(Kiaan's POV)
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She wasn’t meant to stand beside him.
Not in court.
Not in that dress.
Not with his mother’s necklace wrapped around her throat like she owned it.
But there she was — Seher — shoulder to shoulder with him in the royal war chamber, reading strategy scrolls aloud, correcting generals, asking questions like she had the right.
And the worst part?
She did.
Because his father gave her the royal seal yesterday.
Because his brother grinned when she took his chair at the council table.
Because he, Kiaan Darshan, stood there like a fool—pretending not to notice that her perfume had soaked into his skin after last night’s confrontation.
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“The eastern border is weak,” she said aloud to the war table.
“If we station cavalry there, we’re not protecting the throne. We’re protecting fear.”
Silence.
A general cleared his throat.
“It’s tradition, Your Grace. That positioning was decided—”
“By men who haven’t bled in that mud,” she cut sharply. Calm. Clean.
Kiaan should’ve stopped her.
Should’ve reminded her who commanded.
But instead…
He watched her speak.
Like he couldn’t look away.
Like he wasn’t the one whose crown sat on the edge of slipping.
---
After court ended, Kiaan didn’t leave.
He waited.
Watched the others file out. One by one. Even Ishaan, who gave him a long, slow look as he passed — a challenge, maybe. Or a warning.
Only Seher stayed.
She stood by the map wall now, tracing enemy lines with her finger.
And Kiaan walked toward her — slowly.
“You overstepped,” he said, voice low.
“I led,” she replied.
“What you won’t.”
He didn’t respond.
She turned, the silk of her saree whispering around her legs like sin.
“If you have something to say, say it now.
Or get used to watching me rule from your throne.”
That broke something in him.
He grabbed her wrist.
Not rough.
But not soft.
Her breath caught.
His mouth was inches from hers now — and God, she smelled like power and jasmine and war.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” he said.
“No,” she whispered.
“You’re afraid of yourself.
Of what you'll do if you touch me.”
He didn’t know who moved first. Her. Him. The madness between them.
But he almost kissed her.
Almost.
His lips grazed her cheek, his nose skimmed her temple.
But he didn’t cross that last line.
He couldn’t.
Because once he kissed her, there would be no crown.
Only her.
“You’re not my queen,” he whispered at her ear.
“Then stop treating me like one,” she replied, her voice breaking like thunder.
---
He left.
But her voice stayed with him. So did the heat where his fingers held her wrist.
And for the first time in years…
Kiaan realized:
He was not the man who ruled this palace.
She was.
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Some queens are crowned by kings.
Others take the throne while they’re still deciding.
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