The echoes of the wedding music had finally faded, replaced by the heavy silence of midnight. The vidaai had been tearful, the grah-pravesh rituals chaotic, and after an hour of relentless, horrible teasing from the siblings, Harsh and Nandini had finally been escorted to their room. The ceremonies were officially over. As the rest of the royal family retired to their wings to collapse from exhaustion, Devika caught Rajveer's sharp eye across the courtyard. He gave her a subtle, firm nod. It was time.
A few lingering royal guests blocked Rajveer on his way out, forcing him to play the polite Crown Prince for a few minutes longer. Seeing him delayed, Devika didn't wait. Her jaw set into a hard line as she turned on her heel and glided down into the dark, stone-walled palace cellar alone.
The moment she stepped into the hidden room, the bubbly, hopping princess vanished. In her place stood a woman of pure, unadulterated menace. Karan Hooda sat tied tightly to a heavy wooden chair, a thick cloth gagging his mouth.
Devika walked up to him, her heavy royal poshak rustling in the quiet room. Her eyes burned with a fierce, quiet anger that had been simmering all day. Without warning, she drove the heel of her shoe straight into Karan's knee with terrifying precision.
CRACK.
The joint dislocated instantly. Karan's body convulsed, a muffled, blood-curdling shriek tearing from his throat, completely bluffed by the cloth over his mouth. The palace guards stationed in the corners instantly stiffened, their spines pulling straight. It had been days since they had seen this ruthless, angry side of Devika, and it still terrified them.
She didn't stop there. Turning to the metal table, she pointed a cold finger. "Hatora!" she ordered a guard.
The tool was placed in her hand. With a single, fluid, and merciless motion, Devika slammed the heavy iron hammer down onto Karan's index finger, fracturing the bone into pieces.
She stepped back, tossing the hammer onto the table with a loud clatter. She took a deep breath, watching him writhe and choke on his own screams with a cold, deeply satisfied expression. Truthfully, she didn't want Rajveer to see this side of her. This was the "psycho" side, as she secretly called it—the side that didn't care about any diplomacy, didn't care if the enemy was dead or alive, but simply craved the sheer torture of anyone who dared threaten her family. This side of her loved the bloodshed of her enemies, thrived on their cries, and grew thirsty for their tears.
"Accha lagega naye navele pati ke saamne hum tujhe tadpayen?" she barked at him, tearing the gag from his mouth. "Sach-sach bata de tere baap ko chahiye kya. Negotiation karna hai ya seedha marna hai?!"
"Marna hai!"
A stern, booming voice cut through the damp air from the doorway. Devika snapped her head around as Rajveer stepped into the light. His eyes were dead, frozen over with a cold fury that matched her own as he closed the distance between them.
"No negotiations," Rajveer said, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly quiet registers. "Humari family ke baare mein socha kaise!!"
Despite the gravity of the situation, a dark, wicked smirk pulled at the corner of Devika's lips. Deep inside her heart, she felt a sudden, electric thrill. She wanted him to be like this. She needed her husband to be just as ruthless and lethal as she was—otherwise, how on earth could they ever look like a perfect match?
Yet, looking at him now, a sudden wave of old, familiar nervousness brushed against her heart. Before his return, she had been plagued by anxiety. What kind of wife did the Crown Prince actually want? She had innocently asked his brothers, his sisters, even the elders, hoping for a clue because they knew him better. And everyone—every single one of them—had given her the exact same pathetic answer: "Just be yourself, Devika." She had wanted to beat each of them with her heels for that unhelpful advice. She had wanted concrete details. Did he prefer traditional sarees or modern pants? Did he want an ambitious woman running his corporations or a quiet homemaker? Did he like long hair or short? Heavy makeup or light?
She had kept a desperate, running list in her head for seven long years. A single phone call or a text from him would have solved it, but that fucking asshole hadn't bothered to check on her once. He hadn't called to hear her voice or ask how she looked. Every time she had returned to their massive, empty bedroom over the years, she would write frantic, emotional drafts in her email, only to never dare hit send. His grandfather had told her to give him time and space in Europe. Her late mother had drilled it into her to obey every word of her in-laws. So she had waited. She had spent seven years brushing her hair, using the finest skincare, looking her absolute best, and building an empire for him to rule after his return.
Rajveer slammed both his palms flat onto the metal table, leaning his heavy frame right into Karan's face, pulling Devika abruptly out of her thoughts. His gaze was terrifyingly dark, demanding absolute submission.
"Bol! Ek baar mein marega ya tadap-tadap ke?!" Rajveer snarled, his face inches from the trembling gang leader. "Aasan maut denge agar humare kaam aaya to."
Devika stepped up right beside her husband, crossing her arms over her glittering royal poshak. Her face hardened back into a mask of pure steel as she threw a lethal, cooperative glare at Karan, silently promising him that if Rajveer's cold anger didn't kill him, she definitely would.
---
They spent almost the whole night down in that damp cellar, relentlessly demanding answers and sucking every piece of useful information out of the enemy's son until Karan Hooda was completely drained. By the time they finally broke the lock on his silence and walked back up to their grand suite, the morning birds were already chirping outside the palace windows.
Exhaustion hung heavy over them. The moment they stepped into the room, Rajveer collapsed straight onto the plush velvet couch, his eyes closed. Devika walked over and knelt down, reaching out to unlace his heavy formal shoes to give him some relief. But Rajveer sat up immediately. He caught her wrists, his face softening into that cute, silent expression of his that clearly signalled 'No way am I letting my princess touch my shoes'. Devika smirked, shaking her head as he stood up to head to the washroom to freshen up. She quickly went to the walk-in closet to strip off her heavy royal wedding attire. The stifling fabric had been suffocating her for hours, driving her absolutely crazy for some oxygen.
When she finally walked back into the bedroom wearing a light, breathable nightsuit, Rajveer was already on the bed, out cold. Devika climbed in and laid down right beside him. He was sleeping on his side, his handsome face turned directly toward her, his breathing slow and deep.
For a long moment, she just stayed there, quietly adoring him in the soft dawn light. She traced his sharp facial features with her eyes—his strong jawline and his dimpled cheeks, which were currently covered in a light, rough stubble that gave him a rugged look.
A small smile touched her lips as she realized something amusing. If this strict man ever did a clean shave, his cute dimples would make him look like an absolute baby. He also had surprisingly soft, rosy lips—probably rosier than hers, which wasn't fair at all.
But she loved his hands the most. They were completely hairless, with long, elegant fingers and beautifully veiny forearms. It was perfect. Nice, clean, and dominant. Exactly what she had always wanted.
Back then, when she was a new bride staring at his framed photographs in this empty room, she had genuinely believed the rumors. She thought he was a hopelessly strict, cold man who preferred to live inside a protected cocoon. Everyone told her he was a heartless prince who only cared about his royal duties, completely blind to other people's feelings.
His younger siblings had mercilessly teased her for years about being married to a literal glacier. Back then, she would always run after Jai, Vikram, and Harsh, kicking and slapping them playfully to shut them up—though deep down, she had really wanted to hit them the hard way. She had just forced herself to control her temper.
But over these past few days since his return, she hadn't seen a single glimpse of that legendary coldness. Maybe he was intentionally locking that side of his personality away, just like she hid her own side. She didn't know for sure. All she knew was that Rajveer was giving her all the attention she had ever wished for. Not wanted, but deeply, secretly wished for.
She had spent seven years wishing to be the only person who could make him laugh—or even a genuine smile would do. She wished to be the only girl he would stare at in a crowded room, the one who could leave the terrifying Crown Prince completely speechless in the best way possible. She had dreamed of the days he would return, planning how she would flirt with him, tease him, and dance with him in the monsoon rain. And if he didn't want to dance, she was perfectly ready to compromise; she would happily perform her dances just to watch him look at her.
She was willing to give him all the space he needed, all the love his lonely heart craved. She was even ready to turn off her fierce ego and her stubborn streak—the part of her that desperately wanted to superglue her hand to his so he could never leave her side again. The possessive part of her that wanted to shoot, or at least shoo away, every single girl who dared to look his way. He was hers, entirely hers. She had done everything humanly possible to preserve this family for him, and she wanted him to be with her forever. Yet, despite that consuming fire, she was still willing to wait, willing to control her wildest impulses just to ensure his absolute peace of mind.
Lying there beside his sleeping frame, she remembered how she had started a literal revolution in this palace during her initial years of marriage. Back then, she desperately wanted to know if she had what it took to break through the cold Rathore persona. Since Rajveer was thousands of miles away in Europe, she decided she needed to practice her skills on someone else. And that "someone" had been his own blood relatives.
When she first arrived as a bride, the Rathore family didn't even look at each other, let alone talk. The palace had felt like a beautiful golden graveyard. Everyone spent their entire day locked inside their respective rooms, only stepping out for stiff, formal meetings or if someone had died. There was zero warmth. Devika had done her absolute best to shatter that thick, generational ice. For the first several months, her chaotic energy didn't seem to work at all; she just kept getting sternly scolded by the elders for performing reckless stunts and unroyal, childish experiments that a future Crown Princess was definitely not supposed to do.
But then, her fierce pride and ego took it as a challenge. Within the span of seven years, she had practically forced this family to break their icy shells. She dragged them out of their rooms, made it a mandatory royal decree to sit together at the dining table for every single meal, and taught them how to tease each other, fight playfully, and laugh out loud. She had turned a house of ghosts into a real, breathing family—just as she wanted.
Devika smiled softly, leaning in a fraction closer to Rajveer's warm chest. She closed her eyes, letting the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat lull her to sleep.
---
The exhaustive marathon of the royal wedding was finally behind them. The palace had quieted down, the relative-packed corridors had cleared, and the morning sun filtered softly through the massive arched windows of Rajveer's private study. For the first time in days, Rajveer was finally free to focus entirely on work.
He sat behind his desk, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms, his fingers flying across his laptop keyboard as he reviewed the offshore assets decrypted by his ledger. He was back in his element—calculating, precise, and entirely focused on planning the corporate blockade that would starve the Hooda family's transport network.
The double doors of the study creaked open, and Devika walked in carrying a silver tray with two cups of traditional ginger tea.
Rajveer looked up, his gaze instantly softening. The mahogany *mehendi* on her hands was still rich and dark, and her heavy gold bangles clinked softly as she set a teacup right beside his laptop.
"Aap subah-subah hi dhandhe par baith gaye, Hukum sa?" she teased softly, taking a sip from her own cup as she perched casually on the edge of his desk.
"Bilkul. Shadi ho chuki hai. Matlab bahana khatam," Rajveer replied, his tone serious as he turned the laptop screen slightly toward her.
"Hum ye domestic supply lines map karne ki koshish kar rahe hai. Hooda ke Border movement ko rokne ke liye, hume local police aur state transit authority, sab se baat karni hogi taaki vo log jald-se-jald checkpoints lagayen. Lekin in logon ko manane mein sadiyan nhi lag jayengi hume? Humne suna kafi tetiya hote hain ye police waale!"
Devika glanced at the complex corporate grid on his screen, entirely unbothered. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, a knowing, highly amused smile playing on her lips.
"Aapko kisi state authority ke piche bhaagne ki zaroorat nahi hai, Rajveer," she said smoothly, while looking at the screen. "Checkpoints aaj raat aath baje tak lag jayenge. Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, aur Barmer... teeno districts ke border seals ready hain."
Rajveer paused, his fingers freezing over the keyboard. He looked up at her, his brows furrowing in deep confusion. "What do you mean? Itni aasani se to police border seal nhi karegi, Devika."
Devika chuckled softly, setting her teacup down on the desk. She leaned in closer to him, her eyes dancing with absolute, brilliant mischief.
"Aapko sach-much humare baare mein kuch nhi pata na, patidev. Wahi toh keh rahe hain hum. Order mil chuka hai unhe. Special Operations Group ki Additional Superintendent se," she whispered, wiggling her eyebrows. "Yaani ki hum. I am a designated IPS officer, Hukum sa."
Rajveer stared at her. This woman has again managed to make his mind went completely, utterly blank.
He blinked once, twice, trying to process the words. He had seen her throw a silver platter like a weapon, he had seen her pop an assassin's wrist without breaking a sweat, but he had assumed she was just an exceptionally well-trained royal princess with a knack for self-defense.
"IPS...?" Rajveer managed to say, his voice lacking its usual corporate confidence. "Tum... Police officer ho?"
"Special Ops," she corrected proudly, a playful grin breaking across her face as she leaned back, crossing her arms over her chiffon saree. "Civil Services clear kiya tha kuch saal pehle. Postings hamesha confidential aur field-heavy hoti hain, isiliye Jodhpur Darbar ke bahar kisi ko nahi pata. Kal jo security grids clear hue, ya jo wireless intercept humne lagaya... woh humara routine kaam hai."
Rajveer kept staring at her, a profound, ringing silence filling the study. He looked at the delicate gold jewelry around her wrist, the elegant fall of her saree, and then at the fierce, razor-sharp intelligence gleaming in her eyes. She wasn't just a queen who needed protection; she was the literal enforcement arm of the state. She didn't even need to don the khaki uniform to command authority; she was ruling her empire right now in a saree, completely holding the strings of power in her hands.
Slowly, the utter shock on Rajveer's face began to recede, replaced by a deep, overwhelming wave of intense, fierce pride. His chest swelled, and a slow, incredibly smug, and captivated smile broke across his face.
He leaned back in his leather chair, looking up at his extraordinary wife with a gaze that burned with absolute admiration.
"An IPS officer in Special Operations," Rajveer murmured, his voice rich with amusement and respect. He reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around her wrist, pulling her just a fraction closer. "Toh iska matlab... Hume aapse thoda darne ki zaroorat hai?"
"Bilkul," Devika beamed, her bubbly, mischievous persona rushing back as she leaned down, her face inches from his. "Thoda nhi bahut darne ki zaroorat hai, Hukum sa... Hum chahein toh aapko abhi hirasat mein le len, humara dil churane ki jurm mein."
Rajveer's smile deepened into a dark, breathless smirk, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her mehendi. "I wouldn't mind being in your custody, IPS madam"
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