Their honeymoon wasn't a tropical escape or a golden sojourn in Europe.
It was a three-week ceremonial tour across allied principalities-Jaigarh, Udaigadh, Jodhapura-where the newlyweds were expected to be seen, admired, photographed.
They performed flawlessly.
He in custom-tailored bandhgalas and ceremonial medals.
She in embroidered sarees and centuries-old heirloom jewelry.
They arrived hand in hand at each palace, greeted dignitaries with poise, and smiled for cameras like they'd stepped from a royal fairytale.
They were beautiful together.
Elegant. Balanced. Enviable.
The tabloids fell in love with them.
*"The Soldier and the Flame"*
*"From Broken Engagement to Power Couple"*
*"Anaya Mehra: The Phoenix in Silk"*
But behind closed doors, the palace suites told a different story.
---
At night, the rooms they were given often had only one bed. And he never took the couch.
Aryan made no effort to pretend chastity. But he also never demanded.
He'd change clothes with the door wide open, steam curling off his skin from the post-mission shower, water glistening across his back and abs as Anaya read the morning brief with a composed face and darting eyes.
She never looked long.
But he knew when she did. And never looked away.
Their nights varied.
Some ended in silence-two bodies in one bed, backs turned, breaths steady, hearts walled.
Others ended in fire.
---
There were nights he took her with quiet authority, her body arching under the firm grip of his hands, her moans swallowed by his mouth. There were moments when she'd wake to find his fingers trailing down her stomach, his touch exploratory, not possessive-like he was *learning* her, still.
And there were times-when they sat in palace courtyards under the moon, pretending to be every inch the composed, dutiful couple-he'd rest his hand on her lower back, just a little too low, and her entire spine would tighten.
He didn't need words to dominate.
He used silence. Stillness. Presence.
And it *worked*.
---
One evening in Udaigadh, during a lavish state dinner, Anaya caught Meher watching them.
The princess was radiant, her hand looped through Veer's arm as they mingled with royals. But when Aryan leaned in to whisper something in Anaya's ear-a joke, a command, a simple taunt-Meher's expression shifted.
Jealousy.
Anaya saw it, relished it, and kissed her husband on the cheek in full view of the room.
He didn't react.
Until later.
---
That night, back in their suite, he pressed her up against the door before it even closed, one hand at her throat, the other lifting her thigh.
"You like making a show of us?" he murmured.
She smirked. "You didn't stop me."
His fingers trailed up her bare thigh beneath the saree. "I don't need to."
His control was maddening. Impeccable.
But that night, she managed to break it. With her mouth. Her hands. Her slow, teasing movements. She pushed him to edge after edge until he *growled*-a low, animal sound she hadn't heard before-and took her right there against the wall.
Hard. Deep. Silent.
No declarations.
Only sweat, breath, and the sound of her fingernails clawing into his back.
---
When the tour finally ended, they returned to the Rathore estate as the most talked-about couple in the empire.
To the world: they were regal, desirable, enviable.
Behind palace doors: they were a silent war of obsession, restraint, and unspoken emotion.
They hadn't said *I love you*.
They hadn't even said *I like you*.
But when Anaya lay beside Aryan at night, naked under the soft white sheets, and his arm-always, inevitably-curled around her waist in sleep, she wondered...
*What is this?*
Because it wasn't peace.
And it wasn't war.
It was something in between.
And she wasn't sure which one scared her more.