Chapter 5: Morning Worship
The Atlantic unspooled beneath the private jet, a vast, leaden plain between two worlds. Amartya stared down at it, the taste of Cersei still a phantom on his lips, the ghost of her fingertips tracing patterns on his back. The remaining two days of the state visit had been submerged in her. There were official appearances—a ballet gala, a joint address to a university—but they were just intermissions, sterile stretches of time to be endured until he could get her alone.
Back in his suite, the pretense evaporated instantly.
He’d take her against the wall the moment the door closed, her silk gown pushed up around her waist, her moans stifled against the cold, gilded wallpaper. He’d bend her over the antique writing desk, scattering diplomatic memos onto the Persian rug as he pounded into her from behind, her cries echoing off the high ceilings. Once, in the early morning, he’d woken her by sliding into her, her body already slick and welcoming in sleep, and fucked her slowly, deeply, until she awoke gasping, her nails digging into his hips, whispering his name like a secret she’d stolen from God.
It was a mutual devouring. She demanded brutality, and he delivered, losing himself in the raw, physical language of dominance she craved. She’d claw his back until it stung in the shower, bite his shoulder hard enough to leave purpling marks, whisper obscene encouragements in a voice gone rough with use. “Yes, fuck your queen. Ruin me. Show me what a real man feels like.” And he would, hammering into her until they both collapsed, breathless and slick with sweat, the power dynamics of continents rendered irrelevant by the simple, pounding truth of flesh.
The goodbye was a quiet press of lips in a dim hangar, her public face already reassembling itself like armor. No tears. Just a final, burning look. “Do not become a memory, Amartya,” was all she said.
Delhi hit him like a furnace blast. The dry, spice-laden heat, the chaotic symphony of horns and prayers, the familiar, crushing weight of adoration. The motorcade from the airport crawled through streets choked with people waving saffron flags, their faces alight with a devotion that felt, for the first time, like a mild distraction. The marble palace felt both like home and a suddenly smaller stage.
He reported to Dev first, in the King’s solar—a vast room of light and calm, where his brother sat amid bowls of mangoes and steaming chai.
“Brother,” Dev said, rising, his smile warm but weary. He clasped Amartya’s shoulders. “The reports are glowing. You have her wrapped around your finger, they say. And not just politically.” Dev’s eyes held a knowing, complicit glint. There were no secrets here, not of this kind.
“She is… manageable,” Amartya said, taking a seat, accepting a cup. “Lonely. It was not difficult.”
Dev chuckled, a soft, low sound. “Lonely women are the most potent allies. And the most grateful. You’ve done well. Strengthened the southern flank for a generation.” He leaned forward, his kingly demeanor softening into something fraternal. “And? The woman herself?”
Amartya met his brother’s gaze. He saw not judgment, but curiosity, perhaps even pride. A shared understanding of a world where such conquests were another form of statecraft. He allowed a fraction of his experience to show.
“She begged for it,” Amartya said, his voice flat, factual. “Every night. I fucked her until she couldn’t speak my name, just moaned it. I came down her throat, on her face, inside her. She worshipped me. Called me a god while I had her on her knees.”
Dev listened, his expression unchanging. He took a slow sip of his chai. “Good. A queen on her knees is a secure border. You understand the use of power.” He set his cup down with a definitive click. “Now, we look north. Shaibullah’s daughter. You leave in five days.”
The transition was seamless. One task concluded, another assigned. Amartya nodded, the prince once more.
He found Rukmini in her private gardens, tending to her roses. She wore a simple cotton sari, her hair in a loose braid. She looked up as he approached, and her face, usually a model of serene grace, lit with a deep, personal affection.
“My son,” she said, not ‘my prince.’ She opened her arms and he stepped into her embrace, the familiar scent of sandalwood and rosewater enveloping him. It was different from Cersei’s jasmine; this was the scent of his childhood, of unconditional safety.
She pulled back, holding his face in her hands, her dark eyes searching his. “You look older,” she said, her thumb stroking his cheek. “The world has touched you.”
“It has,” he admitted.
She led him to a stone bench beneath a blooming frangipani tree. “Tell me everything.”
And he did. With Rukmini, the language was different. With Dev, it was a tactical report. With her, it was a confession, a sharing of a rite of passage. He told her of Cersei’s desperation, her hunger, the way she’d submitted completely.
Rukmini listened, her gaze fixed on a brilliant red rose. A small, approving smile played on her lips. “This is the natural order, beta,” she said softly, her voice like silk over steel. “Women are vessels. Beautiful, sometimes powerful vessels, but vessels nonetheless. Our purpose is to receive. To be filled. With a man’s will, his seed, his command.” She plucked the rose, holding it up. “A rose is glorious, but it exists to be plucked. To be appreciated. To bear scent and beauty for the one who owns the garden.” She looked at him, her eyes shining with conviction. “You showed her her true place. You gave her the gift of her own submission. There is no greater kindness a man can bestow upon a woman.”
Her words sank into him, warm and validating. They framed his raw, physical acts with Cersei as something noble, a fulfillment of cosmic design.
“Dev says I must go to Afghanistan,” he said.
Rukmini’s smile widened. “Shaibullah’s daughter, Aisha. Young. Untouched. A wild mountain flower.” She took his hand in hers, her touch cool. “Three wives are permitted. It is time you began to build your own inner court. A queen of Europe, a princess of the Hindu Kush… your influence will be woven through the beds you command. This is how empires are truly made. Not just with treaties, but with bloodlines. With the deep, personal loyalty that only a woman who has been… opened… by her lord can give.”
The concept was grandiose, yet delivered with the practicality of arranging furniture. Cersei was the first pillar. Aisha would be the second.
“You must be firm from the start,” Rukmini continued, her tone instructional now. “These mountain girls, they have fire. It must be tempered, not broken. She must see your strength before she feels your gentleness. Make her know, from the first moment, that her body belongs to the crown. That her pleasure is a gift you choose to give her.” She squeezed his hand. “You have a natural gift for this. I saw it in you even as a boy. The way you carry yourself. It speaks to the core of a woman. We sense the men who understand their own power. It is the greatest aphrodisiac.”
Later that evening, the three of them dined privately. The conversation was easy, familial. Dev discussed the logistical preparations for Kabul. Rukmini fussed over Amartya’s plate, ensuring he ate well. The story of Cersei was referenced only in glances, in the proud set of Dev’s shoulders, in the warm, approving glow in Rukmini’s eyes. He was their masterpiece, functioning perfectly, expanding their reach through charm, intellect, and the undeniable, primal currency of his own body.
That night, in his own bed, Amartya lay awake. The scent of Delhi’s dust was in the air. He thought of Cersei’s final, desperate kiss in the hangar. He thought of Rukmini’s rose, plucked and perfect. He thought of a mountain princess named Aisha, a girl who did not yet know she was waiting for him to define her world. A slow, deep current of anticipation moved through him. The game was expanding. The board was the world itself, and the pieces were becoming flesh and blood.