Page 58 of The Promised Queen

She tilts her head. “If this is your worst, I’ll take it.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I only know that the warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with the season and everything to do with the woman standing in front of me.

The thunder rumbles overhead again, louder this time, but all I hear is her laugh when she pulls away and splashes me once more, lighter this time, playful.

“You’re relentless,” I say, shaking my head, though my tone is softer now.

“And you,” she grins, “finally decided to live a little.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe this—her, us, the storm—isn’t on my list of controlled, predictable things. But as I watch her twirl once more in the rain, hands lifted, joy radiating off her, I realize I don’t mind the disruption.

In fact, I crave it. I crave her. I crave to be her husband, for her to give me that title. Not any circumstance, not people, but for her to accept me as her husband. And I would be the happiest man alive when that day arrives.

CHAPTER 42

The Silent Gods

MEHER

The temple feels different in the afternoons. The corridors leading to it are quieter, the marble floors cooler under my feet even though the desert heat still presses heavy against the palace walls. There’s no crowd, no line of pilgrims—there never is here. This is the royal temple, folded into the heart of the palace itself, its sanctum reserved for family and those allowed into its inner circle.

My dupatta slips slightly as I adjust the brass thali in my hands, the little diya flickering with each step. Sitara walks just behind me, humming faintly, her feet padding against the floor. She has always been more devout than me. I pray, yes, but my connection to God has always felt quieter, less ceremonial, more like whispers under my breath than elaborate rituals.

Maybe it was because I was always angry—because I always wondered why I had to go through hardships. Why God wasn’t kind to me, if I wasn’t his child. Why was everything so unfair? But I guess I just didn’t have patience to wait. If I had known I would get so much respect and love from a man who can make everyone cower, who can have anything, anyone in this world,yet he would choose me, defend me, maybe I would not have been so…so distanced.

The temple doors stand open, carved wood gilded with age, and for a second, I pause on the threshold. Not because I don’t want to go in. Not because of fear. Just…because the last time I came here, I was stopped. Blocked by Rajmata’s sharp voice, her disdain made public in the one place I thought even she might hold back.

Today, she is already inside.

Rajmata sits near the sanctum, her back perfectly straight, her sari draped with precision that makes her look carved out of stone. A brass bell rests in her lap, and her lips move faintly in prayer, but her eyes…her eyes lift the moment mine do.

And disgust settles there, plain as the flame in front of the deity.

It should sting. Perhaps it does. But not in the way she expects. Not in a way that makes me shrink. Because I am not here for her. I am here for Narayan.

I step forward, my chin steady, and cross the threshold. My steps echo softly in the chamber, and I kneel near the murthi without looking her way. The thali trembles faintly in my hands, but I set it down with care, bow my head, and let the silence settle.

Behind me, Sitara gasps suddenly. I turn, startled.

“What happened?”

Her eyes are wide, her hand flying to her forehead. “I forgot, bhabhi-sa—the flowers I collected for the Pooja. I left them in my room. Give me just a few minutes, I’ll run and bring them.”

I nod, a little awkward now under Rajmata’s gaze. “It’s alright. Go.”

She bows quickly, nearly trips on her way out, and then the room is quieter than before. Just me, Narayan, and the steady presence of the woman behind me.

I should begin the aarti. I should ignore her entirely. I tell myself I will. But then—A softtskcuts through the silence.

“You might think highly of yourself,” Rajmata says. Her voice is low, controlled, not meant for anyone else’s ears. Which means she knows what she’s doing. She knows this is for me, and me alone.

I don’t respond. My fingers tighten around the matchstick I was about to strike, but I don’t move.

She continues. “Walking in here as if you have earned the right. Sitting there like you belong.”

Her words press against my back like a weight, but I hold still. I focus on the murthi, the serene face of the goddess looking back at me, unchanging, unmoved.

Rajmata’s voice softens, but the poison in it doesn’t. “Do you ever think about what you’re doing to him? Every day, another controversy. Every day, another insult attached to his name. And all because of you.”