Page 117 of Scars and Crowns

When I finish colouring the daisy, I sit back. Against the black ink, the soft yellow petals look strangely alive.

"Perfect." Sara caps the final marker with tremendous satisfaction. "Mister . . . " She beams proudly. "Now you're colourful."

He lifts his arm, inspecting the cheerful chaos covering every tattoo. "My goodness." He nods gravely. "I've never looked more distinguished."

"You look happy."

"I do, don't I?"

"You do."

She throws her arms around his neck. "I made you prettier."

"You always do." He kisses her forehead.

She grins and hops off the bed. "I'm going to wash my hands!" She disappears into the bathroom, humming happily to herself. The door swings shut behind her. Silence settles over the room. I look back at the daisy. Still slightly damp with yellow ink. Still sitting exactly where his heart beats beneath it.

He follows my gaze. "Thank you." His voice is quiet.

I look up. "For what?"

"For finishing it." His fingers lightly brush the back of my hand. "I'd started wondering if it would stay an outline forever."

A helpless smile escapes me. "You could've coloured it yourself years ago."

"I could have." He reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "But it would've been incomplete."

His thumb lingers briefly against my cheek. "I wanted the woman it belonged to be the one who brought it to life." My heart doesn't flutter anymore.

It simply melts. Without thinking, I lean closer. Close enough to hear his breathing slow. Close enough to see the tiny hitch in his chest. I press the gentlest kiss beside the daisy.

Not on the ink. Just beside it. His breath catches beneath my lips. His hand rises instinctively to cradle the back of my head, fingers sliding carefully into my hair. He doesn't pull me closer. He simply holds me there like he's afraid the moment might disappear if he lets go too quickly.

I can hear his heartbeat. Steady.Strong. Right beneath the flower. "There," I whisper against his skin, smiling despite myself. "Now it's complete."

He closes his eyes for a brief second. "I don't think it was the tattoo waiting all these years." His fingers stroke gently through my hair. "I think it was me."

SUPERHERO

YUVAAN

The note from Sara's school arrived three days ago.

Fancy dress day.

Come dressed as your hero.

Simple enough.

Except, ever since that note came home tucked carefully into her school diary, the house has been full of whispered conversations that stopped the moment I entered a room.

Sara would lean close to Anamika and murmur something behind cupped hands.

Anamika would look at me over our daughter's head, bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling, and very deliberately change the subject whenever I asked what exactly the two of them were plotting.

For three days I've lived with the uncomfortable certainty that I am the only person in this palace excluded from a conspiracy being run by a five-year-old.

Today, apparently, I finally get to discover why.