felt like a prayer to the Chennai summer-a vibrant, shocking pink body with a broad, sunny yellow border. The colors were so bright they seemed to vibrate against the deep green of the mango leaves outside.

"Don't move, Sami!" Anita scolded, as she fanned my hands with a newspaper. "If you smudge Harish's name, he'll have to search for it even longer tomorrow night."

"My back is aching, Anita," I complained, though a smile wouldn't leave my face. "I feel like a statue."

My cousins were singing folk songs in the background, the rhythmic beat of the dholak thumping through the floorboards. The air was thick with the scent of crushed henna leaves, eucalyptus oil, and the frying of bajjis in the kitchen. It was loud, chaotic, and beautiful. But as the hours ticked by, a strange restlessness began to settle in my chest.

I missed him.

It had only been twenty-four hours since the "Closet Incident," but the memory of that kiss-the heat of it, the way it had silenced every doubt in my mind-was a constant loop in my head. I looked at the dark patterns on my skin and wondered if he was thinking of me, too, or if he was buried in some final work emergency.

Around 9:00 PM, the party was at its peak. My aunts were dancing, and the older men had retreated to the patio with their coffee. The henna on my hands was starting to dry, the dark crust beginning to flake off to reveal the deep, burnt-orange stain beneath.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the side entrance-the one that led to the garden.

"Hey! You're not supposed to be here!" I heard Sid shout, followed by a familiar, low chuckle that made every nerve ending in my body stand to attention.

I turned my head so fast I almost knocked over the bowl of scented water. There, standing in the shadows of the bougainvillea, was Harish.

He was wearing a simple white kurta, looking utterly out of place in the 'Women's Only' Mehendi ceremony, yet looking like he belonged exactly where he was. His eyes scanned the room with a predatory focus until they landed on me.

I saw the exact moment he truly saw me.

His breath hitched audibly. He actually stepped back half a pace, his hand reaching for the doorframe. His gaze traveled from the yellow of my border to the shocking pink of the silk, and finally to my face, framed by heavy gold jhumkas and the glow of a hundred lanterns.

He looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

"Harish! What are you doing?" I hissed, half-horrified and half-thrilled. "You're breaking every rule in the book!"

He didn't answer. He just kept staring, his expression one of such raw, unshielded admiration that I felt the heat rise from my neck to my forehead. He ignored Sid's protests and walked straight toward me, his movements fluid and determined.

"Sami," he whispered, his voice sounding strangled. "You... you look..."

"I look like a girl covered in mud," I joked, trying to break the intensity of the moment.

"No," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "You look like the sun and the moon had a daughter. I couldn't stay away. I tried. I sat in my room for three hours, but the air felt empty."

He looked at my bridesmaids with a charming, yet commanding smile. "Ladies, I need to borrow my fiancée. Five minutes. I promise to return her with all her henna intact."

Before my mother could see him, he reached down-careful not to touch my damp palms-and grabbed my elbows, hoisting me up and guiding me toward the dark sanctuary of the garden.

The garden was a world away from the noise of the dholak. The moon was a sliver of silver, and the air was cool with the smell of wet earth and night-blooming jasmine. Harish led me to the far corner, behind the large mango tree where we had stood weeks ago.

The moment we were shielded from the house, he turned me around. He was still gasping for air, his chest heaving as if he had run a marathon.

"Harish, you're going to get in so much trouble," I whispered, though I was already leaning into him.

"Let them talk," he said. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he traced the line of my jaw, being so careful not to smudge the intricate patterns on my arms. "I saw you in that yellow and pink, Sami, and I felt like someone had punched the wind out of me. Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are? How much it hurts to look at you and know I have to wait another twenty-four hours to call you mine?"

I felt my heart hammer against my ribs. The way he was looking at me-like I was a rare, precious jewel he had just discovered-made me feel flustered and shy in a way I hadn't since I was a teenager. I looked down, my eyelashes casting long shadows on my cheeks.

"It's just a saree, Harish," I murmured, my voice trembling.

"It's not just a saree," he corrected, his voice thick with a possessive heat. "It's you. It's the way you're glowing. It's the way you've taken over every corner of my mind."

He leaned in, his lips grazing my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. Every peck was like a brand of fire. "You're mine, Samaira. Every inch of you. Every pattern on your skin."

I let out a shaky breath, my head falling back against the bark of the tree. "Harish..."

He didn't let me finish. He claimed my lips in a kiss that was a world away from the soft, tentative ones we had shared. This was a possessive, hungry kiss-a declaration of ownership and devotion. It was deep and overwhelming, tasting of the night and the fierce, protective love he held for me.

I felt a moan escape my throat, a sound of pure, uninhibited longing. I couldn't use my hands to hold him, so I leaned my entire weight into him, my body molding against his. He groaned into my mouth, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me so close that I could feel the frantic thud of his heart against my own.

He pulled back for a second, his forehead resting against mine, his eyes dark with a passion that made me shiver.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

I looked up, my face burning, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Tomorrow, the whole world will know. But tonight, in this garden, you're just my Sami. And you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

I hid my face in his chest, my heart feeling like it was going to burst. I was the "independent consultant," the "logical project manager," but in his arms, under the mango tree, I was just a girl who was utterly, completely in love.

"You should go," I whispered into his shirt. "Before my Appa finds a shovel."

He laughed-a rich, happy sound-and kissed the top of my head. "I'm going. But I'm taking the memory of you in that pink saree with me. It's going to be a very long night, Samaira."

As he slipped back into the shadows, I stood there for a long time, the cool night air hitting my heated skin. I looked at my hands-the henna was dark and perfect. And somewhere in the intricate design, I knew his name was hidden. Just like he was hidden in every part of my soul.