The glow of the royal bath still lingered on Ruhanika’s skin as she walked silently back to her chambers, her robe clinging to her damp curves, her body sated but her heart confused.

Every time Rudra touched her, she forgot how to hate him.

And that terrified her.

The next day, the palace was alive with political murmurs. Word had spread that Rudra Singh Rathore had summoned emissaries from neighboring kingdoms, including some once aligned with her father. Ruhanika, draped in a crimson silk saree and seated in the harem garden, overheard the whispers—how the warlord was making alliances, building something bigger.

It unsettled her.

She found him in the durbar hall later that evening, surrounded by ministers, generals, and lords. His presence dominated the room, his voice low and commanding. But when his eyes met hers across the stone chamber, he dismissed them all with a wave of his hand.

The hall emptied quickly.

“You summoned allies from Bundelkhand and Sindh without telling me?” she asked, walking toward him, her chin high.

He leaned back on his throne, one brow raised. “I didn’t know I needed your permission to rule my kingdom.”

She stopped in front of him, fists clenched. “You married a princess. A strategist. I’m not here to warm your bed alone.”

Rudra stood slowly. “Is that what this is about?”

“Do you think I want to play the passive doll while you parade your power around?” she snapped. “If you don’t want my mind, then say it. But don’t take me into bed and pretend I don’t matter when the sun rises.”

The words hung in the air—sharp, cutting. She hadn’t meant to say them all, but they had burst out like a storm breaking over calm water.

Rudra’s face darkened. “You think this is just about the bed?”

“You tell me,” she said coldly. “Because outside it, I’m nothing more than your conquest.”

He reached her in two strides. His hand caught her wrist—not roughly, but with force enough to remind her of who he was.

“I don’t share power lightly,” he growled. “And I don’t give respect to those who haven't proven they can wield it.”

She jerked free. “Then stop calling me your queen.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger.

Hurt.

And that surprised her more than anything.

He turned away. For a long moment, he stared at the carved wall panels behind his throne, then spoke, his voice low. “Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing to me, Ruhanika?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You speak like fire. You move like temptation. And every time I try to take control, you make me question everything.”

He turned back to her, stepping close again, slower this time. “You want power? Then take it. Prove yourself. Challenge me. Rule beside me.”

She stared at him, uncertain whether it was a trap or a rare moment of honesty.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“You should be,” he replied, voice rough. “Because I’m already losing myself in you.”

Their breaths mingled. The fury between them sparked again, but this time it smoldered instead of burned.

But she wouldn’t fall into him again. Not tonight.

“I want my own council,” she said. “I want access to the archives. And I want to meet the emissaries myself.”

Rudra’s jaw tightened. He hesitated—then nodded.

“Done.”

She didn’t expect him to yield. The victory unsettled her more than the fight.

“And one more thing,” he added. “Tonight, you sleep alone.”

A flicker of challenge lit her eyes. “Good. I wasn’t planning to come anyway.”

She turned and walked out, her hips swaying with deliberate defiance.

But her heart pounded like a war drum, echoing all the questions she couldn’t yet answer.

Why did it hurt to be apart from a man she was supposed to hate?

Why did her body still ache for his, even through the fury?

And why—why did she want him to chase after her, pull her back, and claim her again?

That night, she lay in her chamber alone.

Restless.

Unsatisfied.

And he didn’t come.