Page 36 of The Promised Queen
At me.
And that only makes the simmering anger under my skin worse, because even as he looks at me, even as he doesn’t give Priyanka the attention his mother so clearly wants him to, I can’t help but feel the humiliation of sitting through this spectacle. Of being reminded, in front of polished silverware and centuries-old portraits, that I don’t belong.
Dinner feels like a performance, and I am the uninvited act.
By the time dessert is served—a delicate saffron-infused kheer in crystal bowls—I’ve lost the ability to taste anything. My throat is dry and my stomach is in knots. I say my thanks when the servants move the plates, but the moment protocol allows, I rise. Slowly, deliberately, with all the grace I can summon, I excuse myself from the table.
I don’t look at Devraj. I can’t.
The corridors outside are blessedly quiet, the heavy carpets muffling my footsteps as I walk faster than I should, my hands fisted at my sides. The air smells faintly of roses and sandalwood, but even that feels suffocating. All I want is to be away from the charade, away from the reminder of what Rajmata thinks I am not.
“If she fits your world better,” I whisper to the empty hallway, though I know he can’t hear me, “you can go.”
But I don’t get to stay in my solitude.
“Meher.”
His voice is roughened, the kind of tone that always makes me falter. I don’t turn immediately, but then I feel the warmth of his presence closing in, the soft echo of his shoes against the carpet, until his shadow falls over mine.
His hand comes to my wrist—gentle, firm, not restraining but grounding. My breath catches as I finally turn to face him. His eyes aren’t stormy now. They’re burning.
“What if I say,” he murmurs, voice dropping as though the walls themselves must not hear, “you are becoming my world?”
The words punch through my chest, scattering the fragile shield I had built around myself.
I shake my head, a bitter laugh trembling at my lips. “Your world doesn’t even look like me. It looks like her. Polished. Perfect. The kind of woman Rajmata parades around to show the rest of the world.”
He steps closer, and suddenly there’s barely any space between us. His grip shifts from my wrist to my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles in a way that sends a shiver up my arm.
“Do you think I care about polish?” His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before lifting back to my eyes. “Do you know what I see when I look at you, Meher?”
I swallow hard, because the intensity in his voice makes it impossible to breathe.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“I see a woman who walks into a room full of people waiting for her to fail—and still holds her head high. I see a fire you don’t even realize you carry, one that refuses to be dimmed no matter how much they try. I see someone who unsettles me, makes me forget the weight of this throne, this crown. Someone who makes me…” He pauses, searching for words, his hand tightening around mine as though anchoring himself. “…feel human again.”
Every syllable crashes into me, leaving me raw, trembling.
My chest rises and falls too quickly, and before I can stop myself, I lift onto my toes. My lips brush his; soft, tentative, a fleeting whisper of a kiss. It’s reckless, impulsive, a breaking of every boundary I’ve told myself to keep.
For a heartbeat, he freezes. Shock flares in his eyes.
And then—
His hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. His mouth claims mine with no hesitation, no restraint. The kiss is fierce, consuming, the kind that steals every thought I’ve ever had. His lips move against mine with a hunger that leaves me dizzy, his other hand cupping my jaw, tilting my face so he can deepen the kiss.
My fingers clutch at his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath the fabric of his coat, the rapid thud of his heart against mine. The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the heat of his breath, the way his thumb traces my cheekbone as though memorizing me.
There’s nothing royal about this moment. Nothing poised, nothing rehearsed. Just two people colliding, breaking, needing.
By the time he pulls back, my lips are swollen, my pulse frantic. His forehead rests against mine; his breathing is ragged, his chest heaving as though he’s fought a battle.
And then, with his voice husky, threaded with something that feels like surrender, he whispers,
“Let them bring the whole world to my table, Meher. I’ll still only look for you.”
CHAPTER 28
