Princess cloths
811 Words
Ashoka was unsettled.
He had been intrigued by the Princess earlier, but her absence from the gathering—where every noble was expected to attend with family—struck him as childish.
Childish behaviour had no place in a society meant to be exemplary.
Royals were meant to be ideals for the people of the kingdom. That had always been his belief.
The gathering was not optional. It was mandatory for every royal.
And yet—how did he know she was not there?
Because his eyes had searched only for her.
He was certain he would see her again.
He wanted to.
There was a pull toward her—undeniable.
But what unsettled him more was the indifference she had shown. Disregarding protocol was one thing; disrespecting Acharya was another. Acharya meant too much—to him and to the kingdom.
Exiting the Mandovar, he instructed a guard to inform the Princess of his arrival.
The guard conveyed the message to the maid waiting outside the bathing chamber. The reply returned promptly: the Princess would attend him once she had finished her bath.
The moment Ashoka heard this, a smile curved his lips.
He signalled the maids and servants to leave the premises.
They obeyed without question.
The Prince entered the bathing area.
Sunlight streamed across the Princess’s back, casting a glow upon her skin and rendering the scene breathtaking. He stood still, absorbing the sight, mesmerised. Curiosity urged him further—he wanted to see her face.
“Meera… clothes,” she said as she rose.
The elegant line of her back and the curve of her form stirred something deep within him.
The trance broke when she reached for her clothes.
Seconds passed.
Nothing.
“Meera?” she called again, turning—
“Aaaaaaah!”
She screamed and plunged back into the water, her face flushing with shame and fury.
The kiss had already crossed a boundary.
This—this shattered it.
Her breath came fast and uneven.
How long has he been standing there?
Does this man have no shame?
Shameless Prince, her thoughts cursed him.
Ashoka smirked inwardly. The expression on her face stirred something dangerous within him.
His gaze devoured her.
His eyes traced her as though she were something already claimed.
A part of him wanted her to bow.
To plead.
To be vulnerable before him.
“Such a shameless act,” she muttered, her voice low.
Her cheeks burned, yet her eyes met his—defiant, demanding an answer.
Why had he crossed the boundary?
“Not as childish as yours,” the Prince replied coolly, his gaze lingering where she struggled to conceal herself.
She followed his eyes and flushed further, unsettled by his words and their meaning.
Still, she could not offend him—not for her sake, nor for her father’s, her brother’s, or her people’s. The villagers had suffered a ruined harvest this season, unable to pay the capital tax. Her father was already burdened, constructing granaries in the western wing of Chiva. Stability depended on the Prince’s goodwill.
She swallowed her humiliation and composed herself.
“His Highness must have urgent business if he could not wait for me to finish my bath. How may I serve you, Your Highness?”
Serve me, he thought, in countless ways.
He smiled at her restraint—how swiftly she masked her anger. A queen’s composure.
“Yes, heaven. Come here,” he said.
Heaven? she thought. There was no one else present.
“I am speaking to you, my beautiful nymph.”
Her blood chilled. Is this the Prince the world praises? she wondered. Has he no modesty at all?
“Your Highness, please allow me a moment to dress,” she said carefully.
No man had ever been this close to her. No one had seen her as he had now. Yet she could do nothing—not even raise her voice.
“How will you dress without your clothes?” he asked calmly. “Come out of the water and take them.”
His words carried command, not jest.
Lord Sun, take me away, she prayed silently.
“Please, Your Majesty… do not mock me,” she pleaded.
“Does it sound like mockery?” His voice was cold, absolute.
She had no choice.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and rose, attempting to shield herself with trembling hands. She stepped forward cautiously, each movement painfully deliberate.
The cold air brushed her skin—and his gaze burned.
“Clothes,” she whispered.
The word reached him.
He held out her garments slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving her. When she reached for them, he seized her wrist and pulled her closer.
“Your name,” he murmured near her ear.
“Dhara,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
She tore free, clutching her clothes, and fled.
- Writer
