Page 123 of Wasted Grace

“Fine!” she sighs, rolling her eyes in such anun-Aadyalike manner that I almost take a step back.

Then with a cold deadpan stare she says, “It was great. Got me wet. Wanna check?”

I choke on...nothing.

What—

Who the fuckis this woman?

Is this still the woman who just punched me in the throat? Put a gun to my head in the hospital? Because I think my brain’s melting.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. I feel heat climb up my neck. “Stop, woman.Please.”

She smirks like she’s seconds away from grabbing a knife out of thin air.Fuck. We’re in thekitchen.

“Come on. Like you weren’t hard,” she tosses back, clearly enjoying my emotional whiplash.

I level her with my own deadpan stare. “Of course I was. I’mstillhard. Wanna check?”

She snorts, her demeanor loosening the playful moment. “No thanks.”

And then as though a switch flips—she just turns around and saunters off like she didn’t just set my whole nervous system on fire.

“Onion omelette,” she calls over her shoulder before the bathroom door clicks shut.

I blink. I stare at the empty space she left behind.

So. Yeah... I don’t knowwhothis Greesha was. The sudden surge of emotions she’s bearing have left me disoriented.

So I’mstillconfused.

And...hard.

THIRTY-THREE

Advik

TWO WEEKS LATER

“You willnotstep out of the farmhouse. You willnotmake a single contact with anyone you don’t already know,” Greesha had said, her voice calm and terrifyingly precise. “And you willabsolutely notuse any electronic devices to indicate your location.”

That voice still echoes in my ears. Like a security blanket laced withcyanide.

God, she’s so fuckinghotwhen she’s scary.

Even out here—about 150 kilometers from New Delhi—she’s still my protection detail.

The farmhouse where Aarohi and Lucian are getting married is stunning, though smaller than the one Vikram and Ishika had booked for their wedding. Then again, Lucian’s side of the familybarelycrosses fifty people, so it tracks.

Everyone’s housed under the same roof, which makes surveillance easier, I guess. The place is all mango trees and sandstone courtyards, with fairy lights slung like constellations across the sky. But I’ve missed most of the functions. My window for disappearing from Delhi was small—three days at best. Mehul Bedi’s people are still watching.

The only reason I even made it here undetected is because of her.

Greesha.

The way she planned this—every detail, every exit, every blindspot—I was in awe. But she warned me she wouldn’t be visible. “You enjoy the wedding,” she’d said. “I’ll stay on perimeter.”

And just like that, shevanished.