Desert Rose

The Wild Beast on Rails

The Wild Beast on Rails

The desert night was still, but the train cut through it like a serpent of steel, smoke curling against the moon.

Inside one of its compartments, chaos lived. Empty liquor bottles rolled on the floor, cigarette smoke clouded the air, and two women laughed breathlessly, their silk sarees half-undone.

And there he was.

Seher Rathore. Naked, sprawled on the berth as if he owned the damn train, a glass of rum balanced lazily in his hand.

He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t embarrassed. He was amused—at life, at the world, at women who clung to him like moths to fire.

When the soldiers escorting him banged the door open, he didn’t even flinch. He just smirked, shifting the glass to his lips.

“Gentlemen,” his voice was sharp, mocking, “couldn’t knock? Or did my father order you to drag me to the desert before I finished my fun?”

One of the women gasped and scrambled to cover herself with the sheets. The other laughed and kissed his shoulder, whispering promises of waiting.

Seher stood up, utterly unbothered by his nakedness, stretching like a lion disturbed from sleep. His scarred torso glistened under the faint yellow light.

“Tell the old man,” he drawled, pulling on his uniform with lazy grace, “I don’t fight for the government. I fight when I want. And right now—” he buttoned his shirt, lips twisting in a grin, “—I don’t want.”

But orders were orders. And though annoyance flickered in his eyes, a part of him relished the storm he was being dragged into.

Because in the heart of Rajasthan’s sands, a pair of innocent eyes waited for him. Eyes that would turn this playboy, this wild beast, into a man consumed.

Eyes that belonged to Princess Aaliya Devi.