For a moment, as bhaiya's words echoed through the vaulted hall, I could scarcely hear them. My heart was still in the garden—still in the shadow of the marigolds, where Rudra’s breath had scorched my skin and his hands had nearly undone me. My lips still trembled with the ghost of his kiss, my body still shivered with the memory of being claimed, wholly, utterly, without shame.

And yet now—here I sat upon carved sandalwood, the courtiers’ gazes upon me, bhaiya’s voice measured, dignified, resounding through stone and air.