50. CONCESSIONS
DIYA
"If you don't sit still for the next three minutes, Kunwar Sa, I swear I'm going to pour this entire bowl of lentil soup straight onto your expensive linen pants." I point the silver spoon at him like it's a weapon.
We're finally back in our room at the palace, and somehow the mighty Veeraj Singh Shekhawat has decided that one cut on his head and a few bruised ribs give him permission to behave like the biggest man-child I've ever met.
He's propped up against a mountain of pillows, arms folded across his chest, looking at the bowl in my hands as if I've personally betrayed him.
"The soup has absolutely no personality, Diya," he grumbles, his deep voice carrying that familiar stubbornness.
Then a slow smile appears on his face.
Uh-oh.
He leans forward a little despite the obvious pain in his ribs and looks straight at me. "Although . . . " he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "if the beautiful woman holding that spoon is willing to offer a proper concession, I might consider finishing the entire bowl."
Heat rushes straight to my face.
Fantastic.
The man has barely escaped a car accident, and somehow his biggest symptom is shameless flirting.
"You are impossible." I narrow my eyes at him and tap the spoon against the bowl. "Flirting with the person taking care of you while you're supposed to be resting is definitely against palace rules."
I hold the spoon closer to him. "Now stop negotiating and eat."
"I'm only trying to reach a fair compromise, Trouble," he says innocently.
Before I can react, he reaches out and gently wraps his fingers around my wrist. He lowers my hand with the spoon, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the pale patches of vitiligo on my skin.
The simple touch is enough to make my heartbeat stumble.
He leans closer until I can feel his warm breath. "The doctor said I need someone to keep an eye on my heart," he murmurs with a teasing smile. "Every time you blush, my heart feels much better. I'm simply following medical advice."
I stare at him. "Your medical advice is completely fake," I blurt out, trying—and failing—to pull my hand away. "And your recovery plan should honestly be illegal."
I can already feel my face getting hotter.
"You are a menace, Kunwar Sa. Just yesterday you were everyone's terrifying prince. And today you're using one tiny bandage to convince your wife to skip her NGO work."
A quiet laugh escapes him.
It's probably my favorite sound in the world.
He shifts closer until we're barely a few inches apart.
Then his hand leaves my wrist and gently cups my cheek.
The teasing disappears from his face. His eyes soften.
"I'm not trying to manipulate anyone, darling," he says quietly.
"I'm just a man who spent thirty years living by schedules, meetings, and rules . . . "
His thumb brushes softly across my cheek. " . . . and then one day realized that his whole world is standing in front of him holding a bowl of soup." His voice grows softer. "I missed you. So much."
"Those three days felt longer than I want to admit." He gives me a tiny smile. "Just let me look at you for a while."
Every bit of my determination disappears.
The teasing.
The banter.
Everything fades the moment I hear those words.
I let out a quiet sigh and rest my forehead carefully against his uninjured shoulder. My fingers curl into his shirt without even thinking.
"You really are impossible, Veeraj," I mumble, unable to hide the little laugh that escapes me.
His arms immediately slide around my waist, holding me close.
"But . . . " I smile against his shoulder, " . . . I suppose I'll skip budget reports today."
I lift the spoon again and look up at him. "On one condition."
His eyebrow lifts.
"You finish every last spoonful of this soup."
He smiles, looking far too pleased with himself. "That's a concession I'm more than happy to accept.”