Page 89 of A King's Oath

“Got any new ones?”

“Umm… yeah. You wanna share?” He held out the AirPod. As if she had been waiting for that one offer, Avantika pounced like a hungry beggar and grabbed the bud, pushing it into her ear before he could take it back. Samarth looked like he wanted to pull her closer as well as run away from there. But he just sat up, fluffed up his pillow and elongated his legs to cross them at the ankles. His crisp trousers ended just shy of his bare feet and she couldn’t help but look away. When had such domesticity got to her?

A soft flute broke her dirty thoughts and she pushed back to mimic him, recreating her nest of pillows, just a few inches shy of where he lay spread out.

Araj, suno Banwari…

A heavy baritone sang.

Baanke Bihari Shyam Rangeele, O more Giridhari…

Goosebumps erupted all over her arms. She whirled her eyes up to him, only to find that his were trained on her, as if expecting that very reaction. She reached his phone and hit pause — “Wow!”

He smirked.

“Do you have more?” Her body shot up to sit straight.

He nodded.

“Share the playlist. Now!”

“First finish this one,” he chuckled, tugging her hand and pulling her back into her pillows. Avantika went willingly, breathing in his scent. It was new and yet old. Super subtle. Like Oud but softer. Leather saddles but also tender blossoms. She wanted to use that same fragrance. How could she ask him for the name without making it obvious?

“Ready?” He asked.

“Ready,” she crossed one leg over her other knee.

He hit play, and the grand orchestra of his bhajan swept her off. All thoughts of his fragrance’s name were forgotten as the song, the words, the feel of him beside her in this dark transported her to a time when everything was possible. Even if for a few hours, Avantika knew she had been granted a wish.

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They rolled their luggage side by side as they walked down the Charles de Gaulle Airport — him with his extra large suitcase and his polo kit slung over his back, her with a trolley groaning with the weight of her entire life in Gwalior packed up for a probation period in Paris.

“How are you not travelling with a whole entourage? You are a polo player of international repute. Don’t you get your media, PR, groomsmen?”

“I do,” he manoeuvred his massive suitcase effortlessly. He had offered to take her trolley but she had pushed him away. Then flexed her own muscles. They weren’t really bulging after leaving professional cricket years ago. But the shape of her arms was still toned and well-defined thanks to those days.

“Where are they then?”

“They’ll join me this weekend. My horses will also be coming in with them.”

“Who will you practise with today then?”

“I have mallet control and ball work scheduled for today. It’s…”

“I know,” she swung an invisible mallet in her hand and swept it in an arch as if hitting a ball, repeating it as if hitting the ball at a wall continuously. “I remember.”

“Yeah,” he stopped, making her trolley halt too. Samarth looked down at her and chuckled. His hand rose. She thought it would come to her. But it went to the back of his head and scratched. He was nervous? Around her? Why?

“How are you travelling from here?”

“My car and driver are waiting outside. You?”

“Same.”

“We forget that we are princess and prince of our respective kingdoms,” she quipped.

“Doesn’t matter,” his brow shot up with that patent charming boy smile. “I would still prefer to drop you home. Whereishome?”

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