Aadhya stood before the full-length mirror, her heart thundering against her ribs. She was wearing a midnight-blue velvet lehenga, severe and regal, its silver embroidery stark against the dark fabric. Meera had styled her hair simply, pulling it back to emphasize the commanding line of her jaw. Every inch of her posture screamed composure and defiance.
She was preparing to meet King Rudra Pratap Singh Rathore, the man rumored to be the Devil Prince, the one whose terrifying power was the key to her future. Her mind was a cold machine of strategy, but her body was a furnace of apprehension, fueled by the Hunter's note.
"Be prepared to lose all the composure you have carefully maintained."
This was not a political meeting; it was a personal challenge.
The Rathore dining hall was a study in austere power—high vaulted ceilings, black granite columns, and a single, massive table carved from ancient dark wood. It was lit by iron sconces that cast long, dramatic shadows.
Maharaja Arjun and Rajmata Vasundhara were already seated. Tanishka and Ridhima, draped in their finest silks, were trying to engage Yashodhara in nervous chatter.
Then, a sudden, absolute silence fell over the room.
The air shifted, growing heavy, charged, and cold. It was the palpable silence of a predator entering the room.
Aadhya felt the sensation before she saw him. It was a pressure she recognized instantly—the unmistakable weight of the Hunter's presence.
She turned, slowly, her blood running both ice-cold and scorching hot.
King Rudra Pratap Singh Rathore entered.
He was not merely handsome; he was a force of nature given human form. Taller than Aadhya remembered, broader in the chest and shoulders than any courtier she had ever seen, he moved with the predatory grace of a lion. He wore simple, severe black and crimson attire, but the absolute authority radiating from him was the most intimidating thing in the room. His features were sharp, chiseled from granite, his dark hair falling slightly over a forehead etched with ruthlessness.
But it was his eyes that destroyed Aadhya's composure.
They were dark, intense, and utterly familiar. They locked onto hers with the same proprietary intensity that had held her captive in the forest and by the river. They held the same dark amusement and the same possessive challenge.
A wave of dizzying, shattering realization hit Aadhya. The Hunter. The Bandit. The Protector. The Man who had Claimed her.
He was the King.
A gasp caught in Aadhya's throat, but she forced it down. The floor tilted slightly beneath her. The Devil King. The man the world fears. He is the one who saw me raw, vulnerable, and claimed me.
Rudra—the King—did not look away. His eyes devoured her, sweeping over her defiant posture and settling on the frantic awareness in her eyes. He gave her a slow, dark, triumphant smile—the same mocking, possessive smirk she had seen in the shadows.
He knew. He had planned this. He had made her submit to him when he was a nobody, only to reveal his absolute authority now.
He walked past the guards, past the seated family, straight toward Aadhya. The silence in the hall was deafening.
He stopped directly in front of her. His proximity was a violation, an overwhelming physical force that instantly made her feel small, exposed, and intensely aware of the pulse hammering in her throat.
Rudra reached out, his large, powerful hand gently, slowly, cupping her face—the very gesture he had used in the darkness.
"Princess Aadhya," he drawled, his voice that low, commanding rumble that made her knees weak. "Welcome to my home. I trust the journey was... insightful."
His thumb brushed the corner of her trembling lip. The intimacy of the gesture, performed in front of his parents and her sisters, was a declaration—a claim so absolute it left no room for doubt.
Tanishka and Ridhima stared, utterly horrified. This was not the polite courtship they expected; this was a seizure of ownership.
Aadhya felt her carefully constructed composure shatter. The tigress was caged. Under the King's touch, her mind seized, and her body betrayed her, responding with a shameful wave of heat.
"Maharaja," she managed, the title tasting foreign and weak on her tongue.
He chuckled—a dark, rich sound of satisfaction. He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, his breath warm.
"You look furious, Aadhya," he murmured for her ears alone. "But your body remembers the touch of the Hunter. Remember what I told you, little tigress: I do not ask. I command. And tonight, you will sit at my right hand, and you will look only at me."
He released her face and stepped back, his eyes flashing with victory. He had broken her in seconds.
"Vasundhara," Rudra commanded, his voice now ringing with royal authority. "Seat the princess. Tonight, we discuss the future."
As Aadhya, trembling with rage and involuntary desire, allowed herself to be led to the seat of honor, her mind raced. He was the King. He had the power, the resources, and the complete, terrifying ability to dominate her.
She looked across the table at him. Rudra was watching her, his lips curved in a possessive smirk, his eyes dark with the silent promise of what was to come.
The Hunter thought he had tamed the tigress. Aadhya sat straighter, her eyes hard. I will play his game. I will give him the submission he craves, but he will soon discover that a King only truly bows to the Queen who is capable of ruling his soul.