Page 52 of The Promised Queen
Her eyes follow the movement, then drop to my hand holding the book. “I could have done it,” she says, crossing her arms.
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course you could. Eventually. Perhaps with a ladder, or after a few hours of jumping.”
Her glare sharpens. I don’t hand over the book just yet. Instead, I tilt my wrist, lifting it slightly higher. Not too obvious, but enough that she notices.
Her eyes widen. “Raja-sa…” There’s a warning in her voice.
“Yes?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“The book,” she says, pointing.
I lift it higher, my lips tugging into a smirk before I can stop them. “This book?”
Her jaw drops. Then she huffs, her lower lip jutting out ever so slightly as she tries to snatch it from me. I move my hand just out of her reach.
The pout. My god, the pout.
I shouldn’t find it so satisfying to push her like this, but there’s something addictive about it—about seeing her composed, graceful demeanor crack just enough to reveal the softer, more vulnerable edges she tries to hide.
“You’re impossible,” she says, glaring up at me, though her voice lacks real venom.
“And you,” I say lightly, “are far too stubborn for your own good. You could have simply asked me.”
Her chin lifts. “I didn’t need to.”
I look at her for a long moment, taking in the way she holds her ground even when she knows she’s caught. That fire in her—that refusal to yield—is infuriating, yes, but it’s also magnetic.
I lower the book finally, pressing it gently into her hands. “There. Consider it a royal favor.”
She takes it from me quickly, hugging it to her chest like I might change my mind and steal it again. Then she looks up, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“Immensely,” I admit without hesitation.
Her lips twitch, as though she’s trying very hard not to smile. And for a moment, the air between us feels lighter, easier. She shakes her head, murmuring something under her breath about childish kings.
I don’t correct her.
Because maybe she’s right. Maybe with her, I allow myself the rare luxury of being less than a king. Maybe with her, I am allowed to be simply a man who teases, who enjoys the way her cheeks flush, who feels a quiet thrill at making her flustered.
I should step back. Give her space. Let her bury herself in that book she wanted so badly. That’s what a sensible man would do.
But sense has very little say when it comes to Meher.
She stands there, her dupatta slipping slightly as she clutches the book to her chest, her lips pursed in what she probably thinks is indignation but looks far too close to a smile. The lamplight overhead softens the edges of her face, catches in the dark of her eyes.
I lean in just a little, lowering my voice. “You know,” I say, “for someone who claims she doesn’t need help, you’re holding that book as though it’s been rescued from a great villain.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “Maybe it has.”
I chuckle. “Am I the villain in this story now?”
“Never, Raja-sa.” She smiles up at me.
Her words hang between us. I take another step forward. She doesn’t move back.
Her chin tilts up, just slightly, but enough for me to see the rapid pulse fluttering at her throat. She looks steady on the outside, but I know better now—I know her tells. The way her fingers tighten imperceptibly around the spine of the book, the way her breaths come a fraction too quick.
Close enough now, I lower my voice further. “Do you know what makes you most impossible, Meher?”
