Chapter 1: The Bridal Threshold
The carriage lurched through a rut in the road, and Priya's shoulder knocked against the carved sandalwood panel. She righted herself, fingers curling into the silk cushion beneath her. Two days of this. Two days of watching the dry scrubland of her childhood give way to greener fields, to mango orchards and irrigation canals that glittered like veins of silver under the afternoon sun.
Two days of sitting across from a man she had never seen before yesterday.
She stole a glance at him through her lashes. Raj sat with his back against the opposite wall of the carriage, one knee drawn up, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the curtained window. The light caught the hard line of his jaw, the lean muscle of his forearm where it rested on his thigh. He hadn't spoken in hours. Hadn't looked at her since they'd stopped for water at midday.
The silence should have comforted her. It didn't.
Her mind kept dragging her backward, to the three days before the wedding. To the cramped room above her uncle's shop, where the walls sweated damp and the air tasted of betel nut and rot. She remembered the moneylender's face—Sethji, with his oiled hair and his wet, red mouth—as he'd looked at her the way a man looks at livestock he's about to purchase.
"The debt is six hundred rupees," her uncle had said, not looking at her. "You are nineteen. Past your prime. But Sethji is... generous."
She remembered the way her stomach had dropped. The way her hands had gone cold. She'd known what it meant. Had known it the moment her parents had died and left her with nothing but their debts and a man who saw her as inventory.
Then the door had opened.
She hadn't seen Raj enter. Had only felt the shift in the room, the sudden stillness that followed him like a second skin. When she'd looked up, he was already there—tall, composed, his eyes moving past her uncle, past Sethji, and settling on her with an intensity that had made her breath catch.
"I'll pay the debt," he'd said. Just that. No negotiation. No conditions.
Her uncle had sputtered. Sethji had protested. Raj had simply removed a purse from his belt, counted out the coins onto the table, and looked at her again.
"Come."
She had followed him out of that room, down the stairs, into the blinding sunlight of the street. She hadn't asked where they were going. Hadn't asked who he was. She'd been too stunned, too hollowed out by relief to form the words.
The wedding had happened that same evening. A priest, a fire, a few witnesses pulled from the street. She'd knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she'd repeated the vows, her mind a blank white roar. She'd expected him to touch her afterward. To claim what he'd paid for.
He hadn't.
He'd shown her to a room, told her to rest, and closed the door behind him.
Now, in the carriage, Priya pressed her palms flat against her thighs and tried to breathe. The silk of her new sari—deep red, heavy with gold embroidery—felt foreign against her skin. Her feet, bare, rested on a cushion stuffed with cotton. She'd never owned anything so fine. Had never even touched silk before yesterday.
She was property now. Bought and paid for.
The thought settled over her like a second skin, tight and unyielding. She waited for the fear to come. The panic. But all she felt was a strange, quiet calm. She'd spent years waiting for the worst. Waiting for her uncle's temper, for the moneylender's demands, for the moment when her body would no longer be her own.
At least now she knew the price.
At least now she knew who owned her.
She looked at Raj again. He hadn't moved. His profile was sharp, handsome in a way that seemed almost accidental—as if he hadn't asked for his looks and didn't quite know what to do with them. There was a stillness to him that unnerved her. A patience that felt like waiting.
Priya's fingers found the hem of her sari and twisted. She thought of the room she'd left behind. The small trunk of belongings she'd brought with her—two saris, a worn wooden comb, her mother's brass bangles. Everything she owned fit in one hand.
She thought of her uncle's face when Raj had walked in. The greed in his eyes. The relief. He'd sold her without hesitation. Without a backward glance.
She should hate him. She did hate him. But hate was a luxury she couldn't afford. Hate required energy she needed for survival.
The carriage slowed. Voices outside—the driver, calling to someone on the road. Raj shifted, and for a moment his knee brushed against hers. The contact was brief, barely a whisper of fabric on fabric, but Priya felt it like a spark.
She pulled back. He noticed.
For the first time since they'd left, he turned his head and looked at her. Really looked. His eyes were dark, deep-set, and they held something she couldn't name. Not lust. Not impatience. Something softer. Something almost like reverence.
She thought of what she'd been three days ago. A girl with nothing. A girl with no name, no family, no future. A girl whose body was the only currency she had left.
Now she was a wife. A bought bride. Property.
But property could be cared for. Property could be protected. Property could be loved, if the owner was kind.
She didn't know if Raj was kind. She didn't know anything about him. But he had paid her debt. He had married her. He had given her silk and food and a cushion for her feet.
It was more than anyone else had ever given her.
She slid from her seat and knelt on the floor of the carriage, her knees pressing into the rough wood. The lamp flickered. Raj went still.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat had closed, her heart was pounding, and all she could think was that she needed him to know. Needed him to understand.
She bowed her head. Pressed her forehead to the tops of his feet.
The contact was electric. His skin was warm, the bones of his feet strong and strange beneath her brow. She felt him tense. Felt the air leave his lungs in a sharp, quiet breath.
"Priya."
Her name. The first time he'd said it. It sounded different in his mouth. Softer. Like a prayer.
She stayed where she was. Her forehead against his feet. Her breath shallow. Her body trembling.
"I am yours," she whispered. "I know what I am. I know what you paid. I will be obedient. I will be... good."
The words tasted like ash. Like surrender. Like the end of everything she'd ever been.
But also like the beginning of something else. Something she couldn't name.
Raj's hand found her head. His fingers slid through her hair, gentle, so gentle it made her want to cry. He didn't pull her up. Didn't push her away.
She lifted her head. Looked up at Raj. His eyes were wet, his jaw tight, his hand still tangled in her hair.
She paused. Swallowed.
"I am yours."
The words hung between them. Heavy. Final.
Raj's hands closed around her shoulders. Warm. Steady. He drew her up from the floor of the carriage with a gentleness that made her chest ache, settling her back onto the silk cushion. His palms stayed on her arms a moment longer than necessary, thumbs pressing small circles into the fabric of her sari.
His palms stayed on her arms a moment longer than necessary, thumbs pressing small circles into the fabric of her sari.
She felt the heat of him through the silk. Felt the weight of his gaze on her face, patient, searching. The carriage swayed, and still he held her.
"Priya."
Her name again. She didn't flinch this time.
"I need you to hear something." He let go of her arms, settling back onto his cushion with that same unhurried grace. His voice was low, intimate. Like they were the only two people in the world. "You said you're mine. That you'll be obedient. That you'll be good."
She nodded. Her throat was tight.
"That's not what this is."
She blinked.
"You're not a slave," he said. "You're my wife."
The words landed somewhere in her chest. She didn't know what to do with them. Didn't know where to put them.
"I don't understand."
He smiled. It was the first real smile she'd seen from him. It changed his whole face. Softened the hard lines. Made him look younger. Almost boyish.
"I paid your debt because I wanted you," he said. "Not as property. Not as a servant. I saw you. And I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That I wanted to spend my life making you feel like a queen."
She stared at him. The lamp swung with the carriage's movement, throwing shadows across his face.
"You're mocking me," she whispered.
"I'm not."
"I'm nobody. I'm—"
"You're everything."
He said it so simply. So casually. Like he was telling her the weather.
Priya's hands found each other in her lap. She twisted her fingers together, trying to anchor herself.
"Why?" she asked. "Why would you—"
He leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, and his eyes held hers with an intensity that made her want to look away. She didn't.
"Can I tell you something strange?" he asked.
She nodded.
"All my life, I've been the one in charge. The eldest son of a family that values strength above everything. I've had to be decisive. Dominant. Unyielding." He paused. "And I'm good at it. I am."
"I believe you."
"But." He looked down at his hands. Strong hands. Calloused. Capable. "But there's this part of me that doesn't want to be in charge. Not always. Not with the right person."
She didn't understand. Her brow furrowed.
"I don't—"
"I know this is a lot," he said gently. "Two days ago you didn't know me. Now I'm sitting here telling you things I've never told anyone."
"Tell me," she said. The words surprised her. "I want to understand."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he laughed. Soft. Private.
"You're something else, you know that?"
She didn't answer. Just waited.
"Okay," he said. "Here's the thing. In my house, in my family, I'm the man. I make decisions. I protect. I provide. That's what I do. That's who I am."
"And you want that to change?"
"No." He shook his head. "I don't want it to change. I want to keep being that man. But I also want... this other thing."
"What other thing?"
He ran a hand through his hair. Messed it up. Made him look almost nervous.
"I want to serve you."
She blinked.
"I want to worship you," he continued. "Not as a metaphor. Not as a pretty thing I say to make you feel good. I mean I want to submit to you. To be yours. Completely."
Priya's mouth opened. Closed.
"You want to be my slave?" she asked. The word felt strange on her tongue.
He laughed again. That soft, private laugh.
"Something like that," he said. "But not exactly. It's... complicated."
"I have time."
He looked at her. Really looked. Like he was seeing something new in her face.
"The world sees me as a strong man," he said. "And I am. But strength doesn't mean I have to be in control all the time. Sometimes the strongest thing a man can do is surrender."
"Surrender."
"To someone worthy. To someone he trusts." He paused. "To you."
She didn't know what to say. The carriage hit another rut, and she swayed, catching herself on the cushion.
"Let me try to explain better," he said. "You know how sometimes you want something, but you can't have it because of what people expect from you?"
"Yes."
"It's like that. There's a part of me that needs to give up control. Needs to be... owned. Not in a cruel way. Not in a way that hurts me. But in a way that frees me."
"I don't understand."
"I know." His voice was patient. "It's not an easy thing to explain. And I'm probably doing a terrible job."
"You're doing fine."
He smiled again. That same real, warm smile.
"The point is," he said, "I'm telling you this because I want you to know what you're getting into. I want you to know that I'm not bringing you into a normal marriage. I'm bringing you into something... different."
"Different how?"
"Different in that I will do anything for you," he said. "Anything you ask. Anything you want. And I will love every second of it."
Priya let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"I don't fully understand. But I'm willing to learn."
Something shifted in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude.
"You're remarkable," he said.
"I'm just a girl."
"No." He shook his head. "You're not. You're my wife."
The word hung in the air between them. Wife.
"You keep saying that," she said.
"Because it's true."
She looked down at her hands. At the silk of her sari. At the cushion beneath her feet.
"You said you'd be obedient," he said. "That you'd be good. But that's not what I want."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to be yourself," he said. "I want you to tell me what you need. What you want. What makes you happy. And I want to give it to you."
She looked up at him. "That sounds like a lot of power."
"Maybe it is."
"For me?"
"For you."
She considered this. It was strange. Foreign. Completely unlike anything she'd ever imagined.
"You're serious," she said.
"Very." He paused. "I don't expect you to understand it all right now. I don't expect you to make any decisions tonight. But I wanted you to know. I wanted to be honest with you from the start."
"So I'm not your slave."
"No."
"I'm your wife."
"Yes."
"And you want to be my... what?"
He tilted his head. "Whatever you need me to be."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." He spread his hands. "We'll figure it out together."
Priya looked out the window. The sun was setting, spilling amber light across the fields. They'd be home soon. Whatever that meant.
"This is strange," she said.
"I know."
"I have questions."
"Ask them."
She turned back to him. "You said you want to submit to me. To be owned. What does that mean? What would I have to do?"
He leaned back against the cushion. Considered the question.
"It can mean whatever we decide," he said. "Some men want to be told what to do. Some want to be praised. Some want to be... used."
"Used?"
"Not in a bad way. In a way that feels good to both people." He paused. "There's a whole world of this, Priya. It's not something people talk about openly. But it exists."
She frowned. "I've never heard of it."
"Most people haven't."
"And you want this? With me?"
"I want this with you."
She let that settle. Let it sit in her chest. It didn't feel wrong. Just new.
"You'd really do anything I asked?"
"Anything."
"What if I asked you to... I don't know. Fetch me water?"
"Gladly."
"What if I asked you to sit at my feet while I ate?"
"With pleasure."
She narrowed her eyes. "What if I asked you to eat dirt?"
He laughed. "Gladly."
"This is absurd."
"Maybe." He shrugged. "But it's also true."
She looked at him. Really looked. At the strong line of his jaw. At the muscles in his arms. At the way he held himself with a stillness that felt almost like power.
"You're a big man," she said. "You could crush me with one hand."
"Yes."
"And you want to... kneel before me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He thought about it. "Because that's where I feel free. Does that make sense?"
"No."
"Do you want it to?"
She didn't answer right away. She thought about her life. The pain. The hunger. The loneliness. The years of being nothing. Of being nobody.
The idea of someone wanting to serve her. To worship her. To belong to her.
It was overwhelming. But it wasn't bad.
"Maybe," she said.
"You don't have to decide right now."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a while. The carriage rolled on toward her new home. Toward whatever waited for her there.
"Priya."
She looked up. He was watching her with a warmth that made her heart stutter.
"I'm glad you're my wife," he said. "I'm glad I found you."
She smiled. Just a little.
"I'm glad you paid my debt," she said.
"I wasn't talking about the debt."
Her smile faded.
"I know," she said softly. "I know."
The carriage swayed. The wheels crunched over gravel and dirt. Outside, the world was turning gold and purple as the sun sank toward the horizon. Inside, the air felt thick, charged with something Priya couldn't name.
She looked at Raj. At his hands. At the way he sat so still, so patient, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was waiting for her to catch up to something he'd already decided.
"You're serious," she said. Not a question.
"I am."
"About all of it."
"All of it."
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her palms were damp against the silk of her sari.
This was absurd. This was completely, utterly absurd. She was a girl who had nothing. Who had been nothing. And this man—this strong, handsome, wealthy man—was telling her he wanted to kneel at her feet.
She should laugh. She should tell him to stop joking.
But his eyes were steady. His breathing was calm. He wasn't joking.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"I believe you."
Something flickered across his face. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or something deeper.
"Thank you," he said.
She frowned. "For what?"
"For giving me a chance."
Priya didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing.
The silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Almost intimate.
Then a thought pushed its way to the surface. Stupid. Shameful. She tried to shove it back down, but it was already there, already forming words on her tongue.
She looked away. Looked at the curtain. At the light bleeding through the fabric.
"What is it?" Raj asked.
"Nothing."
"Priya."
She closed her eyes. Her cheeks were burning. She could feel it, the heat creeping up her neck, spreading across her face.
"It's nothing," she repeated. "It's stupid."
"I doubt that."
She shook her head. Kept her eyes closed.
"I was just..." She trailed off. Swallowed. "I was wondering something."
"Ask."
"This is going to sound insane."
"I've already told you I want to be your slave. I think we're past insane."
A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She choked it down. Opened her eyes.
He was watching her with that patient warmth. That gentle curiosity.
"Fine," she said. She took a breath. Let it out. "How would you want to be treated?"
"What do you mean?"
"Now. Right now. If I'm..." She waved a hand, vague. "If we're doing this. If you're serious. What would you want?"
He tilted his head. Considering.
"You're asking me what I want from you."
"Yes."
"Right now."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled. Soft. Teasing.
"So you're saying I'm your slave," he said. "Really."
Her entire body went hot. She could feel the blush spreading—down her neck, across her collarbones, up to the tips of her ears. She wanted to disappear. Wanted to sink through the floor of the carriage and never resurface.
"I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I suppose. If you—if that's what you—"
"Priya."
She looked at him. He was still smiling. But there was something else in his eyes now. Something that made her stomach flip.
"So what does that make you?" he asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"If I'm your slave."
"Oh."
"What does that make you?"
She couldn't breathe. Her chest was tight. Her face was on fire.
"I—" She licked her lips. "Your master?"
The word came out like a question. High. Squeaky. Not her voice at all.
But Raj nodded. Slowly. Like she'd said something profound.
"So you're my master," he said. "That's what you're saying."
She wanted to die. She wanted the carriage to hit a rock and flip. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
But she also—and this was the part that scared her—didn't want him to stop.
"I don't—" She stopped. Started again. "I don't know what I'm—"
"It's okay."
"It's not. I'm making a fool of myself."
"You're not."
"I am."
He reached across the space between them. Took her hand. His fingers were warm and dry and strong.
"You're not," he said again. "You're trying to understand. That's all I can ask."
She looked down at their hands. His skin against hers. Dark against light.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay," he echoed.
He let go. Leaned back. But he didn't look away.
"So," he said. "Where does the slave belong?"
She blinked. "What?"
"If I'm your slave." He spread his hands. "Where do I belong?"
"I—" She frowned. "I don't understand."
"Yes, you do." His voice was gentle. Patient. "Where does a slave belong?"
She thought about it. Thought about the word. Slave.
She'd been called that. Once or twice. By her uncle, when he was drunk and feeling cruel. It had meant nothing to her. It had meant everything.
But this was different. Raj was asking her to define it. Asking her to name the thing.
"Under your master," she said finally.
"Under my master." He nodded. "Where under my master?"
She bit her lip. "Under your—under my—"
"Your what?"
She closed her eyes. "My feet."
"Your feet," he repeated. "So I should be under your feet."
"Yes." The word was barely a whisper.
"What exactly? Under your feet."
She opened her eyes. Looked at him. He was watching her with an intensity that made her want to squirm and stay still at the same time.
"Anything," she said. "Any part of you."
"Any part."
"Yes."
"But what's the most accurate?" He leaned forward. "The truest way to describe a slave's position?"
She didn't understand. Or maybe she did, and didn't want to say.
"His highest," she said slowly. "His highest is under my feet."
"His highest." Raj smiled. "What is his highest? What part of him?"
"His head."
"His head. Yes." He paused. "But that's not the most degrading place, is it?"
She shook her head. Because it wasn't. She knew it wasn't.
"What is?" he asked.
She couldn't say it. Couldn't form the words.
"Priya."
"His face," she whispered.
"There you go."
Her entire body was trembling. Her hands. Her legs. Even her voice shook when she spoke.
"You want—you want your face under my feet?"
He nodded. Slow. Deliberate.
"Yes."
"Right now?"
"Right now."
She looked at him. At this man who had paid her debt. Who had married her. Who had promised to worship her.
And she realized, with a jolt that went through her like lightning, that he was completely, utterly serious.
"Okay," she said.
She didn't know why she said it. Maybe because she was tired of being afraid. Maybe because she was curious. Maybe because some part of her—some deep, hidden part—wanted to know what it would feel like to have someone at her feet.
The carriage did not move.
Neither did Raj.
He remained exactly as he was—seated on the crimson cushion, his back straight, his hands resting loose on his thighs. The lantern swung with the motion of the wheels, and shadows slid across the sharp planes of his face. His eyes held hers, steady, patient. Waiting.
Priya's fingers twisted in the silk of her sari. She could feel the weight of his gaze like a hand on her skin. Her heart was a drum in her chest, too loud, too fast.
He wasn't going to move.
She understood that now. He wasn't going to say anything. Wasn't going to guide her. He had told her what he wanted. He had told her that he belonged at her feet. And now he was waiting.
Waiting for her to take control.
The thought made her stomach flip. Made her palms go damp. Made her entire body flush with a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature.
She had never taken control of anything. Not once. Not in her entire life. She had been told where to go, what to do, who to be. She had been managed. Handled. Passed from one guardian to another like a bundle of cloth.
And now this man—this strong, handsome, wealthy man—was looking at her like she was something precious. Like she was something powerful.
Like she was his goddess.
She didn't feel like a goddess. She felt like a girl. A scared, confused, blushing girl who didn't know what to do with her hands.
But Raj waited.
And the waiting, somehow, was the worst part. The silence stretched between them, thick with sandalwood and jasmine, thick with something else—something heavy and hot and impossible to name. Priya felt the words building in her throat. Felt them pressing against her teeth.
She tried to swallow them down. Couldn't.
Her voice, when it came, was small. Barely a whisper.
"Sit on the floor."
Nothing happened. Raj didn't move. Didn't blink. The lantern flickered. The carriage swayed.
Priya's face went hot. Scalding. She could feel the blush spreading—across her cheeks, down her neck, over the ridges of her collarbones. She wanted to disappear. Wanted to open the door and throw herself into the darkening fields.
But she didn't.
"Sit on the floor," she said again. Louder this time. Still shaky. Still barely there. "In front of me. In front of my feet."
Raj's expression didn't change. But something shifted in his eyes. Something warm. Something almost like pride.
He moved.
Slowly. Gracefully. He slid from the cushion and lowered himself to the floor of the carriage. The teak was smooth and cool beneath his knees. The lantern light caught the breadth of his shoulders, the lean muscle of his back, the way his hands rested flat on his thighs.
He was kneeling. Kneeling before her.
Priya's breath caught. Her chest was tight. Her heart was hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it.
"Come closer," she whispered. Then, flustered, "So my—so my feet can reach you."
She almost laughed at herself. Almost. The words felt ridiculous in her mouth. Like a child playing at being a queen.
But Raj obeyed.
He shifted forward on his knees, the fabric of his dhoti whispering against the floor. Closer. Close enough that his knees nearly touched the cushion she sat on. Close enough that she could see the individual strands of dark hair at his temples. Close enough that she could smell him—sandalwood, yes, but something else underneath. Something warm and male and alive.
"Now what?" he asked. Not challenging. Not mocking. Just asking.
Priya swallowed. Her throat was dry.
"Kneel," she said.
A flicker of a smile touched his lips. "I am kneeling."
She shook her head. Her hands were trembling. She didn't know what to do with them, so she gripped the edge of the cushion.
"Not like—not like that. Properly. Both knees. And your—" She stopped. Licked her lips. "Your face. Upturn your face."
He did.
He shifted his weight, settling onto both knees in front of her. His head tilted back. His chin lifted. His throat was exposed, long and brown and vulnerable. His eyes, dark and deep, fixed on hers.
And then he waited.
Priya looked at him. At this man who had paid her debt. At this man who had married her. At this man who had promised to worship her, to serve her, to belong to her.
He looked almost peaceful. Almost content. Like he had found exactly where he belonged.
She thought of her uncle's face. The sneer. The way he had looked at her like she was garbage. She thought of the moneylender's wet mouth, his oiled hair, his hands reaching for her.
She thought of all the years she had spent being nothing.
And then she thought of Raj, kneeling on the floor of a carriage, his face tilted up to hers like she was the sun.
Her breath shuddered out of her.
Slowly—so slowly—she lifted her feet.
The silk of her sari slipped back, revealing her ankles. Her bare feet. The soles were soft, unmarked, the nails neatly trimmed. She had always been careful with her feet. They were the one part of her body that had never been forced to work in the fields or scrub floors. The one part of her that felt almost... beautiful.
She extended them.
Her right foot touched his forehead first. Then her left. The contact was electric. His skin was warm and dry, cooler than she had expected. She felt the shape of his brow, the ridge of his skull, the faint flutter of his pulse beneath her arch.
Her toes curled. Not from disgust. From something else. Something terrifying and thrilling and entirely new.
She rested both feet on his face.
His nose pressed against the arch of her right foot. His lips brushed the ball of her left. His eyes closed. His breath came out in a slow exhale, warm against her skin.
Priya's face burned. Her entire body burned. She was blushing so hard she could feel the heat in her ears, in her throat, in the roots of her hair.
"This is—" She stopped. Giggled. The sound was nervous, high-pitched, completely unlike her. "This is strange."
Raj didn't answer. Couldn't, really. Not with her feet on his mouth.
"I don't—" She shifted her weight. Pressed down a little harder. Felt the give of his flesh beneath her soles. "Is this truly what you wanted?"
He made a sound. Low. Muffled. Affirming.
Priya's giggle came again. She couldn't help it. The absurdity of the situation was overwhelming. Here she was, a nobody from nowhere, sitting on a silk cushion in a carriage, with a wealthy man kneeling on the floor and her bare feet pressed to his face.
And he was happy. She could feel it. Could feel the way his body relaxed beneath her. Could feel the little shivers that ran through him when she moved her toes.
"I don't understand you," she whispered. "I don't understand any of this."
His hand found her ankle. Gently. So gently. His fingers wrapped around the delicate bone, and he pressed a kiss to the sole of her foot. Right where the heel met the arch. Right where the skin was thin and sensitive and ticklish.
Priya gasped. Jerked her foot back. Then, after a breath, put it back.
"That tickled," she said.
Raj's eyes opened. Looked up at her. And there was something in his gaze—something raw and reverent and utterly devoted—that made her chest ache.
"Everything about you is perfect," he said. His voice was husky. His lips moved against her skin as he spoke. "I've waited my whole life for this."
Priya didn't know what to say to that. So she didn't say anything. She just sat there, looking down at him, with her feet resting on the face of the man who had saved her.