Page 53 of The Promised Queen
She swallows. “What?”
“That you make me forget,” I murmur, “that I am supposed to be anything but this—a man standing too close to a woman in a library.”
Her eyes widen, but not with fear. Something else flickers there. Something that looks a lot like the same pull dragging at me.
I could step back. I should.
But instead, I reach out. Slowly, deliberately, I brush a strand of hair away from her cheek. My knuckles graze her skin, warm, soft. She doesn’t flinch.
Her lips part. Just slightly.
The air between us crackles. And then she rises—on the faintest tip of her toes—and before I can register it, she presses her mouth to mine.
It’s brief. Startling. A whisper of a kiss, as if she’s testing the air, as if she might run.
But she doesn’t get the chance.
The shock melts in me almost instantly, replaced by something far stronger. I reach for her, my hand cupping the back of her head, my other arm pulling her against me as though I can anchor us both. This time, when my mouth finds hers, it’s not tentative. It’s hungry, unguarded, alive.
She responds with equal fervor, the book slipping from her grip, forgotten, thudding against the floor. Her hands clutch the front of my coat, not pushing away, but pulling closer, as if she’s afraid I might disappear.
The kiss is not perfect—it’s real. Breathless, a little clumsy, full of all the things we haven’t said. And god, it’s better for it.
When I finally pull back, we’re both unsteady. Her forehead rests against mine, her breaths mingling with mine, her cheeks flushed.
I let a small laugh escape, low and disbelieving, as I murmur, “If this is what I get for fetching you a book, Meher… then I’ll keep rescuing them off shelves for the rest of my life.”
Her lips twitch, caught between outrage and a smile, and I know in that moment—I’ve never wanted to be anyone else, anywhere else.
CHAPTER 39
Defending her
DEVRAJ
The air in the chamber feels heavy before I even step inside. A polished mahogany table stretches the length of the room, glossy under the white ceiling lights. Men in tailored suits sit on either side, expressions hard, calculating, restless. The moment I enter, every head turns. The sound of my shoes against the marble floor echoes louder than it should. Vihaan walks in behind me, a silent presence, placing a file in front of me before moving back to stand near the wall. I don’t sit immediately. I let them watch me, measure me, feel my silence weigh on their impatience.
“Maharaj,” one of the ministers begins, the word clipped, reverent on the surface but edged with frustration. “We must speak plainly. This… situation cannot go on.”
I lower myself into the chair at the head of the table. My fingers clasp together, elbows resting lightly on the armrests. I don’t respond, just let him continue.
“It’s one thing for the press to fawn over Maharani,” he says, voice dripping with irritation, “but the scale of it—it’s become disruptive. Every headline, every news cycle, everyimage broadcast—her presence overshadows governance. The kingdom cannot afford this imbalance.”
Another minister, older, leaning forward with a pen tapping restlessly against his notepad, cuts in. “We warned you before, Maharaj. A commoner queen would stir attention, but this—this is destabilizing. The opposition parties thrive on it. They call you weak, distracted. They call her undeserving. They call the crown compromised.”
My jaw tightens, but I keep my face still, unreadable.
“Questions about her background never cease,” another adds. “They dredge up her family, her education, her origin. Every press conference turns into speculation about her, not state affairs. Do you realize what this does to the image of the crown?”
I let their words circle like vultures. They think repetition will wear me down. They forget who I am.
Finally, the eldest among them, a man whose influence stretches into every party’s pocket, leans back, folds his hands across his chest, and says the words the room has been tiptoeing toward. “Divorce her. Preserve the crown.”
The table stills. Even the tapping of the pen halts. The words hang there, poisonous, filling the silence with their arrogance.
I stare at him, unblinking, until the weight of my gaze makes him shift. My voice, when it comes, is calm, measured, but the steel underneath is unmistakable. “I’ll dissolve the crown before I dissolve my marriage.”
The scrape of chairs, the sharp inhale of surprise, the ripple of shock—every reaction registers in my mind as I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table.
