Page 80 of The Defiant Wife

I roll my eyes."Oh please, don't flatter yourself, Your Highness."

I purposely look somewhere around his shoulder instead of directly into his eyes."I'm not coming because your company is fascinating."

He waits.I clear my throat dramatically."The ventilation in this palace is absolutely terrible tonight."

His eyebrow rises."I've decided I'm feeling . . . mildly claustrophobic."

He says nothing."If I stay in this room another hour, I'll probably die from lack of oxygen."Still nothing."And then your precious board will have to explain why their brand-new princess passed away because nobody opened a window."

His face remains unreadable. "So really . . . " I shrug. "This is more of a medical emergency than a social outing."

Silence.

He simply looks at me. Really looks. His eyes linger on my face a second longer than usual. On the tightness in my jaw. On the way I'm gripping my jacket far too tightly.

For one terrifying moment, I wonder if he can see straight through every ridiculous excuse I've just made. If he can somehow tell that my father has managed to ruin my entire day with one phone call.

His expression doesn't change.He lets out a slow sigh. The kind that sounds deeply tired."Fine."

The word comes out like he's agreeing under protest.

"But if you complain about your hair . . . " He picks up his helmet. " . . . or my speed . . . " He opens the bedroom door. " . . . I'm leaving you on the side of the highway."

"I never complain," I say with complete confidence.

He gives me a look.A long one.Neither of us believes that statement.

Still as I hurry after him down the hallway, something inside my chest eases.

The loneliness doesn't disappear. Not completely. But with every step away from that room . . . And with him walking quietly beside me . . . The weight pressing against my lungs becomes just a little easier to breathe through.

27. MIDNIGHT RIDES

VEERAJ

The cool midnight air drifts through the palace courtyard, but it does nothing to clear the mess in my head.

I don't stop to question why I'm doing this.

I don't ask myself why, instead of riding out alone like I have for years whenever I need to clear my mind, I'm standing beside my motorcycle waiting for the one person who has managed to disturb every bit of peace in my life.

Diya stands a few feet away, arms folded tightly over her denim jacket, her lower lip pressed into that familiar stubborn line.

But something is different tonight.

The spark that's usually dancing in her eyes is missing.

She looks tired.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

And when she gave me that ridiculous explanation about the palace ventilation a few minutes ago, her voice was too quiet. Too rough.

It bothers me more than it should.

Without saying anything, I open the side compartment of my bike and pull out a matte-black helmet.