CHAPTER 41
Summer Rain
DEVRAJ
The day begins like any other, neat boxes checked off a list. Meetings, phone calls, numbers lined up in neat columns, and faces waiting for decisions. My pen moves across papers with practiced efficiency, the way my life usually moves—calculated, measured, controlled.
I like it this way. Order suits me. Control is comfort.
But summer has its own mind.
By mid-afternoon, the air grows heavy, pressing down on the palace courtyard like an invisible hand. Even from my study, I can hear the faint grumble of thunder rolling over the desert sky. I glance at the clock—an hour until my next call. Enough time to clear my head.
And enough time to check on her.
Meher.
She’s become the disruption I allow myself without even realizing it. No one has to remind me to spend time with her. I don’t need prompting. I find myself walking toward our wing naturally, like it’s the most logical item on my list.
I follow the sound, my brows drawing together. She’s standing in the open courtyard, hair damp, arms outstretched, as though the downpour has been waiting only for her. Her dupatta clings to her shoulders, caught against the breeze, and droplets trace down the curve of her face.
She sees me standing under the archway, dry, composed, and arms folded. And she smiles like it’s a challenge.
“Come on, Raja-sa,” she calls out, voice bright over the rain.
I shake my head once. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Her laugh peals across the courtyard, lighter than the storm. “You sound like an old man.”
I arch a brow. “And you sound like a child who doesn’t know better.”
She flicks her wrist, sending a spray of water in my direction. It doesn’t reach me, but the intent is clear. Mischief dances in her eyes.
“Scared?” she asks, tilting her chin.
“Of what?”
“Of a little rain.”
I should turn back. I should tell her to come inside. But my feet carry me forward anyway, one step, then another, until I’m no longer safe under the arch. The first drop splashes against my cheek, warm and heavy. Then another. And another.
Her smile widens in triumph. “There he is.”
The rain soaks through my shirt almost instantly, plastering it to my skin. It should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t. Not when she’s here, spinning slowly in the courtyard like she belongs to the weather itself.
“You’re absurd,” I tell her, though my voice lacks conviction.
“And you,” she counters, “take yourself too seriously.”
Before I can respond, she scoops water in her palms and tosses it at me. It lands squarely against my chest.
I narrow my eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh?” She takes a step back, feigning innocence. “What will you do, Raja-sa? Scold me?”
Instead, I reach for the nearest puddle, splash back with far less restraint. She squeals, laughter bursting out of her as she shields herself poorly with her arms.
“Unfair!” she gasps between giggles.
“All’s fair,” I reply evenly, “in war.”
Her eyes sparkle. “So this is war?”
The challenge hangs between us. Then she lunges, sending another wave of water my way. I retaliate instantly, and suddenly the dignified courtyard of the palace has turned into a battlefield of splashes and laughter.
Her laughter does something to me. I can feel it tugging at a part of me I usually keep locked, the part that remembers what it’s like to be young, unburdened, uncalculated. My chest aches with it in the best way.
She stumbles at one point, her sandals slipping against the wet stone, and instinct takes over—I grab her wrist, pulling her steady against me. She collides into my chest with a surprised gasp.
The rain falls harder now, drumming against the ground, against us. For a second, neither of us moves. Her hair clings to her face, lashes spiked with droplets, and she looks up at me with that infuriating mix of defiance and vulnerability that I can never seem to guard myself against.
“You’re soaked,” I murmur, though it’s obvious.
“So are you.”
I almost laugh at that. My grip loosens, but I don’t step back. Neither does she.
Her hand rests lightly against my arm, and though it could have been a casual touch, it doesn’t feel casual at all. There’s something charged in the air—whether it’s the storm or her, I can’t decide.
“You’re smiling,” she says softly, as if she’s caught me breaking a rule.
I hadn’t realized I was. But she’s right. A rare, unguarded smile pulls at my mouth, one that I don’t have to think about, one that feels…easy.
“I suppose you bring out the worst in me,” I tell her.
She tilts her head. “If this is your worst, I’ll take it.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I only know that the warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with the season and everything to do with the woman standing in front of me.
The thunder rumbles overhead again, louder this time, but all I hear is her laugh when she pulls away and splashes me once more, lighter this time, playful.
“You’re relentless,” I say, shaking my head, though my tone is softer now.
“And you,” she grins, “finally decided to live a little.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe this—her, us, the storm—isn’t on my list of controlled, predictable things. But as I watch her twirl once more in the rain, hands lifted, joy radiating off her, I realize I don’t mind the disruption.
In fact, I crave it. I crave her. I crave to be her husband, for her to give me that title. Not any circumstance, not people, but for her to accept me as her husband. And I would be the happiest man alive when that day arrives.