Page 95 of Knot Their Arrangement

The memory floods back with crystal clarity:him sitting on the hood of a modified street racer, talking about his dreams with the kind of certainty only youth can provide.

How he'd get rich enough to have his eyes permanently changed, how something as simple as eye color could open doors that would otherwise remain closed.

"It's no different from blue eyes and blonde hair," he'd explained, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "They get opportunities because they're seen as perfect – the ideal representation of wealth, beauty, intelligence, success. If I change my boring brownish-black eyes, if I make myself stand out... I could be someone."

His words had burned themselves into my memory.

At nineteen, he'd already understood something fundamental about our world – that appearance could reshape destiny, that standing out could be more powerful than fitting in.

Despite his Alpha status, his mixed heritage had created barriers. But instead of accepting them, he'd planned to destroy them completely.

"I'm going to build a legacy no one can take away," he'd declared with such conviction that I couldn't help but believe him.

Now, standing before me in the rain, I see the fulfillment of those teenage dreams. Those artificially emerald eyes, once just an ambitious goal, now look back at me with a coldness that makes my heart ache.

My hand cups his cheek, and I watch as something in his expression softens infinitesimally. But the change only highlights how much has been lost. The boy who radiated joy and possibility has been replaced by someone harder, darker.

His dreams came true, but at what cost?

The purity I remember has been shattered, dragged through dirt and darkness until only this cold anger remains. His eyes hold stories of violence and revenge, of paths taken that can never be untaken.

What does he see when he looks at me?

I must appear so desperate, so weak in this moment – soaked and bleeding, trembling from exhaustion and fear. But I push those thoughts aside as my thumb traces the skin beneath his eye, marveling at how reality has aligned with his teenage ambitions.

"Emerald green," I whisper, the words barely audible over the rain.

Tears mix with raindrops on my cheeks, and I find myself attempting a smile despite the bone-deep sadness that threatens to overwhelm me.

Even if these are my final moments, seeing him again – seeing that he survived whatever crucible transformed him – makes everything feel worth it somehow.

All the pain, all the running, all the fear...it led to this moment of recognition.

"Riot," I breathe out our old nickname for him, the one we used to maintain some illusion of anonymity during that perfect week.

The name fit him perfectly back then – he was chaos embodied, excitement personified, a riot of energy and possibility.

Just as I was his "Trouble" because trouble seemed to find us whenever we were together.

Every adventure, every stolen moment, every midnight race led to some new complication. We'd laugh about it then, too young to understand how that trouble would eventually tear us apart.

But here we are again.

Riot and Trouble.

Reunited in the rain.

The universe has a strange sense of humor, bringing us back together like this – him in his glowing mask, me in my ruined saree, both of us so changed yet still somehow connected.

A thousand questions crowd my mind, begging to be asked.

How did he survive my father's influence? What turned him away from street racer to masked killer? Why Maharaja, why now, why?—

The sound of approaching footsteps breaks through my thoughts.

His gaze shifts past me, hardening as he registers the new threat. Whatever is coming, it's enough to concern someone who just committed murder without hesitation.

His eyes return to mine, and I can see the questions warring in their emerald depths.

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