Rudra’s Perspective

Rudra’s eyes stayed locked on mine in the mirror, his large hands resting heavily—yet with feather-light pressure—on my shoulders. The "Ice King" was nowhere to be found; in his place was a man intoxicated by the sight of his wife dismantling her royal armor.

"You know, Jaana," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum against my neck. "Watching you take off all this gold is almost more dangerous for my self-control than watching you put it on."

"Rudra, stop being so... so *you*," I breathed, my fingers trembling as I unhooked the heavy emerald necklace. "My back is already killing me, and your 'staring' isn't helping the muscle tension."

He let out a dark, velvety chuckle and leaned down, pressing a lingering, searing kiss to the slope of my shoulder, right where the heavy fabric had left a faint red mark. "Then let me help. I’m a very efficient assistant when I want to be."

I managed to get the heavy earrings and the *mathapatti* off, but then I looked at my reflection and winced. My diamond **Nath** (nose ring) was caught. Usually, it was easy, but because I had just gotten my **nose pierced last month**, the skin was still tender, and the delicate chain was tangled in a stray curl of my hair.

"Rudra... help me with this," I whispered, my hand hovering near my face. "Be careful, please. The piercing is still fresh... it really hurts if it's pulled."

The teasing smirk vanished instantly. His expression shifted into that **ruthless concern** I had come to recognize. He turned my chair around so I was facing him, then dropped to his knees between my legs, bringing his **6'3" frame** down to my level.

"Why didn't you tell me it was still sore?" he growled softly, his **ocean blue eyes** scanning my face with clinical precision.

"I didn't want to complain... the ceremony was important," I murmured.

"Nothing is more important than you being in pain, Ishita. Not even tradition." His hands, usually so firm and commanding, became impossibly gentle. He cupped my face, his large palms warm against my cheeks, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones to steady me.

"Stay still, *jaan*," he commanded in a velvet whisper.

He leaned in close—so close I could see the dark ring around his blue irises. His breath, smelling of mint and coffee, fanned over my lips. I watched his focused expression as his long fingers worked on the tiny, intricate clasp of the diamond ring.

"Rudra... *ah*... careful," I winced as he shifted the metal.

"I’ve got it. Shh..." He paused, not pulling away. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed a butterfly-light kiss to the tip of my nose, right next to the piercing. "Better?"

"A little," I whispered, my heart thundering against my ribs.

With a final, expert flick of his thumb, the clasp clicked open. He slid the diamond ring out of the piercing with the grace of a surgeon. As soon as it was out, he didn't put it on the vanity. He held it in his palm, then looked back at my nose, seeing the slight redness.

"It's a bit inflamed," he noted, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned in again, but this time, he didn't kiss my nose. He pressed a soft, warm kiss to my cheek, then another to the corner of my mouth. "Does the 'Pati Parmeshwar' need to go find some antiseptic, or will my 'healing touch' suffice for now?"

"You are so **shameless**, Rudra Singh Rathore," I giggled, my hands landing on his broad shoulders. "First you massage my feet, now you're acting like a doctor?"

"I’m whatever you need me to be," he replied, his smirk returning as he stood up, pulling me up with him. He didn't let go of my waist. "But since the 'doctor' has finished his rounds, I think the 'husband' wants his reward for being so patient with those seventy-two pins."

I turned back to the mirror to start wiping away my makeup, my **mehndi-stained hands** grabbing a cotton pad. "Wait! I still have a face full of makeup. I look like a mess."

Rudra stood behind me again, watching as the layers of kajal and foundation came off, revealing my natural brown skin and the dark circles of exhaustion under my eyes. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.

"You don't look like a mess," he said, his voice raw and honest. "You look like mine. And honestly? I prefer the woman who scratches my back over the princess who dances for the world."

I leaned my head back against his chest, looking at him through the mirror. "Even with the messy hair and the red nose?"

"Especially with the red nose," he teased, nipping at my shoulder again. "Now, hurry up. If you take any longer with that cleanser, I might just carry you to the bed—makeup and all."

"You wouldn't dare! The silk sheets!" I gasped, finally laughing.

"Try me, Mrs. Rathore," he challenged, his hands sliding down to the *dori* of my lehenga. "I’m very good at making executive decisions."

💖 Ishita’s Perspective

I felt the cool marble of the vanity beneath me, but the heat radiating from Rudra’s body made the air feel thick and electric. He was everywhere—his scent, his weight, his overwhelming presence. He wasn't just kissing me; he was reclaiming me, one inch of skin at a time.

His lips were soft yet demanding, moving against mine with a rhythmic, hungry intensity. Every time I tried to pull back to take a breath, he would tilt my head back, his fingers tangling in my **long curly hair** to hold me right where he wanted me. His lips tasted of the coffee he’d had earlier and the dark, intoxicating sweetness that was uniquely him.

The kiss deepened, becoming wet and carnal. I could feel the slide of his tongue against mine, a slow, deliberate intrusion that made my toes curl against his silk trousers. Our saliva mingled, a messy, intimate reminder of how completely he wanted to consume me.

"Rudra... *mmph*... wait," I tried to murmur against his mouth.

He didn't listen. He moved his lips to my jawline, sucking gently on the skin just below my ear, making a soft, needy sound vibrate in his chest. His large, calloused hands were sliding up my thighs, the fabric of my heavy lehenga rustling loudly in the quiet room.

"Rudra, the makeup... it's getting... *ah*... on your shirt," I panted, my hands clutching his **muscular shoulders**.

He pulled back just an inch, his **ocean blue eyes** dark with a **ruthless** passion, his lips swollen and glistening from our kiss. "I don't care about the shirt, Ishita. I care about the woman wearing it," he rasped, before diving back in to capture my lower lip between his teeth, tugging it gently.

I was drowning in him, but a small, mischievous part of me wanted to poke the lion. I wanted to see if I could break this intense, predatory spell he was under.

As he moved to kiss the sensitive hollow of my throat, I leaned back, a teasing, playful smirk touching my lips. "Aapko sach mein apni is 'Middle-class' aur 'Brown' biwi se itna pyaar hai? (Do you really love your middle-class and brown wife this much?)" I whispered, my voice dripping with faux-innocence. "I mean... as your Bua said, I’m just a model who paints faces. Are you sure you don't want a 'High-class' Princess instead, Mr. Rathore?"

The effect was instantaneous.

The warmth vanished. The soft, hungry rhythm of his breathing stopped. I felt his entire **6'3" muscular frame** stiffen, his muscles turning into cold, hard granite.

Rudra pulled back slowly. The dazed, romantic look in his blue eyes was gone, replaced by a flash of raw, **ruthless anger** that made my breath hitch. His jaw was set so tight I could see a muscle jumping in his cheek. He didn't let go of me; instead, his grip on my waist tightened until it was almost bruising, his fingers digging into my skin.

"Don't," he said, his voice no longer a velvet whisper but a low, dangerous hiss that vibrated through my bones.

"Rudra, I was just—"

"I said *don't*, Ishita," he interrupted, his eyes boring into mine with a cold fury that reminded me exactly why the world feared the 'Ice King.' "Do not ever repeat those words in this room. Do not give that woman’s venom a place in our sanctuary."

He looked down at me, his chest heaving with a mix of leftover passion and fresh rage. "You think this is a joke? You think my love for you is something that can be compared to 'stature' or 'class'?"

I realized I had pushed too hard. The playful banter had hit a nerve I didn't know was so raw. His **ocean blue eyes** weren't just mad; they were hurt—deeply, fundamentally hurt that I would even joke about the things that had caused us three years of separation.

"Rudra... I’m sorry, I was just teasing," I whispered, reaching out to touch his face, but he jerked his head away, his expression heartless and stone-cold.

"The 'middle-class' girl I fell in love with is the only reason I’m still a man and not a machine, Ishita," he growled, stepping back from the counter and leaving me feeling suddenly cold. "If you think so lowly of yourself—or of my choice—then maybe I haven't worshipped you enough yet."

He turned his back to me, his broad shoulders tensed as he gripped the edge of the vanity, his knuckles turning white. The silence in the room was no longer intimate; it was suffocating.

I stared at his tensed back, my heart sinking. I had tried to be playful, but I had accidentally stepped on a landmine of his trauma and pride. The silence in the suite was deafening, the only sound being the ticking of the clock and my own shallow breathing.

"Rudra..." I whispered, sliding off the marble counter. My legs felt weak, the **soreness in my core** returning as my feet hit the plush carpet. I walked over and pressed my body against his back, wrapping my arms around his broad, rock-hard waist. "I’m sorry. I was being stupid. I didn't mean it."

He didn't move. He didn't even place his hands over mine. He felt like a statue carved from ice. "Go finish cleaning your face, Ishita," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth.

The rejection stung. My own **stubbornness**—the same grit that helped me survive three years without him—flared up. If he wanted to be the "Cold-hearted Prince," then fine. Two can play that game.

"Fine," I snapped, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. "If you want to be a wall, be a wall."

I stomped back to the vanity, grabbed the cleanser, and began to scrub at my face with unnecessary force. I looked at his reflection; he was still standing there, but his **ocean blue eyes** were watching my every aggressive movement in the mirror. He was getting even angrier seeing me handle myself so roughly.

I ignored him, reaching back to pull at the **72 pins** in my hair, wincing as I accidentally yanked a clump of my **long curly hair**.

"Ishita, stop," he warned, his voice a low growl.

"Why? I’m just a 'middle-class' girl, remember? I don't need a Prince to help me," I provoked him, my eyes burning with unshed tears as I struggled with the heavy silk of my dupatta.

That was the breaking point.

In a blur of motion, he was behind me. Before I could blink, he spun me around, his hands pinning my wrists to the vanity. His face was inches from mine, his nostrils flaring.

"You want to play with fire?" he hissed.

He didn't wait for an answer. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and **bit me**. It wasn't a gentle nip; it was a sharp, possessive claim that made me gasp, a mix of pain and a jolt of pure electricity shooting through my spine.

"Rudra!" I choked out.

"Mine," he muttered against my skin, his teeth grazing the mark he’d just made.

His hands left my wrists and moved with **ruthless** efficiency to the back of my neck. With one sharp tug, he **loosened the strings of my blouse**. I felt the silk go slack, the weight of the heavy embroidery pulling the fabric down.

I tried to turn away, my stubborn pride still fighting, but he wouldn't let me. His large, warm hand **slid inside the front of my blouse**, his palm making direct contact with the sensitive skin of my breast.

"Aah... Rudra..." A broken moan escaped my lips, my head falling back against his shoulder.

His hand moved with a **shameless** possessiveness, his fingers tracing the curve of my breast, his thumb brushing against the peak through the thin lace of my inner-wear. The contrast between his cold, angry gaze in the mirror and the scorching heat of his hand inside my clothes was too much.

"Say it again," he commanded, his lips hovering over the bite mark on my neck. "Tell me again who you belong to."

"You... I’m yours," I sobbed out, my anger melting into a desperate need for his touch. My hands found his hair, pulling him closer. "Rudra, please..."

"I don't care about the world, Ishita," he rasped, his hand tightening its grip on me, pulling my **thin, slim figure** so tight against his **muscular chest** that I could feel his heartbeat thudding like a war drum. "But if you ever doubt your worth to me again, I will spend the rest of the night reminding you exactly why I’d kill for you."

The cold marble of the vanity was a stark contrast to the inferno Rudra was igniting under my skin. I was trapped between the hard stone and his even harder body, my breath hitching as his hand continued its **shameless** exploration inside my loosened blouse.

"Rudra... wait," I gasped, my fingers digging into his forearms, feeling the thick veins and solid muscle.

"No more waiting," he growled against my ear, his voice a dark, gravelly vibration.

He didn't pull his hand out. Instead, he used his other hand to sweep everything off the vanity—bottles f expensive perfumes and jars of cream crashed to the carpet with muffled thuds. He lifted me effortlessly, seating me back on the marble surface, spreading my legs so he could step into the space between them. The heavy, gold-embroidered silk of my lehenga bunched up around my hips, leaving my **shaking thighs** exposed to the cool air of the room.

In the mirror, I saw a version of myself I didn't recognize. My **long curly hair** was a wild halo around my face, my **brown skin** flushed a deep, feverish rose. Behind me, Rudra looked like a man possessed. His **ocean blue eyes** were fixed on our reflection, watching his own large, pale hand disappear into the emerald silk of my bodice.

"Look at yourself, Ishita," he commanded, his voice dropping to a hypnotic whisper. "Look at how you look when I touch you. Does this look like 'middle-class' to you? This is royalty. This is mine."

He leaned forward, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind my ear again, while his thumb moved with a **ruthless** rhythm against the peak of my breast. I let out a loud, uninhibited moan, my back arching until my chest was pressed fully into his palm.

"Rudra... please... *it hurts*... and it feels too good," I sobbed, my eyes fluttering shut.

"Open your eyes," he snapped gently, his teeth nipping at my jaw. "I want you to see exactly what you do to me."

He withdrew his hand from my blouse, but only for a second. Before I could catch my breath, he gripped the front of my silk bodice and pulled, the fabric straining against the pressure. His other hand found the hem of my lehenga, sliding up past my knees, his calloused skin grazing my inner thighs.

"You wanted to tease me?" he rasped, his gaze dropping to my lips, which were swollen and red from his earlier assault. "You wanted to remind me of the poison my Bua spewed?"

He leaned in, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that tasted of salt, fire, and fury. It wasn't poetic; it was a desperate, **intense** reclamation. His tongue fought with mine, demanding total surrender. I felt my **mehndi-stained hands** clawing at his emerald sherwani, trying to pull him closer, to bridge the agonizing gap between us.

He broke the kiss, trailing a path of fire down my neck to the bite mark he’d left earlier. He licked the spot, his tongue soothing the sting before he bit it again, harder this time.

"Aah! Rudra!" I cried out, my legs tightening around his waist, pulling his **6'3" muscular frame** flush against my core.

"Every mark I leave tonight is a reminder, Ishita," he muttered against my skin, his hand sliding higher up my thigh, dangerously close to the center of my heat. "A reminder that no one—not my family, not yours, not the world—has a say in who you are. You are the Queen of this palace because I placed the crown on your head myself."

His hand finally reached its destination, his fingers brushing against the thin silk of my undergarments. I shattered. My head fell back against the mirror with a soft *thud*, my breath coming in broken, jagged gasps.

"Rudra... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," I whispered, the last of my stubbornness dissolving into the heat of the night.

"Don't be sorry," he whispered back, his eyes softening just a fraction as he looked at my undone state. "Just be mine. Completely. Shamelessly."

👑 Rudra’s Perspective

I watched her in the mirror, my breath hitching at the sight of her total surrender. The fire in my veins wasn't just lust; it was a territorial, **ruthless** need to erase every word that had made her doubt her place beside me.

With a low growl, I reached for the front of her loosened blouse. I didn't care about the delicate silk or the intricate embroidery. I peeled the fabric back, exposing her **brown, satiny skin** to the cool air and my burning gaze. I let the blouse fall to her elbows, leaving her in nothing but her lace bra.

"Rudra..." she whimpered, her voice a broken melody that only fueled my hunger.

I didn't give her a chance to speak. I dipped my head, my mouth finding the soft, aching swell of her breast above the lace. I took her into my mouth, sucking the sensitive skin with a ferocity that made her entire **thin frame** shudder. I wanted to leave a mark there—a dark, violet brand that she would see tomorrow morning and remember exactly who she belongs to.

"Aah! Rudra... *h-haan*..." Her fingers dug into my scalp, her **long curly hair** falling over my hands like silk.

As my mouth worshipped her chest, my hand stayed busy elsewhere. I slid my palm under the silk of her panties. She was already **wet**, a slick heat that coated my fingertips the moment I touched her.

I didn't wait. I pressed my middle finger directly against the center of her heat, rubbing in slow, agonizing circles through the fabric.

"Oh God... Rudra, please!" she cried out, her head thumping back against the vanity mirror. The sound of her **moaning hard** filled the room, echoing against the marble walls.

"You're so wet for me, Ishita," I rasped against her skin, my voice thick with a **shameless** triumph. "Even when you're mad at me, your body knows the truth. It knows you were made for this... for me."

I increased the pressure, my fingers moving faster, rhythmic and relentless. Every time she tried to close her legs, I used my body to push them wider, forcing her to feel every vibration of the friction I was creating. I watched her face in the mirror—her eyes rolled back, her lips parted and swollen, her **brown skin** glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

I shifted my focus, my tongue tracing a path from the valley of her breasts up to her collarbone, while my hand dipped inside the waistband of her panties, making direct contact with her **wet, sensitive core**.

"Rudra... I can't... I’m going to—"

"Don't hold back," I commanded, my **ocean blue eyes** locked on hers in the reflection. "Look at me while you come, Ishita. See what I do to you. See how much I want you."

I drove two fingers inside her, finding the rhythm that I knew would shatter her. She let out a high, piercing scream of pleasure, her body arching off the marble as she reached her peak, her internal muscles clamping down on my hand in a desperate, beautiful rhythm.

I held her there, letting her ride the waves of her release, my face buried in her neck, breathing in the scent of her victory and my obsession.

I didn’t stop. The release she was chasing wasn't enough for me; I wanted to push her deeper into the abyss of her own pleasure until she forgot every word my Bua had uttered, until she forgot everything but the feel of my hand inside her.

I shifted my stance, my **6’3” muscular frame** pressing her further back against the mirror. I curled my fingers inside her, hooking upward with a **ruthless** precision, hitting the sensitive wall I knew would undo her. My knuckles grazed her G-spot with every deep, rhythmic thrust.

"Rudra! *Oh my God*... Rudra!"

She was a **moaning mess**, her voice breaking into frantic, desperate sobs of pleasure. Her **thin, slim figure** was vibrating under my touch. Every time I drove my fingers home, her **payals** jingled a frantic, silver melody against the marble, and her **chooda** clinked rhythmically against my shoulders as she held onto me for dear life. The sound was a beautiful, chaotic symphony of our union—the traditional jewelry of a Rathore bride clashing with the raw, carnal hunger of her husband.

I watched her in the mirror, my **ocean blue eyes** dark with a primal satisfaction. Her internal **walls clutched my fingers** with a fierce, pulsing grip, trying to pull me even deeper. She was so tight, so hot, and so incredibly wet that the sound of our friction filled the quiet room.

"Look at yourself, Ishita," I rasped, my breath hot against her wet cheek. "Look at how your body craves me. You are mine... every heartbeat, every moan, every drop of this heat... it’s all mine."

I picked up the pace, my thrusts becoming faster, more demanding. I wasn't being the 'gentle' husband anymore; I was the **Ice King** reclaiming his territory with a **shameless** intensity.

"I'm—I'm falling... Rudra, please!" she cried out, her back arching so sharply her chest thrust forward, the lace of her bra straining against her swollen breasts.

"Fall," I commanded, my thumb finding her center and pressing down hard just as I drove my fingers in one last time, hitting her deepest point.

She shattered.

Her body went rigid, her head hitting the mirror with a dull thud as a long, piercing moan tore from her throat. Her internal muscles clamped down on my fingers in a series of violent, beautiful spasms. Her **chooda** rattled violently as her hands tightened into fists in my hair, and her **payals** let out one final, shimmering chime as her legs went limp against my hips.

She collapsed against my chest, her forehead resting on my shoulder, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. I held her there, my hand still deep inside her, feeling the fading pulses of her climax. The room was silent now, save for the sound of our mingled breathing and the distant howl of the Rajasthan wind.

I leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her sweat-dampened temple. The anger was gone. The 'Ice King' was satiated. All that was left was the man who would burn the world down just to keep this woman in his arms.

I slowly withdrew my fingers, feeling the lingering tremors of her body as she began to come down from that height. The room felt quieter now, the only sound the rhythmic chime of her **payals** as she finally relaxed against me. I didn't say a word; I just leaned down and pressed a series of soft, lingering kisses to her forehead, over her closed eyelids, and finally against her damp temple.

"I've got you, *jaan*," I whispered, my voice thick and raspy.

I tucked her head into the crook of my neck and lifted her from the marble vanity. Her **thin, slim figure** felt weightless in my arms, but her heart was still thundering against my chest. I carried her across the dim suite toward the massive bed, the silk of her **green and pink lehenga** rustling against my legs.

As I laid her down on the cool sheets, the reality of her state seemed to hit her. Her **brown skin** flushed a deep crimson as she realized her blouse was half-off and she was completely undone.

"Rudra... wait, let me... I can go to the washroom," she stammered, her **mehndi-stained hands** reaching down to pull her skirt over her legs.

"Stay still, Ishita," I commanded, my voice firm but laced with a **ruthless tenderness**.

I moved to the foot of the bed and reached for the heavy knot of her lehenga. She gasped, her hands flying down to stop me, her **chooda** clinking frantically in the quiet room. "No! Rudra, it’s... it’s messy. Please, I’ll do it."

"There is nothing about you that I haven't seen, touched, or worshipped," I said, looking her directly in the eye. I gently but firmly moved her hands away. "You're exhausted. Let me take care of you."

I untied the dori and eased the heavy, gold-laden skirt down her legs. It pooled on the floor like a discarded shell. Then, I reached for her silk panties—soaked through with the evidence of how much she had craved me. She squeezed her eyes shut, hiding her face in the pillows as I slid the damp fabric down her **shaking thighs**.

I didn't let the silence become awkward. I walked to the ensuite and returned with a basin of warm water and a soft, white cloth.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and with a gentleness that would have shocked anyone who knew the "Ice King," I began to **clean her up**. I started with her face, wiping away the remnants of the kajal and foundation that had survived the vanity encounter.

Then, I moved lower. I wiped the sweat from her neck, the bite mark I had left, and finally, I moved the cloth between her thighs. She let out a small, shy whimper, her fingers clutching the duvet, but she didn't pull away this time. I was meticulous, cleaning away the **climax mix** with slow, soothing strokes until her skin was pristine again.

"Is that better?" I asked softly, dropping the cloth and leaning over her.

She peeked out from behind her hair, her eyes soft and vulnerable. "You're very... **shameless**, you know that?"

"Only for you," I replied, pulling the heavy velvet blanket over her. I climbed in beside her, pulling her **tiny frame** into my side so her head rested on my chest. I could feel the silk of her braid against my arm.

The room was finally still. The high-energy dances, the Bua's venom, and the intense passion at the vanity were all behind us. Now, there was only the steady beat of my heart and the woman who owned it.

"Ishita," I murmured into the darkness, my hand stroking her arm. "Tell me... tell me about the first night you spent alone after you were taken from me three years ago."

I felt her body go limp against mine, the sheer exhaustion of the day finally winning. As I stroked her **long curly hair**, she began to mumble in her sleep—broken fragments of the last three years. I strained to hear, my heart tightening as she whispered about dark rooms and the fear of never seeing my **ocean blue eyes** again. Even in her dreams, she was reliving the nightmare that had stolen a thousand nights from us.

But then, her voice shifted. She wasn't fully awake, but she wasn't fully asleep either. She snuggled deeper into my chest, her **mehndi-stained hand** sprawling over my heart.

"Rudra..." she mumbled, her voice thick with drowsiness. "Kal... *pagphere* karne jaana hai mere ghar (Tomorrow... we have to go to my house for the pagphere ceremony)... so please, no **shameless** behavior there, okay?"

I felt a ghost of a smile tug at my lips. Only Ishita would worry about my "shamelessness" while half-unconscious.

"And yes..." she continued, her breath warm against my skin. "Thoda sa ache se baat karna (Talk nicely)... don't be a cold man like you always are. Talk to them like you did when you first went to Papa to ask for my hand... remember?"

I went still. The memory hit me like a physical blow.

The day I went to Mohan Sharma’s house wasn't the day I was the 'Ice King' or Rajasthan’s top businessman. That day, I was just a man who had realized that without the girl he met at the Shiv Mandir, his life was an empty shell. I remembered sitting in their modest living room, my **6'3" frame** feeling too large for the space, my pride tucked away as I looked her father in the eye and promised to protect her with my life.

I looked down at her now. She looked so small, so delicate under the heavy Rathore blankets.

"I remember, *jaan*," I whispered into the crown of her head.

The thought of her family—the Sharmas—always brought a different kind of pressure. They were the ones who had raised this "middle-class" girl into the queen she was. They were the ones who had seen me at my most vulnerable.

She wanted the man she fell in love with, not the "Cold-hearted Prince" the world feared. She wanted the Rudra who didn't care about "stature," the one who could sit on a simple sofa and drink tea with her brother Ravi while listening to stories about her childhood.

"I won't be the Ice King tomorrow," I promised her, even though she couldn't hear me anymore. "For them, I'll be the man you chose. But for you..."

I leaned down and pressed one last, **shameless** kiss to the tip of her **tender, pierced nose**.

"...for you, I'll always be the man who wants to worship you behind closed doors."

I pulled her closer, my arm acting as her pillow. Tomorrow, I would have to face the world again—the business, the family politics, and the looming shadow of the blackmailer—but tonight, in the quiet of the Rathore suite, I was exactly where I belonged.

At the feet of my Goddess.