I Stole The Princess And Refused To Let Her Go

The hall smelled of sandalwood and overripe fruit, the same cloying sweetness that drifted through every palace I had ever been forced to endure. I kept to the carved screen that separated the colonnade from the main floor, one palm resting on the hilt of the dagger that never left my hip, and watched the woman who was supposed to save my kingdom.

Subhadra moved between silk-draped courtiers like a blade sliding through silk: no wasted motion, no hesitation. A prince of some minor house bowed too low, blocking her path; she tilted her head, offered a smile so precise it could have been measured with a calligrapher’s brush, and stepped around him before his greeting was half-spoken. The smile vanished the instant her face was turned away. I felt the loss of it like a small, unnecessary wound.

I had been in Dwarka three days—long enough to learn the angles of the palace, the rhythm of its guards, the moment each night when the tide drowned the lower quay stones and made the air taste of salt and iron. Not long enough to speak to her. That part came tonight, whether she wished it or not.

Krishna had warned me she would be difficult. “She reads people the way fishermen read weather,” he’d said, lounging on the terrace with his legs hooked through the marble balustrade like a boy who owned nothing and therefore feared nothing. “If she thinks you want something, she’ll hand it over just to watch what you do once it’s yours.”

I hadn’t answered. My wants were simple: get the girl, seal the alliance, ride home before the rains swelled the rivers. Simple, and already ruined by the way she flicked a glance toward the shadows where I stood, as if she could feel the weight of my appraisal across the width of the hall. Her eyes—dark, unflinching—met mine for the space of a single heartbeat. Then someone called her name and the moment snapped, but the imprint stayed under my ribs like an arrowhead lodged too deep to dig out.

A musician struck a new raga. Subhadra clapped politely, the sound soft against the marble, and retreated toward the fretted doors that opened onto the sea terrace. The set of her shoulders told me she intended to be alone. Good. I had no patience for the choreography of courtship, the exchange of compliments as hollow as dried gourds. Better to step from shadow into moonlight and speak the truth like a knife laid flat on the table: Your brother will trade you to Duryodhana before the next full moon. Come with me instead, or I will take you. Choose.

I waited until the last courtier turned his back, then followed the faint scent of jasmine and salt that drifted in her wake.

Krishna was already leaning against the outer arch, arms folded, looking as if he had been carved there to hold up the stone. He did not speak; he simply angled his chin toward the narrow stair that dropped to the private quay. Then he stepped aside, letting the torchlight fall across his face long enough for me to see the smile that was not quite a smile—curiosity, maybe, or simple mischief. I passed him without a word.

The stair was steep, salt-bitten. Halfway down I heard the slap of water against the pier and, beneath it, the small sound of metal on metal: bangles touching, then separating. She was pacing.

Moonlight laid a white strip across the planks. Subhadra moved in and out of it, her sari catching the wind, the end fluttering like a pennant that had forgotten which king it served. She stopped when my shadow crossed the light.

“I wondered which of them would send a lackey tonight,” she said, not turning. “Did my brother promise you a purse, or only the usual worthless grant of land?”

I stepped off the last stair. “Balarama has already promised you.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “To Duryodhana. Yes. The elders whisper it as if I were deaf.”

“Three days,” I said. “The envoys ride south at dawn.”

She pivoted then, silk hissing across her calves. Anger made her breathing shallow, the gold chain at her throat rising and falling with each inhale. “And you came to gloat? To remind me my value is measured in horses and elephants?”

“I came to steal you.”

The words landed flat, without ornament, the way I might have told an archer his mark was too far left. She blinked once, the courtly mask slipping enough for me to see the raw intelligence underneath, rapid and unsparing.

“You are Arjun of Indraprastha,” she said slowly. “The one who hides behind pillars and thinks no one notices. My brother’s alliance is already yours if you ask. Why play kidnapper?”

“Because if you stay, you will be Hastinapur’s hostage, not Dwarka’s princess. Because your brothers will pretend it is honor while they barter you like salt. Because I can put you in my chariot tonight and let the bards call it love tomorrow.”

She studied me, arms crossed beneath her breasts, fingers digging into her own skin hard enough to leave half-moons. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I leave alone and tell the world Subhadra chose Duryodhana’s bed. Your clan keeps its treaty, you keep its cage.”

The wind snapped her pallu against my forearm; neither of us moved to free it. For a long moment the only sound was water gnawing the pilings.

She lifted her chin. “You offer me a choice the way a wolf offers the lamb a shortcut through the forest.”

“I offer you the only one you’ll get.”

Her eyes—black, bright—searched my face for hesitation, for softness. Finding none, she exhaled through parted lips, the faintest tremor running across her jaw. Somewhere inside the palace a conch sounded the third watch, marking the hour when honest men slept and the dishonest began to work.

“Then steal me quickly,” she said, voice low, almost amused. “Before I change my mind and steal you first.”

I stepped forward until the hem of her sari brushed my shins. Salt wind flattened the linen against my chest; I felt her breathing through it, small, fast pulses that lifted the gold embroidery at her collarbone.

“Abduction,” I said. “The old way. I break the bolt on your balcony, carry you down the rope, and by sunrise the bards will swear you begged me.” My voice stayed level, the same tone I used to count arrows left in a quiver. “Your brothers keep their honor—no betrothal broken if a princess is stolen. You keep your name. I keep my alliance. Everyone wins.”

She didn’t retreat. “Except me. I win a husband who begins by lying.”

“A husband who begins by listening.” I lifted my hand, slow enough that she could have twisted away, and laid two fingers beneath her chin. The skin there was soft, still warm from the hall’s lamps. “I will not drag you in chains, Subhadra. I will not gag you. But I will not leave this quay alone.”

Her lashes flickered. “You’d force me in front of my own city?”

“I’d force the world to admit you chose.” I tilted her face until moonlight filled her eyes, black mirrors showing me my own unsm mouth. “Say no and I carry you anyway. Say yes and the story is yours to write.”

The water slapped the pier, counting heartbeats. Down the stair Krishna’s torch hissed once, then died—his promise that no guard would come. I smelled wet hemp, distant fish, the jasmine oil she wore at her pulse points. My thumb brushed the corner of her lip; I felt the small, involuntary parting of her teeth.

“You stand there,” she whispered, “and speak of choice while your body tells me I have none.”

“Bodies lie.” I slid my hand to the nape of her neck, fingers closing lightly around the braid coiled there. “Mine wants yours. Yours wants freedom. Tonight they can have both.”

She laughed, a sound like steel leaving sheath. “You think desire is currency?”

“I think it’s the only coin that spends in the dark.” I leaned in until her breath mixed with mine, until the space between us held only the promise of friction. “Decide.”

Silence stretched, taut as bowstring. Then her palm came up, flat against my sternum—not push, not pull, simply measurement. Heat soaked through the cloth into my skin. I felt her thumb trace the ridge of muscle above my heart, counting beats the way a warrior counts enemy paces.

“Very well,” she said, voice steady now, almost amused. “Steal me, Arjun. But remember—tomorrow the song will call me willing, and every time you hear it you’ll know I let you win.”

She rose on the balls of her feet and brushed her mouth across mine, dry, deliberate, the seal on a bargain neither of us trusted. Then she stepped back, arms loose at her sides, waiting.

I bent, scooped her knees, and lifted. Her weight settled against my chest like a quiver finally slotted home. Overhead the moon hung low, a silver eye that would witness everything and tell nothing. I carried her up the stair, past the dead torch, into the corridor that smelled of salt and escape. Behind us the sea kept its rhythm, indifferent to kingdoms, to futures, to the small, fierce pulse of a woman who had just chosen the wolf.