Devasena

42.

The question left Devasena staring at him as though he had personally set the entire palace on fire.

For one long, stunned second, she simply stood there beneath the pavilion, frozen completely motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of her breathing.

The folded angavastram remained clutched tightly against her chest, her fingers pressing into the midnight-blue silk hard enough to wrinkle it slightly while silver moonlight shimmered across the rain-damp marble around them.

Her expression shifted rapidly through disbelief, horror, outrage, and something far more dangerous she refused to name.

"...What?"

The word escaped her faintly.

Not because she meant for it to.

Because her mind had genuinely stopped functioning.

Krishna, meanwhile, looked entirely untroubled by the catastrophe he had just created.

Leaning one shoulder lazily against the carved stone pillar beside him, he regarded her with infuriating calm while the monsoon breeze moved softly through the loose dark curls near his temple.

Moonlight caught against the gold ornaments at his wrists and throat in quiet glimmers, illuminating the faint amusement resting comfortably at the corners of his mouth.

"If it is my gift," he said smoothly, voice low and warm beneath the sound of distant rainwater, "should I not be allowed to wear it?"

Devasena blinked once.

Then again.

Very slowly.

"Now?"

The single word came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

Krishna's smile deepened immediately.

Not broadly.

Worse.

That slow, dangerous curve of amusement that always appeared first in his eyes before it fully reached his mouth.

"Well," he murmured lightly, tilting his head just slightly as though her distress fascinated him endlessly, "unless you intended for me to preserve it untouched forever beneath ceremonial lamps."

"That is not what I—"

"And you chose it so carefully too."

Gods.

There was no surviving this conversation.

Absolutely none.

The cool night air suddenly felt unbearably warm against her skin despite the rain-cooled winds wandering through the gardens.

Somewhere beyond the pavilion, water dripped rhythmically from lotus leaves into the pond below while distant thunder rolled softly across the dark sky, yet Devasena barely heard any of it over the violent pounding of her own heart.

Krishna extended one hand toward her patiently.

The gesture itself was simple.

Yet somehow intimate enough to ruin her entirely.

"So," he said gently, eyes glimmering beneath the moonlight with unmistakable amusement now, "may I have my gift?"

The words should not have sounded intimate.

They absolutely did.

Devasena swallowed hard.

Her throat suddenly felt dry.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around the folded silk before she finally stepped toward him with visible reluctance, every movement betraying the embarrassment burning violently beneath her skin.

The midnight-blue fabric slipped softly through her hands as she held it out toward him.

Careful.

Tentative.

As though handing him the garment directly might somehow expose every thought she had while choosing it.

Most importantly—

she refused to look directly at his face while doing so.

Unfortunately Krishna noticed that immediately.

"You cannot even look at me now?" he asked mildly.

The amusement in his voice deepened further.

Devasena glared somewhere near his shoulder instead.

"I regret every decision that led me here."

His laugh came soft and low again.

Warm enough to make everything significantly worse.

"I do not."

Of course he didn't.

Why would Vasudev Krishna suffer when the gods themselves clearly enjoyed humiliating her for sport?

He took the angavastram carefully from her hands then.

And for one fleeting moment—

their fingers brushed.

Barely.

Just the lightest accidental graze of skin against skin.

Yet Devasena's breath caught immediately anyway.

The reaction betrayed her instantly.

Krishna noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flickered sharply toward her face for the briefest second before something quieter settled beneath his teasing expression.

Something slower.

Something infinitely more dangerous than amusement alone.

Then, deliberately unfolding the garment beneath the silver moonlight, he glanced down at it once more.

The fabric truly was beautiful.

Deep ocean-blue silk softened by silver embroidery flowing elegantly along the edges like moonlit waves drifting across dark water. No excessive gemstones. No heavy ceremonial embellishments. No overwhelming royal grandeur.

Just elegance.

Softness.

Intimacy.

The kind of garment chosen by someone thinking not about court appearances—

but about the person wearing it.

Krishna's fingers moved slowly over the silver embroidery, his thumb tracing the delicate threadwork with surprising care.

Then he looked back at her.

"You imagined this," he said softly.

It was not a question.

Devasena looked scandalized instantly.

"I did not."

"Mm."

"I only thought the color would suit you."

Krishna's gaze sharpened immediately.

"Which required imagining me in it."

Her silence betrayed her at once.

Krishna's smile deepened.

Gods.

Why was he like this?

Before she could recover, he shifted the folded angavastram over one arm before lifting his gaze toward her again with dangerous calm.

"Help me wear it."

The world stopped.

Entirely.

Devasena stared at him so hard it almost looked physically painful.

"...Help you what?"

Krishna remained perfectly composed.

"Wear it."

"What right now?"

The horrified disbelief in her voice nearly ruined his composure entirely.

Moonlight flickered across his face as laughter threatened visibly behind his eyes, though he restrained it this time into something softer.

"You seem distressed, Rajkumari."

"Because you are speaking madness."

"You gifted me clothing."

"In privacy! Respectfully!"

"And now," Krishna replied smoothly, unfolding part of the silk with deliberate ease, "I wish to wear it respectfully."

"There is nothing respectful about this conversation anymore."

Krishna actually laughed then.

Quietly at first.

Then properly.

The sound echoed warm and rich beneath the pavilion roof while the monsoon wind stirred the jasmine vines overhead, scattering droplets onto the marble floor around them.

And Devasena felt her pulse stumble violently because gods—

she had never been the reason for that laughter before.

Never like this.

Never because he looked at her as though she personally amused him more than kingdoms ever could.

"You are cruel," she informed him immediately.

"I am delighted," he corrected.

"That is worse."

"Perhaps slightly."

The pond rippled quietly behind them while moonlight scattered silver across the dark water, and Krishna finally pushed himself away from the stone pillar before stepping closer again, the folded angavastram resting loosely within his hands now.

Too close.

Entirely too close.

Devasena could smell sandalwood again.

Rain.

The faint lingering smoke from evening temple rituals woven into the darker warmth of his skin.

It unsettled her instantly.

"You truly refuse?" he asked softly.

His tone had changed again.

Less teasing now.

Quieter.

More intimate somehow.

Which only made everything catastrophically worse.

Devasena looked anywhere except directly at him, though that became increasingly difficult when he stood this near beneath the moonlit pavilion shadows.

"I have never helped a man dress in my life," she muttered weakly.

Krishna tilted his head slightly.

"That sounds less like refusal and more like unfortunate lack of experience."

Her eyes widened immediately in pure offense.

"Madhav!"

That only encouraged him further.

"What?" he asked innocently. "You accuse me of jealousy, secretly buy me intimate garments, then flee into gardens at midnight to hide evidence of your crimes. Surely I am allowed some amusement."

"I committed no crime."

"You imagined me wearing this."

"I hate you."

"No," Krishna murmured softly, his eyes darkening with unmistakable satisfaction now, "that is very clearly not the problem here."

The words landed directly beneath her ribs.

Hard.

Because suddenly the teasing no longer felt harmless.

Not entirely.

There was still warmth in his expression.

Still laughter lingering at the edges of his mouth.

But beneath it now rested awareness.

Of her.

Of himself.

Of this strange unnamed thing steadily unfolding between them beneath moonlight and monsoon wind.

Devasena felt it immediately.

And perhaps Krishna did too.

The silence stretched.

Heavy now.

Breathing.

Alive.

The sound of dripping rainwater outside the pavilion suddenly seemed painfully loud.

Then finally—

mercifully—

Krishna exhaled softly before stepping back half a pace, easing the tension before it consumed her entirely.

His smile gentled afterward.

"Relax," he said quietly. "I will survive one night without assistance."

Devasena nearly sagged in relief.

Until—

"Though," he added thoughtfully while unfolding part of the silk across his arm, "I must admit I am curious about something."

She narrowed her eyes instantly.

"That sentence never leads anywhere good."

Krishna ignored this completely.

"When you chose it," he murmured, glancing briefly down at the midnight-blue fabric before lifting his gaze toward her again, "did you imagine me with my hair tied back or loose?"

Silence.

Pure silence.

Absolute devastating silence.

Devasena stared at him in complete horror.

Then—

without a single word—

she turned and walked straight out of the pavilion.

Though , she returned quick taking the angavastra placing it over his silks , folding it. She could feel her body heating .

How embarrassing.

One eye contact , that was all it was too intimate. Too close she thought.

Quickly , maintaining her distance she ran away , her anklets humming into the rhythm of her steps.

Krishna's laughter followed her all the way through the moonlit gardens.

The pavilion fell quiet after she disappeared.

Not empty.

Never empty.

Because Devasena's presence lingered everywhere she had touched.

In the trembling jasmine vines stirred by her hurried departure.

In the faint chiming echo of anklets that had only just faded into the sleeping gardens.

In the warmth still trapped within the midnight-blue silk resting against Krishna's skin.

And most dangerously—

in him.

Krishna remained exactly where she had left him beneath the moonlit pavilion, one hand still loosely holding the edge of the angavastram near his shoulder while cool monsoon wind drifted slowly through the open arches around him.

Beyond the pavilion the lotus pond shimmered silver beneath the night sky, disturbed occasionally by droplets of rainwater falling from overfilled leaves into the dark water below.

Somewhere distant thunder rolled again.

Soft.

Lingering.

The kind that never quite became a storm.

A slow smile remained at the corner of his mouth for several long moments after Devasena vanished down the marble pathway.

Not teasing now.

Not entirely.

Something quieter.

Something almost disbelieving.

Then finally—

very softly—

Krishna laughed again under his breath.

Gods.

The look on her face.

That horrified scandalized expression when he asked if she imagined him with his hair tied back or loose—

He closed his eyes briefly, lowering his head for a moment as another quiet laugh escaped him.

Cruel.

Perhaps slightly.

Worth it entirely.

Because Devasena had looked at him tonight with an honesty so raw it still lingered beneath his skin now like warmth after fire.

No calculation.

No performance.

No practiced charm.

Just devastatingly visible feeling.

Krishna lifted one hand absently toward the angavastram draped across his shoulder then, fingers brushing slowly over the silver embroidery she had chosen so carefully.

And immediately—

his expression softened.

The fabric truly suited him.

She had been right about that.

The silk was lighter than ceremonial royal cloth, softer too, flowing naturally across his body instead of sitting stiffly like garments chosen for court appearances.

The deep ocean-blue darkened beautifully beneath moonlight, while the silver embroidery curved along the borders like moving water beneath stars.

Elegant.

Intimate.

Chosen with attention.

Chosen while thinking about him.

That realization settled through him again—

slowly this time.

Not shocking anymore.

Something warmer.

Krishna leaned back lightly against the carved stone pillar behind him while staring down at the silver-threaded edge resting across his wrist.

"She imagined me in this," he murmured softly to himself.

The words should not have pleased him this much.

Yet they did.

Entirely too much.

His thumb moved once over the embroidery again, remembering the way her hands trembled while arranging the folds across his shoulder only moments earlier.

The way she avoided looking directly at him.

The way her breathing visibly faltered each time their fingers brushed.

And gods—

the way she looked at him afterward.

That final look.

Krishna's expression changed almost imperceptibly at the memory.

Because that had not been embarrassment alone.

He knew the difference.

He had spent his entire life surrounded by admiration, infatuation, desire, devotion. He knew exactly how people looked at him when captivated by image or legend or charm.

This had not been that.

Devasena looked at him like the realization frightened her.

Like she had not meant for this to happen either.

And somehow—

that affected him far more than it should have.

The night wind shifted harder suddenly through the pavilion, stirring loose strands of dark hair across his forehead while nearby oil lamps flickered gold against wet marble.

Krishna straightened slowly from the pillar afterward before walking toward the open edge of the pavilion overlooking the lotus pond.

Moonlight silvered the water beautifully tonight.

For a long moment he simply stood there in silence.

Then his reflection caught faintly in the pond below.

Dark curls loosened by wind.

Blue silk draped across his shoulders.

Silver embroidery gleaming beneath moonlight.

Krishna looked down at himself wearing her gift and felt something strange tighten quietly beneath his ribs again.

Not jealousy this time.

Something infinitely more dangerous.

Fondness.

Real and growing and far too quick.

He exhaled softly through his nose.

"This," he murmured quietly, almost amused with himself now, "is becoming a problem."

Because he wanted to see her reaction again.

Wanted to watch her eyes widen the next time she saw him wearing it publicly.

Wanted to lean closer just to watch her lose composure.

Wanted—

Krishna stopped the thought immediately.

Then failed not to smile anyway.

The memory returned uninvited once more—

Devasena muttering I spent too much money on this for you to wear it badly before realizing what she said.

Gods.

He laughed again quietly, lowering his head briefly.

No queen had ever confessed affection to him by accident before.

That alone felt absurdly endearing.

A soft sound disturbed the silence then.

Footsteps.

Far away.

One of the palace guards changing positions near the outer corridor.

Krishna glanced toward the sound automatically before his attention drifted once more toward the direction Devasena had fled earlier.

She had practically escaped the pavilion.

Actually escaped.

Face burning.

Unable to even look at him properly by the end.

And yet—

she came back.

That mattered.

Krishna's gaze lowered briefly toward the angavastram again.

Then slowly—

very slowly—

his smile softened into something almost helpless.

"She likes me," he said quietly to the empty moonlit garden.

Not arrogant.

Not smug.

Almost startled by the realization now that he allowed himself to sit with it fully.

Devasena liked him.

Enough to imagine him while choosing silk beneath marketplace lanterns.

Enough to secretly hide the gift like treasured contraband.

Enough to forget how to breathe while looking at him wearing it.

And gods help him—

he liked her too.

The awareness settled finally and completely somewhere deep within him beneath the sound of rainwater and distant thunder.

Warm.

Certain.

Alive.

Krishna lifted his hand once more toward the silver-embroidered edge resting against his shoulder before smiling faintly to himself.

Then, very softly beneath the moonlit stillness of sleeping Vanga—

"Madhav," he repeated under his breath, remembering the scandalized outrage in her voice when she had said it earlier.

And somehow—

he had never liked hearing his own name more.