The moon bathed the chamber in silver light, but Balram’s arms were the only warmth you knew. He cradled you in his lap, one powerful arm locked around your waist, the other hand stroking slowly through your hair—over and over—like he could smooth out every knot of pain tangled inside you.

“You always fit so perfectly here,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple.

Your fingers clutched at his chest, small and trembling, but you said nothing.

He hated your silence—despised it—because you were meant to be fierce, stubborn, untamed. But now you were so soft, so quiet.

His thumb traced along your jaw, coaxing your face up. His voice was a low, aching whisper.

“Talk to me, little wife.”

You only shook your head, your eyes glassy with ghosts.

Balram’s breath caught, but he said nothing. He pressed slow, deliberate kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—every inch of you that had been left cold for lifetimes.

“You’re safe now,” he promised between kisses. “With me. Always with me.”

His fingers brushed down your arms, squeezing your wrists, rubbing circles into your palms—coaxing, coaxing, spoiling you.

“If you can't speak,” he whispered against your hair, “then let me love you back to life.”

And slowly, without a word, you curled deeper into his arms—letting him piece you back together one tender touch at a time.