The morning sun, a gilded disc, spilled across the marble courtyard, warming the ancient stone. Inside the palace's council chambers, the air hummed with anticipation. Rajmata gaytri Devi, her silver hair coiled in a regal bun, addressed her grandsons.
"The kingdom awaits,"
she declared, her voice resonating with quiet authority. "Our people long to meet their new queens. A joint reception, for both you and Rajveer, is only fitting. A grand introduction."
Anirudh's gaze flickered to Rajveer, who merely nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Let it be so," Anirudh finally spoke, his voice deep, a low thrum. "A celebration of our union."
Later, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine clung to their private chambers. Aayat sat by the window, sketching a distant minaret, its delicate spire piercing the azure sky. Anirudh entered, a silk-wrapped package in his hand.
"For you," he murmured, his voice softer than she usually heard it. He knelt beside her, placing the bundle on her lap. "For the reception."
Her fingers, stained with charcoal, trembled as she unwrapped the gift. Inside, a saree shimmered, the color of twilight, embroidered with silver threads that mimicked constellations. It felt impossibly soft against her skin, a whisper of luxury.
"It's… breathtaking," she breathed, her eyes wide, tracing a delicate star pattern. No one had ever given her something so exquisite, chosen with such obvious thought. A warmth spread through her chest, a gentle unfurling.
"Wear it," he commanded, but his tone was a caress, not an order. He reached out, his thumb brushing her cheek, wiping away a stray smudge of charcoal.
"Let them see you, my queen."
A faint blush bloomed on her cheeks. "You chose this?"
"Every detail," he confirmed, his eyes, dark and intense, holding hers. "It matches the night sky in your eyes."
Aayat's heart fluttered, a wild bird trapped in her ribs. His possessiveness, usually a tight band around her, now felt like a protective embrace. He saw her, truly saw her, in a way no one else ever had. The thought, an unexpected tenderness, brought a prickle to her eyes. She leaned into his touch, her hand finding his, her fingers intertwining.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
He pulled her closer, his lips finding the hollow of her throat, a soft, lingering kiss on her cheecks.
"My pleasure." He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to their bed.
The last rays of sun dipped below the horizon, painting the room in hues of lavender and rose. He discarded his silk kurta, the smooth expanse of his chest, hard and sculpted, gleaming in the fading light. He settled beside her, pulling her against him, her back pressed flush against his front. His arm, heavy and warm, caged her, a possessive weight that no longer felt suffocating, but comforting. The rhythmic beat of his heart against her back lulled her. The scent of him – musk and a faint metallic tang of ink from his studies – enveloped her. She closed her eyes, the silk saree a silent promise of tomorrow, and drifted to sleep, held captive in his unyielding embrace.