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Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. For the first time ever, I had rendered her speechless. From what I remembered, she’d always had a ready retort. Even when I’d asked her to congratulate me on my engagement to Raksha, she’d very politely told me to rot in hell. So this felt like a bit of a triumph.
“Wh… what the fuck do you mean? You can’t keep me here against my will!”
“Who’s going to stop me?”
Diya shot me a disbelieving look.
“Umm… everyone? Isha, your mother, your grandmother! This isn’t the tenth century, Your Highness. You can’t just abduct a woman off the desert and hold her hostage.”
“That’s a good thing because I’m not holding you hostage. I’m keeping you safe.”
The butler rushed to open the front door and I carried Diya across the threshold with her glaring at me as if I had killed her favourite puppy.
“I told you I don’t want to be here,” she hissed, with a wary glance at the butler who kept his eyes resolutely on the ground.
“Ramsingh, please call Princess Isha,” I ordered because I refused to get into an argument in front of the staff.
“Hukum, the princess is not at home,” he replied.
Damn it! I was hoping to hand Diya over to Isha while I dealt with Ayush and his men.
“In that case, please call my mother.”
“She’s not here, either, Hukum. And neither is Dadi Sa. They all went out together, and they won’t be home for dinner,” he said apologetically.
Of all the days for the women of my household to be away from home, this was the worst. I let out an exasperated breath and thanked him before I carried Diya up the stairs to my room. I did want to keep her safe, but nothing had changed as far as the two of us were concerned. She still couldn’t be mine. Which meant that every minute that I spent with her was torture. It killed me to touch her and know that she wasn’t mine to touch.
“Can you please put me down? Your butler is staring at us,” she begged.
“No, because I don’t want you bleeding on the stair runners,” I replied and she growled under her breath.
Her eyes widened when I kicked the double doors to the Maharaja Suite open. I ignored her protests and carried her straight to the huge ensuite bathroom.
“I can take it from here,” she exclaimed, as I set her down on the wide vanity counter.
“Relax, I just want to check your feet,” I replied, pulling out a first aid kit from one of the drawers.
Diya’s eyes widened at the sight of the big box that contained equipment to deal with everything from a gunshot wound to a scorpion bite.
“What’s this?” she asked, pointing to a sealed tube.
“Epi-pen,” I said shortly.
“And in this box?”
“Suturing kit?”
“And these vials?”
“Antivenom. And what’s with that judgmental look?” I demanded.
She shrugged in reply.
“Nothing. I’m just wondering if you’re running a mobile hospital in here.”
“It’s just a basic first aid kit,” I replied.
“If you’re in a war zone,” she shot back.
