Page 76 of The Promised Queen
“I’m so glad,” he says, voice low, “that my father was in danger that night. And I’m so glad he met your grandmother. Because if I hadn’t met you…” His throat works, like the words are too big for him to swallow. “…I wouldn’t have known what it feels like to live.”
Something in my chest caves in.
“Devraj,” I whisper, heat creeping up my neck. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” His smile softens, that lazy, disarming curve that still knocks the air from my lungs. “But if being ridiculous iswhat it takes to make sure you know what you mean to me, I’ll do it every single day.”
My heart is pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. He holds my gaze as he takes my hand, slow and deliberate, like I’m something fragile he can’t afford to break.
“When I was a boy,” he says, voice low, “I was told love is a weakness. That kings don’t have the luxury of loving anyone more than the throne.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Then you came along and made everything they taught me feel… meaningless.”
Something stings at the back of my eyes. Damn it. No. I am not crying. Not for this man who drives me insane and makes my heart feel like it’s sprinting uphill at the same time.
“I’m not perfect,” he says, almost laughing at himself but not quite making it. “I mess up. Clearly.” He gestures faintly toward the pile of abandoned gifts, like that was some grand disaster—which it kind of was. “But if you’ll let me, Meher… I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to deserve you.”
Something hot and unstoppable spills down my cheeks. My anger? Gone. Swept away like it never existed. All that’s left is this man, this moment, and the feeling that maybe my heart isn’t big enough for everything he’s making me feel right now.
God help me—I laugh. It bursts out through the tears, shaky and broken, because how can I cry and laugh at the same time? But that’s what loving him feels like—too much of everything at once.
“Can I consider that as a yes?”.
I drop to my knees in front of him, my hands shaking as I cup his face. “You idiot,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Of course, it’s a yes.”
His exhale is rough, almost like a sob he’d never admit to. Before I know it, the ring is sliding onto my finger—a little loose because it’s his, not mine—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the way his arms come around me the next second, pulling me into him like he’ll never let go.
And I let him. God, I melt into him, burying my face in his neck, breathing him in until the air in my lungs feels like him and only him.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a prayer. “Always.”
And then his mouth is on mine, slow and deep and desperate, kissing me like the world could end tonight and he needs this to remember it by.
And maybe that’s what this moment will be for me—something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. The night my husband asked me to choose him. And I did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I will always choose him.
EPILOGUE
CONQUERING ICE-CREAMS
DEVRAJ
I push open the heavy teak door, and the sound of laughter hits me like a warm breeze. The scent of cardamom tea lingers in the air, mingling with something sharper—Meher’s perfume. I’d know it anywhere, that floral hint she swears makes her nauseous these days, even though she refuses to stop wearing it because, and I quote,“A queen can’t smell like ginger and lime pickle all the time.”
I step inside the living room, and there she is—sitting cross-legged on the carpet, her long hair in a messy braid that’s half undone, her silk kurta wrinkled from what I assume has been an intense battle of wills with our daughter. Speaking of…
“Papa!” Rajveer barrels toward me, his little legs moving faster than I thought possible for a four-year-old. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright with mischief, and he’s clutching something behind his back. I crouch down, open my arms, and he crashes into me with the force of his tiny universe.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to be framed for something?” I murmur into his soft hair.
Before he can answer, a high-pitched wail slices through the room. I look over Rajveer’s head and see Aadhya—our eldest—standing with her fists on her hips, glaring at her brother. At six, she has mastered the art of royal indignation.
“He STOLE my crown, Papa! Tell him to give it back!”
