CHAPTER 38
The Height of Stubbornness
DEVRAJ
The library is quieter than the rest of the palace, always has been.
A space carved for stillness, where the sound of footsteps feels almost like an intrusion.
I come here more often than people think—not because I read every book lining these shelves, but because it’s one of the few places where I don’t have to wear a crown, at least not metaphorically.
Here, I am not Maharaj or heir or ruler.
I am just a man surrounded by paper and ink, stories that outlive men like me.
I’m turning down an aisle when I catch sight of her.
Meher.
Her dupatta trails faintly against the floor, her brows furrowed in concentration as she stands before one of the taller shelves.
She looks small against it, her head tilted back, her eyes fixed on a book perched at the very top.
I lean against the archway, unseen for now, just watching.
It takes a moment for me to realize why I don’t announce myself immediately: because I enjoy this—observing her when she’s unaware, when she’s simply herself, unguarded.
She stretches her hand up. Her fingers graze the edge but fall short.
I bite back a smile.
She tries again, this time standing on her toes. The determination on her face is something I know too well. Meher doesn’t give up easily. Whether it’s an argument, a principle, or—apparently—a book, she refuses to ask for help.
The sight is absurdly endearing.
Before I can stop myself, I speak. “Do you plan on growing a few inches taller while standing there, Meher?”
Her head whips around so fast I almost laugh. She hadn’t realized I was here. A faint flush creeps up her neck as she straightens her posture, clearing her throat like she wasn’t just caught in a losing battle with a bookshelf.
“I was managing just fine,” she mutters.
“Were you?” I step closer, deliberately slow, enjoying the way her eyes narrow at me. “Because from where I stood, it looked like the book was winning.”
Her lips press into a thin line. She turns back to the shelf and reaches again, as if to prove me wrong. The stubbornness is almost comical.
I chuckle under my breath, then casually reach up, plucking the book off the shelf with ease. My height has never felt quite so useful as it does in this moment.
Her eyes follow the movement, then drop to my hand holding the book. “I could have done it,” she says, crossing her arms.
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course you could. Eventually. Perhaps with a ladder, or after a few hours of jumping.”
Her glare sharpens. I don’t hand over the book just yet. Instead, I tilt my wrist, lifting it slightly higher. Not too obvious, but enough that she notices.
Her eyes widen. “Raja-sa…” There’s a warning in her voice.
“Yes?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“The book,” she says, pointing.
I lift it higher, my lips tugging into a smirk before I can stop them. “This book?”
Her jaw drops. Then she huffs, her lower lip jutting out ever so slightly as she tries to snatch it from me. I move my hand just out of her reach.
The pout. My god, the pout.
I shouldn’t find it so satisfying to push her like this, but there’s something addictive about it—about seeing her composed, graceful demeanor crack just enough to reveal the softer, more vulnerable edges she tries to hide.
“You’re impossible,” she says, glaring up at me, though her voice lacks real venom.
“And you,” I say lightly, “are far too stubborn for your own good. You could have simply asked me.”
Her chin lifts. “I didn’t need to.”
I look at her for a long moment, taking in the way she holds her ground even when she knows she’s caught. That fire in her—that refusal to yield—is infuriating, yes, but it’s also magnetic.
I lower the book finally, pressing it gently into her hands. “There. Consider it a royal favor.”
She takes it from me quickly, hugging it to her chest like I might change my mind and steal it again. Then she looks up, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“Immensely,” I admit without hesitation.
Her lips twitch, as though she’s trying very hard not to smile. And for a moment, the air between us feels lighter, easier. She shakes her head, murmuring something under her breath about childish kings.
I don’t correct her.
Because maybe she’s right. Maybe with her, I allow myself the rare luxury of being less than a king. Maybe with her, I am allowed to be simply a man who teases, who enjoys the way her cheeks flush, who feels a quiet thrill at making her flustered.
I should step back. Give her space. Let her bury herself in that book she wanted so badly. That’s what a sensible man would do.
But sense has very little say when it comes to Meher.
She stands there, her dupatta slipping slightly as she clutches the book to her chest, her lips pursed in what she probably thinks is indignation but looks far too close to a smile. The lamplight overhead softens the edges of her face, catches in the dark of her eyes.
I lean in just a little, lowering my voice. “You know,” I say, “for someone who claims she doesn’t need help, you’re holding that book as though it’s been rescued from a great villain.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “Maybe it has.”
I chuckle. “Am I the villain in this story now?”
“Never, Raja-sa.” She smiles up at me.
Her words hang between us. I take another step forward. She doesn’t move back.
Her chin tilts up, just slightly, but enough for me to see the rapid pulse fluttering at her throat. She looks steady on the outside, but I know better now—I know her tells. The way her fingers tighten imperceptibly around the spine of the book, the way her breaths come a fraction too quick.
Close enough now, I lower my voice further. “Do you know what makes you most impossible, Meher?”
She swallows. “What?”
“That you make me forget,” I murmur, “that I am supposed to be anything but this—a man standing too close to a woman in a library.”
Her eyes widen, but not with fear. Something else flickers there. Something that looks a lot like the same pull dragging at me.
I could step back. I should.
But instead, I reach out. Slowly, deliberately, I brush a strand of hair away from her cheek. My knuckles graze her skin, warm, soft. She doesn’t flinch.
Her lips part. Just slightly.
The air between us crackles. And then she rises—on the faintest tip of her toes—and before I can register it, she presses her mouth to mine.
It’s brief. Startling. A whisper of a kiss, as if she’s testing the air, as if she might run.
But she doesn’t get the chance.
The shock melts in me almost instantly, replaced by something far stronger. I reach for her, my hand cupping the back of her head, my other arm pulling her against me as though I can anchor us both. This time, when my mouth finds hers, it’s not tentative. It’s hungry, unguarded, alive.
She responds with equal fervor, the book slipping from her grip, forgotten, thudding against the floor. Her hands clutch the front of my coat, not pushing away, but pulling closer, as if she’s afraid I might disappear.
The kiss is not perfect—it’s real. Breathless, a little clumsy, full of all the things we haven’t said. And god, it’s better for it.
When I finally pull back, we’re both unsteady. Her forehead rests against mine, her breaths mingling with mine, her cheeks flushed.
I let a small laugh escape, low and disbelieving, as I murmur, “If this is what I get for fetching you a book, Meher… then I’ll keep rescuing them off shelves for the rest of my life.”
Her lips twitch, caught between outrage and a smile, and I know in that moment—I’ve never wanted to be anyone else, anywhere else.