Chapter 1
I smell the blood before I see him, and that’s how I know Arjun’s fucked up something I can’t fix.
It hits the air before the door even shuts. Metallic. Sharp. Copper-laced and wrong.
I pause mid-sentence, pen still hovering above my notes. Abducens nerve, controls lateral rectus muscle… The words blur.
For a second, I think it’s in my head. Stress. Lack of sleep. I’ve been studying for eight hours straight, and everything tastes like old coffee and anxiety.
Then I hear the door slam. Not hard. Not dramatic. But off. A beat too late, like he had to steady himself against the frame first.
A pause. A breath.
“Don’t freak out,” Arjun says.
Which, of course, guarantees that I will.
I’m already on my feet, anatomy books sliding off my lap, pages folding under my knees as I push up. My sock slips on the tile. I catch myself against the table and look up.
Bleeding.
Limping.
His shirt’s torn at the shoulder, dark red soaked through the fabric and spreading down his chest in slow, lazy streaks like something out of a crime scene. His lip’s split, swelling, one eye starting to close.
“What the hell?” My voice is too loud. I hate how scared it sounds. “Arjun—what the hell happened?”
He grins. That same dumb grin he used in tenth grade after crashing Dad’s car and swearing it was a squirrel’s fault. “It’s nothing. Seriously. I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not mine.” He shrugs, even as blood drips from his elbow to the tile.
Stupid lie.
I cross the room fast, faster than I should. Grab his wrist and feel the tremor under his skin. Cold. Clammy. Too fast. I shift my grip and press my other hand to his side. He flinches.
“Did someone do this to you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head and gives me the smallest shrug. Like this is some bar fight. Some minor thing. Like his ribs aren’t probably cracked, like he didn’t come home looking like a warning.
My baby brother's face is swollen and bruised, his boyish features tranforming into something grotesque.
“I said it’s fine, Aani.” The nickname stings more than it soothes. He only uses it when he’s trying to calm me down. Or distract me.
“That’s not an answer.”
His jaw tightens. The smile starts to crack.
“Drop it,” he says, low. “I’ll clean up. Just—go back to your flashcards.”
Flashcards. Like I’m still a girl cramming for an exam. Like he didn’t just walk into our apartment looking like he survived a gang beating.
“You’re shaking,” I say. I don’t move my hand. He tries to pull away, and I don’t let him. “Tell me who did this.”
“Jesus, Aanya,” he snaps. “I can handle it.”
“You clearly can’t.”
The silence after that is brutal.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move. He stands there, dripping onto the tile, breathing too shallow, his body coiled like it’s still waiting to be hit again.
And I know.
I know this isn’t just some fight or stupid mistake. Whatever this is—it’s bigger than him. And it’s already too late.
I let go of his wrist. Step back. Let him think I’m giving in.
But my stomach’s tight. My hands won’t stop shaking. And there’s something sitting in my throat like a stone.
Something tells me this wasn’t the first warning.
And it sure as hell won’t be the last.
Arjun sits across from me, chewing slower than I’ve ever seen.
He usually eats like we’re racing a clock. Fast, careless, food disappearing before anyone else has even passed the rice. But tonight, he’s cautious. Small bites. His hand lifts the fork carefully, like his ribs might crack if he moves too much.
And they just might.
He cleaned up well enough. The swelling around his eye is down, his shirt is buttoned, and the blood is gone. If you didn’t know better, you might think he was just tired. I do know better.
And my parents?
They know it too.
But they’re quiet.
Mom glances at him once, then lowers her eyes to her plate. Dad doesn’t look at him at all. He hasn’t said a word since sitting down, and for a second I think we’re going to make it through the meal without anyone pretending to care.
Then his eyes flick to me.
And I become the problem.
“So, Aanya,” he says, spooning lentils onto his plate like we’re about to have a nice, normal conversation.
But I know better. He doesn’t talk to me. He talks at me, and it's never kind.
“Are you on track to finish this semester or will it be another extension?”
Of course. Straight to it. No asking how I am. No mention of the bruise blooming across Arjun’s cheek or how he flinched when he sat down. That’s not the part that matters. Not to him.
He doesn’t ask questions unless he already thinks he knows the answer. And it’s never about curiosity. It’s always a test. A trap. A way to remind me that I’m never doing quite enough. Never reaching fast enough. Never making him proud in the right way.
My fork scrapes against the plate. Too loud. Too sharp.
“I’m on track.”
“You said that last time.”
The words sting more than they should.
Because he’s right. I did say that last time. When I needed that one-week extension after my overnight shifts started stacking. When I missed a temple event because I was too exhausted to stand, and he told me discipline meant showing up anyway.
“I meant it last time,” I say, and it comes out clipped.
He hums, like he’s heard this song before. Like it always ends the same.
And maybe, in his mind, it does. With me behind. With me failing. With him shaking his head like it was never his fault I turned out disappointing.
Silence. Then Mom chimes in, too soft, too sweet.
“Are you sleeping enough? You look tired. I hope you’re not letting yourself fall behind again.”
“I’m not.” I push my rice around. “Clinical rotations are intense, but I’m fine.”
Dad hums again, like he doesn’t believe me. Then he sets his spoon down, looks straight at me, and says it like it’s already decided.
“I’ve started speaking to a few families. There are three good matches already interested. It’s time we moved forward.”
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t need to.
“You said I could finish my degree first.”
“And now you’ve had more than enough time.”
My stomach turns. I glance at Arjun, but he’s staring at his plate like it might save him. My mother stays quiet. Of course she does.
“You want me to marry a stranger in the middle of my residency?”
My voice rises. I don’t care. I should. I usually do. I’ve spent most of my life managing his moods like mine didn’t matter. But right now, I couldn’t quiet myself if I tried.
He doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his chin slightly, expression smooth.
“I want you to do your duty,” he says. Calm. Like this is all logic. Like this is all he’s ever expected. “You’ve been allowed too much freedom already.”
Freedom.
The word nearly makes me laugh. Not the kind you mean out loud. The bitter, too-tired, choking kind that gets stuck in your throat.
Freedom? I’ve earned every inch of air I breathe. Every hour of sleep I skip. Every grade I’ve fought tooth and nail for while he watched from a distance and still managed to find fault in how I got there.
“I’ve worked for everything,” I say, heat rising up the back of my neck. “I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve never even dated anyone.”
“You had that boy in undergrad,” my mother says softly, like the memory still embarrasses her.
And there it is. Always, it comes back to that.
“That was nothing,” I snap. “I ended it the second you asked me to.”
It’s true. I didn’t even cry. I swallowed it like medicine and smiled through the bitterness because they said it wasn’t the right time, and I believed them. I believed that if I just did everything right, I’d be allowed to choose something—someone—for myself, later.
Dad sighs. That sigh. The one that says this conversation is over whether I like it or not.
“You will meet the family next week. They are respectable people. You’ll be polite.”
Like it’s already done. Like I’m not even here.
“No.”
The word slices through the air. Sharp. Final. It leaves my mouth like it was waiting there all along, curled behind my teeth like a blade.
His fork pauses mid-motion. He looks up slowly, like he’s not sure he heard me right.
“Excuse me?”
I swallow, but I don’t flinch. Not this time.
“I said no. I won’t marry someone you picked just because you’re tired of waiting.”
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Not concern. Not love. Just impatience. Just one more decision he wants made, filed, settled.
His eyes narrow.
“You are not a child.”
“Then stop treating me like one.”
It comes out fast. I don’t even think about it. My chest is tight, breath shallow, but the words are already in the air, standing there between us like a challenge I can’t take back.
His hand slams against the table. The sound cracks like a whip, and I jump even though I saw it coming.
“You will not embarrass this family with your defiance. Do you understand me?”
There it is. Not disappointment. Not anger. Shame. That’s always been the worst sin in this house—being loud enough for other people to notice.
I bite my tongue. Hard. I taste metal and hold it there. My eyes sting, and I blink too fast. I look at my mother, hoping for something—anything—but she doesn’t meet my gaze. Her eyes drop to her plate.
Always the same.
Dinner goes on like that. Forks scraping ceramic. Rice being passed. Like I didn’t just tell them I refuse to be traded. Like I didn’t raise my voice. Like my father’s hand didn’t shake the table.
I finish what’s on my plate because leaving would mean I lose. And if I open my mouth again, I’ll scream. So I swallow it all. The food. The rage. The grief of being the one who never gets picked, only placed.
When I finally stand, I don’t look at anyone. Not even Arjun.
Especially not Arjun.
Because he sat there and let me burn.
