CHAPTER 41
It was morning.
Yamini sat alone in the eastern sitting room, a breakfast tray untouched in front of her. The tea had gone cold. Sheru pawed lazily at a slice of bread, tail flicking.
Beyond the tall windows, the mountains were pale gold in the early light. Snow glittered. Pine trees stood perfectly still.
She hadn't slept well the previous night.
Her mind kept returning to the factory incident and what followed after.
By the time they landed within the palace gates, the man who had pulled her through chaos and single-handedly fought four men had already disappeared.
In his place, once again stood the cold, controlled maharaja. He had stepped out of the helicopter, issued two precise instructions to security, walked straight toward his office, and offered no explanation.
“Arrogant,” she muttered to Sheru, who was not listening. “Cold. Insufferable.”
He could move through a crisis without breaking pace. He could clear a factory floor with two snapped fingers. He could fight multiple men on his own.
But he did not get to decide how she felt about any of it.
The door opened behind her.
Yamini didn’t turn. “I'll clear it myself,” she said, assuming it was palace staff coming for the tray.
“Wear this,” a familiar, deep voice commanded.
Her fingers tightened around the teacup.
She turned.
Bharat stood in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He wore dark riding trousers tucked into heavy boots dusted with frost, and a charcoal wool sweater.
He looked younger. And somehow more dangerous for it.
He was holding a long winter coat.
“I'm not going anywhere,” she said coolly.
He stepped forward. His movements were neither hurried nor irritated. He simply appeared certain.
The coat settled over her shoulders before she could move back. Thick fabric, fur-lined at the collar. His hands slid down her arms as he adjusted it.
“I said—”
“We're leaving.”
He buttoned it halfway himself, close enough that she felt his breath against her temple and smelled cool mint and leather.
Her pulse misbehaved.
Before she could argue again, his hand closed around hers. He led her through the side corridor and out into the sharp mountain morning before she could argue further.
The cold hit immediately.
A shiny, brown horse waited near the tree line, breath clouding the air. It snorted when it saw them.
“I haven't ridden in six years,” she said.
He didn't answer. He walked them toward the horse. The stallion's ears went back watching her, until Bharat commanded something low against its neck. The animal stilled immediately.
“I'm not—”
He lifted her onto the saddle, one hand at her waist and the other steadying her knee. The movement was so effortless that it took her breath away slightly.
Before she could settle or protest, he mounted behind her in one smooth motion.
His muscled chest settled against her spine. One arm circled her waist. The other gathered the reins.
“Hold on,” he commanded.
Her fingers immediately closed around the saddle horn.
The horse moved forward.
They rode past the palace gardens and the frost-covered hedges, past low stone walls and the edge of the grounds, and out into the open meadow. Wind cut across her cheeks. The rhythm of hooves was steady against the frozen earth.
Every shift of the horse pressed her back against him. His arm was steady around her, and his thigh firm against hers. Heat came through the layers between them.
She should have demanded answers, and she should have pulled away.
Instead, when the horse jumped a narrow ridge, she leaned back into him slightly.
She hated that she felt safe in his arms.
The meadow opened into a frozen lake.
She hadn't expected it.
The lake stretched wide and pale, reflecting the snow-heavy mountains in broken silver. Chinar trees ringed the edges, bare branches dark against white. It was stunningly beautiful and quiet, as there was no one else around.
He dismounted first and lifted her down. His hands stayed at her waist a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back.
She steadied her breathing.
The silence was immense.
She forced a short laugh. “Is this where you take your revenge? Drown me under the ice lake with no witnesses?”
He didn't smile. He walked straight out toward the center of the lake.
Her breath caught in her chest, looking at him walking over a layer of ice.
“Are you mad?” she called after him.
He glanced back. “No. I had it clinically tested.”
She stood still for a moment, not knowing if it was sarcasm or a strange joke she didn’t understand.
Muttering under her breath about arrogant maharajas, she followed carefully, boots crunching against hardened ice.
At the center, he stopped.
He stamped once with his heel.
The ice answered.
A deep, resonant tone rolled outward beneath their feet—low and layered, almost like temple bells struck somewhere far below the surface. The vibration moved up through her boots and settled beneath her ribs.
He stamped again. The sound shifted, richer, carrying across the frozen expanse and echoing faintly off the mountains.
Yamini exhaled slowly. “What is that?”
“I found it when I was twelve,” he said. “If the ice freezes evenly, it carries sound.”
He didn’t elaborate. He simply watched her reaction.
“Try it,” he said.
She hesitated.
“The ice is three feet thick,” he said. “It’s safe.”
She heard those words, and something moved in her chest. He had said the same thing yesterday in the factory tunnel. You’ll be safe.
Both times, she had believed him immediately.
She stamped once.
The tone rolled out again, deep and clear.
She stamped again, and again, until the lake hummed steadily beneath her feet. She looked up, smiling before she could stop herself.
He was watching her.
He didn’t return the smile. But he looked at her differently here than he did anywhere else. Less like the cold maharaja that everyone knew. More like something she didn’t have a word for yet.
The wind lifted a strand of hair across her face. His hand moved before she saw it coming, brushing it away. The gesture was controlled. Deliberate. But entirely personal.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that the cold between them thinned.
His mouth hovered near hers, close enough that she caught mint and winter air on his breath. Beneath their feet, the lake still hummed faintly.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“From the cold,” she lied.
He didn’t say anything.
His hand pressed into the small of her back and drew her against him. She felt the warmth of him through the layers and, unmistakably, the fact that he was not as composed as he appeared.
She pressed her palm against his chest to steady herself.
His heartbeat hammered hard beneath her hand. It was powerful and alive, nothing like the controlled stillness the world saw.
She had called him cold so many times she had almost believed it.
She looked up at him.
Something unguarded moved across his face for a fraction of a second.
Then he kissed her.
His mouth claimed hers with hunger that cut through winter air, deep and decisive. The lake hummed beneath them as if echoing the force of it.
The cold disappeared. The mountains disappeared.
There was only him.
When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. His forehead stayed close to hers. The ice beneath them had gone quiet.
Her pulse had not.
She stood at the center of the frozen lake and understood something she had been trying not to.
Whatever she felt for him wasn’t fading.
It was only getting stronger.