Page 52 of Entangled Vows (Destined Diaries #2)

The hot water streamed down her back as Mahika stood silently under it, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She hadn’t spoken a word since Vikram brought her home. Her silence was thick, almost suffocating, mixed with something he couldn’t even name.

Vikram stood behind her in the shower, shirtless now.

Her shoulders trembled, her breathing was shallow, and her skin was pale.

She was still in shock. He reached for the loofah, lathered it with shower gel, and began to wash her slowly, carefully.

First, he rubbed her neck, then her shoulders, and finally her back.

Every motion was gentle and reverent. He didn’t want her to feel cornered or obligated to give in to the closeness.

This was about giving her comfort. She needed time, space, and his calm.

After a few minutes, she moved.

Mahika turned around to face him. Her eyes were red, but there was no fear in them now, just exhaustion.

Her hand lifted and touched the bruise on his face.

She cupped his cheek gently, saying nothing, and then placed her other hand over his heart.

She let it stay there for a moment before wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into him.

Her forehead rested against his chest, and he stilled completely.

“I don’t want to feel scared anymore. I want to feel something real,” she whispered. “And you… you are real. So damn real.”

He inhaled sharply. Her words hit something raw inside him, something buried deep behind the walls he had spent years building. Her gaze lifted up to him, and there was trust in it now. And that trust... it shook him to his core. He would do anything to protect it. Anything to keep it safe.

A faint smile touched her lips. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come.”

He reached up and gently pushed a wet strand of hair away from her cheek. “You don’t need to think about that. I came. That’s what matters.”

Her fingers traced the small cut on his jaw. Then she leaned forward and kissed it. He flinched, just a little, unprepared for the tenderness in her touch. The gesture felt... intimate. Too intimate. A line had shifted, and neither of them had the words for it.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No. Not much,” he said softly. “You should get out of the shower if you’re done. You’ll catch a cold.”

“In a while. Please. I just need to wash it all off. Their gaze… their leering... I need a few more minutes.”

His tone grew gentle. “As you wish, wifey.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “When I was in that car… I kept thinking about your voice. I prayed you’d come, even though I knew you were in another country.”

His throat tightened. “I would have torn the sky open to get to you.”

She smiled. “You kind of did.”

He gave her a small smile and reached for her shampoo.

She turned around, and he gently massaged her scalp, rinsing her hair with care.

She leaned into his chest, her arms folding around herself like she needed to hold everything together.

When he was done, she turned towards him and began scrubbing him with quiet focus, not saying a word.

Then her hand slid lower, past his abs, and he caught her wrist.

“That’s enough,” he said firmly.

She followed his gaze and slowly looked down. Her breath caught when she saw how hard he was.

“You don’t want me to take care of it?” she asked, her voice soft, and her eyes wide and tempting.

“No.” His voice was rough now. “This isn’t about me. Let’s get you dried off.”

They stepped out of the shower, and he reached for a towel and wrapped it gently around her. He dried her slowly and methodically, as if he could wipe away every trace of fear clinging to her being. She sat on the bench just outside the glass enclosure, her expression soft and unguarded.

When he returned with one of his old black T-shirts, she raised her arms and looked up at him. “Help me into it?”

He slid it over her head with care. It fell to her knees, drowning her frame. She looked so small in it… so heartbreakingly his, that it stirred something primal in him, making him want to pull her into his arms and never let go.

“Go sit down,” he said, his voice gruff. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

She nodded, but chose the couch instead of the bed. He returned with a plate full of rice, dal, papad, and her favourite mango pickle.

She glanced up and smiled faintly. “Five-star comfort food, huh?”

“Exactly how you like it. Sandhya Ma made it.”

He fed her the first few bites until she took the spoon from him. She crushed some papad over the rice, scooped some up, and held it to his lips.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Feeding you. You need to eat too.”

He took the bite, then brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. They continued eating in silence, the air between them no longer heavy, but quietly charged with unsaid closeness. With every bite they shared, it felt like something invisible was drawing them closer.

Once the plate was empty, he handed her a glass of water and she downed it in one go. Then they brushed their teeth side by side in an easy, comfortable silence.

When they returned to the bedroom, he turned on the dim lights and shut off the rest, filling the room with a soft golden glow. She was already sitting on the bed, cross-legged, a box of first aid kit resting on her lap.

“Come here,” she said, patting the space beside her.

He frowned. “Why?”

“You’re bruised. Let me put some ointment on it. Sit down.”

“It’s just a scratch. You don’t need to do that.”

“It is not just a scratch,” she bit out. “You’re hurt. So sit your arrogant ass down and let me look at it.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused despite the sting. “Easy, my baby dragon. You’re breathing fire.”

She glared at him. “Keep pushing me, and I will.”

Shaking his head, he gave in and sat beside her.

When she was done, she placed the kit on the side table and curled into him without a word.

He leaned back against the headboard, and she tucked herself against his body like she belonged there.

Her head rested just below his chin, and her palm settled over his heart. Her breath was warm against his skin.

Vikram’s arm wrapped around her instinctively, like it was second nature to him. It felt right… too right. And that scared the hell out of him. He wasn’t supposed to feel at home like this. Not with her. Not when everything about them was supposed to be temporary.

But then she spoke.

“Why do you call me Momo?” she asked softly.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You always call me that,” she muttered, not meeting his gaze. “And I hated it, by the way. I thought you were teasing me for eating too much.”

Vikram pulled back just enough to look at her face. “You what?”

She shrugged, trying to play it cool, her cheeks turning pink. “It made me feel... fat.”

A slow, incredulous smile tugged at his lips. “Mahika,” he said, his voice low, teasing. “I called you that because of the way your whole face lit up when you saw a plate of momos. Like it was the best part of your day.”

She blinked.

“You’d literally devour them in seconds,” he went on, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It was adorable. You looked... happy. And kind of feral.”

“I did not look feral,” she gasped, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“You actually growled at Suraj once when he tried to steal one from your plate.”

Her jaw dropped. “That never happened.”

“It absolutely did,” Vikram grinned. “You were fifteen. I should’ve known then you were going to scare the hell out of any man who tried to mess with your food.”

Her laughter softened, and when their eyes met, something shifted. “What’s with this baby dragon nonsense? First Momo, now this?”

Vikram smirked, unbothered. “You don’t like it?”

She scowled. “It makes me sound like an angry cartoon.”

He chuckled, his eyes gleaming with fondness. “That’s exactly why. You puff up like a little dragon every time you’re mad… snapping, stomping, and flaring those eyes at me like you’ll burn the place down.”

She stared at him, scandalised. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But that’s what you are when you’re pissed off.”

“You’re such an ass.”

He grinned. “And you’re my favourite fire-breather.”

She let out a shaky breath and nestled more comfortably against him. “This feels... peaceful. Like nothing else matters now.”

“Yeah?” His smile faltered, his voice growing quieter, rougher. “And yet you still want to run off to that beach house in fucking Australia?”

The question came out sharper than he intended, laced with an unwelcome bite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Do you know why I want to go?” she whispered, idly drawing circles on his chest.

“No.” He exhaled. “I just know you’re desperate to leave.”

“Because I want to start over,” her voice held a quiet steadiness.

“For once in my life, I’m choosing myself.

I want to live somewhere that feels like mine.

A place where no one is trying to control me.

Where I don’t have to shrink myself to fit into someone else’s idea of who I should be.

I want to leave behind all the toxicity I grew up with and finally build a life that truly belongs to me. ”

“And do what there? Work remotely from some beach with a picturesque sunset?”

“No.” She pushed herself up, her palms pressed against his chest, her gaze locking with his. “I want to write romance novels full-time.”

He blinked, shocked. “You write?” He shifted, trying to see her expression better.

“I’ve been writing for the last five years.”

His brows pulled together. “How come I’ve never heard about this before?”

“Because my father hated it. He thought writing romance was silly. He made me stop.” She gave him a small, sad smile. “I listened for a while. But eventually, I started writing again. This time, secretly.”