The palace had begun to feel less like a home and more like a golden cage. Aayat spent her day moving between rituals, hushed courtesies, and the expectations placed on her by the royal family. The Rajmata had been particularly watchful, often summoning her to sit nearby as if to remind her of the responsibilities she now carried. Everyone treated her with respect, but Aayat could feel the invisible weight of belonging to a dynasty she had never chosen.
By nightfall, she was drained, her sketchbook untouched, her mind restless. She sat by the carved balcony, gazing at the moon, when Rajmata's commanding presence filled the room.
"Aayat," she said gently but firmly. "Anirudh has just returned. He hasn't eaten since morning. Take his dinner to his chamber."
Aayat obeyed, her hands steady though her heart trembled. The silver tray was warm with food, the fragrance of spices clinging to the air as she walked through the quiet corridor. Reaching his chamber, she pushed the heavy door open—and froze.
He was there.
Freshly bathed, his dark hair damp, droplets still trailing down the hard lines of his chest. A loose black lower clung to his frame, but he wore no shirt. His broad shoulders caught the dim golden light of the lamps, his body a canvas of power and dominance. He stood near the long window, turning only when he sensed her presence. His eyes found her instantly, dark and unrelenting.
She lowered her gaze quickly, stepping inside.
"Rajmata asked me to bring your food," she said softly, placing the tray on the low table.
Without another word, she turned to leave—only to feel his fingers curl firmly around her wrist.
"Did you eat?" His voice was deep, edged with authority.
Startled, she nodded. "Yes."
He released her slowly, his eyes lingering on her face, as though reading something she wasn't saying. She turned again, relief fluttering in her chest—until his grip returned, firmer this time, pulling her toward him.
A gasp escaped her as she stumbled, only to find herself landing squarely against his bare chest—on his lap.
"Anirudh—!"
His lips curved into a dangerous smirk, his arm securing her waist. "So, my wife ate without her husband?" His voice was low, mocking, but the heat in his eyes sent a shiver through her. "That is… unacceptable."
She struggled lightly, her cheeks warming. "This is unnecessary."
"Unnecessary?" His thumb brushed her waist deliberately, his tone sharp yet teasing. "No, Aayat. This is marriage. And for disobeying, you will be punished."
Her breath caught. "Punished?"
"Yes." He leaned closer, his lips grazing her ear, his words a whisper of command. "You will sit here… and feed me."
Her eyes widened. "Feed you?"
"Yes. Every bite." His gaze burned into hers. "Or shall I choose a harsher punishment?"
Trembling, her fingers reached for the roti. She dipped it in curry, lifted it hesitantly. His eyes never left her as she brought it to his lips. He leaned in, taking the bite slowly, deliberately letting his lips brush against her fingertips.
Her breath hitched; she pulled her hand back quickly. But he caught her wrist and guided it back to the plate.
"Again."
She obeyed, feeding him another bite. Each touch of his lips against her fingers made her heart pound harder, the intimacy unbearable yet intoxicating. The room felt heavy with silence, broken only by his soft hums of satisfaction.
By the time the plate was nearly empty, her chest was rising and falling unevenly. He caught her hand again, lowering it. His gaze softened—just slightly—as he leaned closer, his voice a vow.
"From today, Aayat… you and I eat together. Always."
Before she could protest, he pressed his lips to her forehead, soft and reverent, stealing her words away. She froze, her heart caught between fear and something dangerously close to surrender.
He didn't demand more. Instead, his hand cupped her back, pulling her against his bare chest, his embrace firm and consuming. She closed her eyes, letting herself breathe in the warmth of him, if only for a moment.
And in that silence—just for a heartbeat—she felt it. A warmth unfurling in her chest, confusing and terrifying. She told herself it was exhaustion, that it meant nothing. Yet deep inside, she knew the truth: his touch stirred something in her she had sworn to resist.
When he finally let her go, she hurriedly stood, avoiding his eyes. But her pulse still raced, and her lips still tingled with the ghost of his kiss.
For the first time, she feared not his power—
…but her own heart.