Page 40 of Knot Their Arrangement

I find myself kissing him back, unable to resist the magnetic pull between us. I'm not entirely inexperienced –arranged marriages come with certain expectations, after all— but this is different.

He deepens the kiss with such subtle skill that I barely notice until I'm completely lost in it. Each movement is calculated yet feels natural, passionate yet perfectly controlled.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he does it with a languid confidence that suggests we're alone rather than standing in the club's lobby. His thumb brushes across my now-sensitive lips as he regards me with those intense eyes.

"You're my responsibility," he reminds me, his voice carrying enough authority to make my Omega instincts want to bare her throat in submission. "I can't have our royal princess running through the streets in a saree." His gaze flicks meaningfully toward the shadows beyond the club's entrance. "You know how many would kill for merely an autograph from someone of such high status."

The way he says it makes it clear he's not just playing a role — he knows something about me, something beyond what I've shown the world. His words carry weight, carry truth, and I find myself wondering just who this mysterious Alpha is.

The coat around my shoulders suddenly feels heavier, more significant.

It's not just expensive fabric — it's a statement of protection, of possession, of power. The combined scents of him and the detective from earlier wrap around me like a shield, making me feel safer than I have since fleeing my wedding.

"Though I must ask," he says, his fingers trailing along the embroidered edge of my saree, "why didn't you wear the attire chosen for you from Maharani's Legacy?" The name of India's most prestigious luxury fashion house falls from his lips with perfect pronunciation. "Or the custom pieces I had Cartier design specifically for tonight?"

My cheeks burn hotter as I catch sight of the receptionist's dropped jaw.

Her earlier smugness has been replaced by something close to horror as she watches our exchange. The sight gives me a surge of courage as I turn back to meet those whiskey-colored eyes.

"I didn't want to upset you," I confess, letting vulnerability seep into my voice. "The delivery...there was an incident. They called to inform me that their truck was attacked." I bite my lip, watching his expression darken. "The attackers didn't manage to steal anything…you know how heavily armed those transport units are for luxury items, but the delay..."

I gesture helplessly.

"They offered to still deliver, but with the invitation's time constraint, I wouldn't have made it. So I..." My hand touches the fabric of my family's saree, generations of history woven into each thread.

Turning slightly toward the receptionist, I continue my performance, though every word carries a kernel of truth.

"I managed to arrive at 11:59 and presented my invitation as required, but..." I let my eyes go wide and doe-like as I look up at him. "She said I was late because she took a full minute to review my documentation."

My voice drops lower, intimate.

"I know we haven't informed the government yet of our union with the rest of the pack, but this complicates things. They'll require me to attend interrogation tomorrow." I pause before adding softly, "Mio Amore," the Italian endearment I recall from countless mafia romance novels flowing naturally from my lips.

The mention of interrogation makes something dangerous flash in his eyes.

The anger radiating from him is controlled but palpable, like a storm building on the horizon. When his gaze turns to the receptionist, she lets out a quiet squeak of fear.

"I-I was just following protocol!" she stammers, her earlier confidence evaporating. "And based on her attire…I mean, she's clearly not from..." She gestures vaguely at my saree. "She's wearing rags compared to our usual clientele!"

"Rags?"

The word falls from his lips like a death sentence.

His hand trails down my body in a possessive caress that sets every nerve ending on fire. Slick pools between my thighs as his touch ignites something primal in me, something that recognizes the predator beneath his expensive suit.

"This is what you call rags?" His voice carries a dangerous sort of amusement. "Cultural fabrics passed down for generations that quadruple in value every year they're maintained?" He lets out a dark laugh that sends shivers of both fear and desire racing along my spine. "From someone of 'British' heritage, I find it rather grand that you claim to know more about mymia principessa'sculture and principles when you haven't lived a day in her shoes."

He moves to stand between me and the desk, and I can't help but admire how his height and presence seem to fill the entire space. The protective aura he emanates makes my Omega instincts purr with satisfaction.

"I don't need to experience anything to know that attire is old," the receptionist argues, though her voice wavers. "Even if it's passed down, the value doesn't…ugh. As a contributing worker at this establishment, I have every right to make my assessments of guests!"

Instead of the fury I expect, he chuckles.

The sound carries none of its earlier warmth.

"Oh really?"

The two words hang in the air like smoke before a fire. I can feel something brewing in his mind, can sense the gathering storm in how the atmosphere thickens until it feels like we're breathing molasses. The tension builds until it feels physical like it could reach out and choke us all.

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