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A gentle evening, a loving gaze,
Abhishek's apology, Malini's heart's daze.
She pouts, she sulks, with a playful grin,
Her anger melting, like winter's frost within.
With every word, with every sigh,
Their love grows stronger, touching the sky.
In each other's arms, they find their peace,
A love that's pure, a love that will never cease.
Abhishek's touch, a soothing balm,
Malini's heart, a love that's calm.
The world outside, fades into the night,
As their love shines bright, a guiding light.
In this moment, they find their way,
To a love that's true, a love that will stay.
The caged firebird, now free to soar,
Malini's heart, forever Abhishek's, forevermore.
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06th February 1849
Calcutta, Bengal
ABHISHEK'S POV~
The soft click of the bedroom door slices through the thick stillness of the night.
A rush of warm air greets me as I step inside cautiously, each footstep muffled by the woven rug beneath me, yet my chest feels thunderously loud with the weight I carry… the echo of her waiting eyes, her silence, her hopes.
I close the door behind me with care, the brass handle cool against my fingers.
As I shrug off the shawl draped across my shoulder, the fabric brushes against my neck, slightly damp from the outside chill.
The faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine lingers in the air, warm and familiar, pulling me further into the room like an invisible thread tied to my ribs.
The room is dim, aglow with the faint amber light of the bedside lamp, casting long shadows that ripple gently with the breeze from the half-open window.
My eyes drift to the bed— and I pause.
A small, motionless mound lies nestled under the quilt.
"She's asleep?"I murmur, stepping closer.
A frown tugs at my brows.
The sheets rise and fall slowly with her breathing, and the faint rustle of the blanket brushing against her anklets is the only sound that accompanies my own heartbeat.
I glance at the ornate wall clock above the bookshelf…
its gold hands ticking steadily toward nine.
8:58 p.m.
So early?
That's unlike her.
Is she unwell?
She doesn't sleep this early unless she's exhausted…. or in pain.
A thought strikes.
Is it her menses?
"No…" I mentally count. She still has more than a week.
Then what is it?
Something doesn't feel right.
I step further in, my boots muffled against the thick rug.
My eyes scan the room— the glass of water untouched, the dressing table cluttered, and a familiar scent wafting stronger as I approach.
Coconut-jasmine oil.
The open jar sits askew on the dresser, its lid resting sideways like an afterthought.
The edge of the wooden surface gleams faintly where some oil has spilled.
Sloppy.
That's not like her.
She never leaves things this way.
My gaze returns to the bed.
She's curled up tightly under the quilt, the fabric pulled to her nose as if she's hiding from the world…. or me.
I raise an eyebrow.
What on earth happened?
Beneath the folds of the quilt, I sense not just stillness…. but something else.
A quiet defiance?
A hidden sulk?
"Malini?" I murmur softly, easing myself onto the bed beside her.
The mattress dips gently under my weight, shifting the warmth under the covers.
My hand reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the quilt.
I begin to tug it down slowly, but it stops.
There's resistance.
Her grip from beneath tightens stubbornly, clutching the fabric like a shield.
I blink, eyebrows arching.
So… she's awake.
"Malini?" I lean in closer, lowering my voice like a plea. "Are you alright? Let me see you."
I try again, gently coaxing the blanket away from her face.
But her sharp voice snaps back, muffled but defiant, "No! Go to your work and see your papers and desk!"
A faint, involuntary smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.
There it is.
Her voice is mockingly annoyed… tinged with drama, with just a hint of real hurt nestled underneath.
I bite down on my bottom lip, suppressing the laugh bubbling in my chest.
Her pouting is almost endearing…. infuriatingly sweet.
She's upset.
And I know exactly why.
"Is my wife angry with me?" I ask, shifting slightly to hover over her cocooned form, brushing my knuckles teasingly against the blanket.
"Yes!" she snaps, with no hesitation. "Your wife is very, very, very and very angry with you!"
That does it.
I chuckle, the sound low and amused, vibrating in my chest.
Her exaggerated emphasis lands right where it always does…. straight into my heart.
She yanks the blanket off her face in one swift motion, her long, disheveled hair tumbling around her flushed cheeks.
She bolts upright, her piercing eyes locking onto mine with the fierceness of a hawk spotting prey.
"You're laughing?!" she demands, her voice sharp and accusing, her brows furrowed into a thundercloud.
A low chuckle escapes before I can stop it, the sound rumbling in my throat.
"No. I'm not," I say, biting the inside of my cheek to suppress another grin… but it's too late.
"I can see and hear perfectly," she mutters, her voice laced with quiet annoyance as she rolls her eyes in slow defiance.
Her arms cross firmly over her chest, the soft rustle of her fabric sleeves punctuating her indignation.
Her chin lifts just a touch— prideful, but with a flicker of vulnerability behind her stubborn mask.
"Okay. I'm sorry. I was late because of work," I murmur, reaching out, fingertips aching to feel the warmth of her skin.
I raise my hand to cup her cheek, but she gently… yet deliberately… pushes it away.
Her touch is cool, but not harsh.
She swings her legs off the bed with quiet grace, her anklets chiming softly as she walks toward the mirror.
The room falls into a loaded silence, broken only by the faint chime of her silver anklets and tiny taps on the terracotta and marble floor beneath her steps.
"I'm not talking to you. I'm still mad!" she huffs, her voice cracking slightly at the edges. "I have been waiting for hours— for you."
She opens a small brass bottle on the dresser and pours oil into her palm.
The rich scent of jasmine fills the air.
With practiced ease, she begins massaging it into her scalp, her fingers gliding through her thick black hair, parting and taming each strand.
Her movements are focused… almost too focused, as if the act helps her suppress the trembling ache in her voice.
"For hours… for me? Why?" I ask softly, rising to my feet, my steps slow and deliberate as I close the distance between us.
She stiffens slightly, her back still turned.
"Um… j-just like this. Can't I?" Her voice is a whisper now, cracking gently like fragile glass.
Her hands falter slightly in her hair as she fumbles for composure.
She still doesn't look back.
"Yes… you can, phoenix," I whisper, my breath fanning the nape of her neck as I step behind her.
I see her shoulders tense, her fingers pausing mid-stroke through her hair.
"Wh-what are you doing?..." she murmurs, voice trembling, softer now, more breath than sound. "Step back. Don't disturb me…"
But she doesn't move away.
"I'm apologizing to my wife," I murmur, leaning in until my lips barely graze the soft shell of her earlobe.
Her breath catches in her throat, and I feel her body tremble ever so slightly beneath my nearness.
Her scent— fresh oil, soft jasmine, and a hint of rosewater…. wraps around me.
Tilting my head, I press a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, her hair still warm and damp from the oil.
"I'm sorry, Phoenix," I whisper into her hair, my voice low, barely more than a vibration against her skin.
A soft pink bloom tints her cheeks, delicate as the first blush of dawn.
She's been changing lately— growing softer, more open, more... mine.
She blushes more now when I'm around.
It's not just a color on her face…. it's a silent confession.
A warmth that spills from her skin to my chest.
And I know.
I know she senses me even before I speak.
I know she's always aware of my presence, just like I am of hers.
And I especially know…. This sudden urge to oil her hair, when she could have done it hours ago, is just an excuse.
A way to linger near me a little longer.
I reach for her, my fingers brushing against the smooth curve of her elbow.
Her skin is warm, soft, dusted with fine hair that rises under my touch like a quiet shiver.
I trail my touch down to her wrist, to her palm, before curling my fingers gently around the oil jar.
Her breath stirs, the tiniest shift in rhythm, but she doesn't stop me.
Doesn't look at me either… her eyes fixed on the mirror, pretending to focus, but I see the tremble in her lashes.
I pour the oil slowly into my palm— the rich, earthy scent of jasmine wafts upward, mingling with the soft musk of her hair.
The jar clinks gently against the wooden dresser as I set it down.
Lifting my gaze, I meet her eyes in the mirror.
She doesn't hold my stare.
Her gaze drops, lips parting slightly, her blush deepening.
A smirk plays on my lips, involuntary…. this quiet dance between us, it never tires.
I reach out, gently gather a section of her hair between my fingers.
Silky, dark strands spill through my hand like river water.
I smooth the oil into her scalp with slow, reverent strokes— each movement deliberate, tender, like a vow made without words.
"Are you still mad at me, my phoenix?" I whisper, my breath brushing against the shell of her ear, warm and barely audible.
Her shoulders twitch, a soft tremor rolling through her body.
She's shivering…. not from cold, but from the weight of my closeness.
Her fingers fidget in her saree, pulling at the ends of her saree like a nervous child trying to hide a secret.
"Y-yes… I-I am," she whispers, voice trembling, her fingers tangling and untangling in a loop of nervous habit.
I smile gently, watching the way her lashes flutter, her breath caught between resistance and longing.
I lean down slowly, so close I can feel the flutter of her breath.
I lower my head slowly, letting my lips brush gently against the crown of her ear, where her hair parts— featherlight, deliberate.
Her hair smelling faintly of jasmine and the warm oil I'd just smoothed in.
"Still mad at me?" I murmur, my breath coiling into her skin like silk smoke.
Her breath hitches again.
She doesn't speak, but her head dips into the smallest of nods, slow and shy, her eyelashes fluttering like wings fighting the wind, betraying her inner tug-of-war.
My smirk curves wider, unable to hold back now.
I lower my lips to the tender shell of her ear and press a kiss there— slow, intentional.
A tiny gasp escapes her, barely audible, like a sigh caught in surprise.
My hand glides around her waist, fingers trailing lightly across the curve of her belly, cradling it with a tenderness I reserve only for her, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breath.
"Still mad at me, phoenix?" I whisper again, my lips barely brushing her skin, voice low enough to stir goosebumps.
The nickname drips with meaning— strength, fire, rebirth.
Her rebirth.
She leans into me slowly, head finding a resting place on my chest…. like the fight in her is giving way, melting quietly into something warmer.
"Y-yes… I… I'm still mad," she mumbles, though her voice has softened, laced with a breathy contradiction.
"Then… let your husband apologise. Profusely," I whisper, brushing my lips close to her temple, each word laced with sincerity veiled in mischief.
He loves me more than anything.
჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻.✾.჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻
This is the second last chapter in epilogue. Next one will be the end...
Though in future, I'll update bonus chapters when I'll write them. I'm so happy that we're soon to end the story.
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Love you my readers 🎀