Page 94 of Knot Their Arrangement

I convinced myself he'd been spirited away, become another casualty of my father's influence and wealth.

One more lesson in the price of disobedience.

Yet here he stands.

The same boy who taught me what freedom felt like, now wearing the mask that just committed murder. The same hands that once touched me with such gentle passion now carry the weight of Maharaja's death.

I must be hallucinating.

It's the only explanation for the wave of calm that washes over me, for the sense of belonging that fills my chest even as tears blur my vision.

My body moves almost mechanically as I turn to face him fully, muscles rigid with a combination of exhaustion and disbelief.

Each step I take toward him feels like moving through honey. My mind screams that this must be a trap, that I'm walking toward certain death.

The rational part of me knows that the boy I knew could never be this masked killer.

But when has love ever been rational?

And that's what this is, I realize.

Not the mature, complex love of adults, but that pure, fierce love of youth – the kind that burns so bright it leaves permanent marks on your soul. The kind that makes you brave enough to defy family, tradition, and common sense just for a taste of something real.

The rain continues to pour, but I barely feel it now.

My soaked saree drags at my limbs, but I keep moving forward. If this is death's chosen form, if my goddess has decided to grant me this one final comfort before the end, I'll accept it gratefully.

Better to die remembering love than living in fear.

My feet carry me closer to the glowing mask, to the figure who simultaneously represents my first taste of freedom and potentially my last. The red and blue Xs seem to pulse in time with my heartbeat, creating patterns that hypnotize and entice.

If this is a trap, it's the most beautifully crafted one I've ever encountered. To use his voice, to play on those precious memories of that one perfect week...it's either incredibly cruel or incredibly fitting.

But I'm done running.

One step after another, I move toward what could be my salvation or my doom.

The distance between us shrinks with each movement, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating from him even through the cold rain.

Maybe this is what all those romance novels were trying to tell me.

That sometimes the greatest acts of bravery look like walking straight into danger, that love and death are so closely intertwined they become impossible to separate.

And sometimes they wear the same mask.

My trembling hand reaches for his mask, shaking uncontrollably as my fingers touch the glossy surface.

Raindrops roll off the material with effortless grace, the red and blue glow creating patterns in the falling water. He remains perfectly still, neither encouraging nor preventing my exploration.

With agonizing slowness, I lift the mask just enough to reveal what lies beneath.

My breath catches as I find myself staring into familiar emerald eyes – the same ones that captured my attention at sixteen, when I stood at the end of an alleyway in a part of town I shouldn't have been in, desperately seeking someone to help me claim my own destiny.

Those eyes haven't changed.

Our first conversation had started because of them.

I'd never seen eyes so vibrantly green, and my curiosity had overcome my caution. He'd laughed – a warm, rich sound that made me feel safe despite our surroundings – and explained about colored contacts.

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