Page 31 of The Promised Queen
Two minutes stretches into almost ten. I lean against the stone pillar, amused, waiting. Finally, the door opens again.
And there she is. Different. Changed.
Gone are the duckling pajamas. She’s dressed now in a soft green anarkali, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. Still casual compared to court standards, but deliberate, careful. Too careful.
My brows furrow. “Why did you change?”
Her fingers toy with the end of her dupatta, fumbling. “Umm…”
“You looked—” The words die because my hand betrays me. It moves on its own, cupping her left cheek gently. The warmth of her skin tingles under my palm. She stiffens instantly, eyes darting up to mine, lips parting as though she forgot how to breathe.
I take a step inside, and she instinctively takes one back. I nudge the door shut behind me with my free hand, the soft click sealing us into this space that suddenly feels too small, too charged.
Step by step, she moves back, my presence pushing her, though I’m barely touching her. Her back finally meets the wall, and I stop only inches away.
“Why did you change, Meher?” My voice is quiet, but I hear the demand in it.
“Because…” Her throat bobs, words faltering.
“Because I’m the king?”
She shakes her head quickly, strands of hair brushing against her cheeks.
“Then why?”
Her voice drops to a whisper, so faint I almost miss it. “Because I didn’t want you to see me that way.”
“Why?” I ask again, needing the truth, needing to peel back whatever shield she’s hiding behind.
Her eyes flicker away. “Because I looked messy.”
“And?”
Her chest rises, her small hand presses against mine—not to push away this time, but to hold me at a distance. “Raja-sa…” she breathes, almost pained, as though my presence suffocates her. She pushes lightly against my chest, then turns, giving me her back.
And that back… her anarkali dips low, the fabric brushing over her bare skin, the soft curve of her shoulder blades exposed. My breath hitches, but it’s not lust that grips me—it’s the raw fragility of her retreat.
I step closer, careful and slow. My hand lifts, hovers, then finally rests against her shoulder. The heat of her skin sears under my palm. She shivers visibly.
My face dips near her hair, the faint smell of jasmine and something uniquely her surrounding me. “Whether you think you look messy or not,” I say quietly, “you seem to look beautiful in my eyes.”
She turns slowly, her eyes wide, glassy, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen them. “Why?” she whispers, voice trembling.
“Because you are my wife.”
Her lips part, a breath catching. “Am I?” she asks slowly, painfully. “We don’t have a husband-wife relationship.”
My chest clenches at the way she says it—not accusing, not bitter, just a truth that weighs heavy between us.
“And what does that look like?” I ask, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her cheek, my fingers grazing the soft skin.
Her lashes flutter closed, her breath uneven. “I…I don’t know you, Raja-sa.” Her eyes open, meeting mine with startling honesty. “I want to know you.”
A humorless smile pulls at my lips. “Everyone knows me, Meher.”
She steps closer, and my heart stumbles. Our chests almost brush, the heat of her body bleeding into mine. Her voice is low, intimate, carrying a weight that punches through every armor I’ve built.
“Not the king, Raja-sa,” she says. “My husband.”
