Page 14 of The Promised Queen
He doesn’t respond. His eyes move over my face like he’s memorising it, and the intensity makes me shift on my feet. I break the silence.
“Why are you here?” The words come out sharper than I meant, and I almost wince.
It’s not that I mind him being here. In fact… he’s still a stranger, but somehow less of a stranger than everyone else in this palace.
“I’m here to take you for breakfast,” he replies, unfazed by my tone.
I nod.
We walk side by side down the long marble corridor. Our hands graze once, just a light brush of skin, but the shiver it sends up my arm makes me pull mine back immediately.
He notices. I can tell because his hand disappears into his pocket a second later.
When I glance up, I find him already looking at me. In the morning sunlight pouring through the tall windows, his dark brown eyes almost glint with gold. It’s distracting enough that I don’t notice the edge of the carpet until my toe catches.
I stumble.
His arm is around my waist instantly, steadying me. “Careful.” He frowns, holding me just firmly enough to keep me upright.
I straighten, putting some distance between us. “I can’t walk in sarees freely.”
“Then why did you wear it?” he asks, brows drawn.
“The staff said I—”
“You are the queen,” he cuts in, his voice low but firm. “You wear what you want. You don’t need anyone’s permission.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for permission,” I say quietly. “I just wanted to inform you first.”
He nods once, then gestures toward a door on the left.
Inside, a long dining table stretches toward the far end of the room. Everyone is already seated. He extends a hand, and I take it without thinking as we walk toward the table.
Rajkumari Sitara gives me a bright smile, mouthing what I assume is, “You look beautiful.” I return a polite smile.
The Maharaj pulls out the chair at the head of the table, and I instinctively move to sit in the one beside it on his right. But he stops me with a quiet, “Sit here.”
I blink. “But—” Isn’t the king supposed to sit there?
His gaze meets mine, steady, giving no indication that this is a joke. Not wanting to create a scene, I sit.
Across from me, Rajmata’s fingers curl tightly around her spoon. Her eyes are sharp, and the displeasure in them is impossible to miss. I look away.
Kuwar Vihaan sends me an amused smile from further down the table. I manage a weak one back.
The food arrives: silver dishes, steaming rotis, and bowls of curries that smell rich and spicy. I focus on eating, tuning out the conversation between Maharaj and Kuwar Veeraj about the family’s hotel business.
I’m still trying to figure out why he gave me his seat.
When the meal ends and everyone begins to leave, I turn to him. “Why?” I don’t elaborate—he knows.
“So that everyone remembers to respect you.”
“Why do you care if someone respects me or not?”
“I told you yesterday, Meher.” He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us. “You are my wife, my queen. I will not tolerate any disrespect towards you.”
His cologne, sharp cedar with something warmer, wraps around me, pulling me closer without touching. I can’t seem to look away from his face.
