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First published February 11, 2014
...for he'd built himself a perfect cage of stone and soil and celluloid.
"You wouldn't bloom with me, Rakhee. You would die on the vine."
Hero’s Bro: Are you offended by a pretty girl?
Hero: Offense? She has committed no offense. I offend. My very life is an offense. Perfect people do not belong in this house. Beautiful people do not belong in this house. This is a tomb. Fit only for the dead.
*****
“To speak up, to say what no one else would dare put into words, was a privilege of only the most elite.”
*****
Hero: I live here.
Grandma: No. You stay here. You don't live here. You live with that girl. In her laughter. In her sadness. In her shadow and light.
He only stared at her, wearing the room’s shadows like a crown…letting the minutes tick by until she was shifting from foot to foot and he could laugh at her show of discomfort. “You think to hurt me with the truth? I don’t feel pain, Miss Rakhee.” He leaned forward until the faint streaks of sun finally illuminated his features. “I’m made of stone. Broken stone.”
The tears she’d resolved to stifle sprang to her eyes unbidden. Not because of the vicious network of scars and the sunken lid where his left eye should have been, but because of what was untouched: the perfect slope of his right cheek and the thick-lashed, mutinously angry brown eye were still absolutely gorgeous.
Half of Taj Ali Khan’s face was more handsome than the whole of many of the stars in Mumbai.
And the other half reflected his soul.
Rocky backed up. Her feet hit the threshold and she nearly tumbled over the short divide. The raw sound of his laughter dared her to run…and assumed she would.
Everyone, since the moment she’d set foot in India, had expected her to turn tail and run. To give up and crawl back to the U.S. regretting the day she’d ever wanted to be a Bollywood star.
Fuck that noise.
He could play psycho lord of the manor all he wanted. He could cue up the music and do his Phantom of the Opera reveal a million times. She wasn’t going to run.