The dining hall reeked of male rut tonight.
Priya felt it the instant Ranjeet’s palm locked on the small of her back and steered her through the carved archway. No incense, no sandalwood, just whiskey fumes, cheroot smoke, and the low, hungry growl of voices stripped of all feminine softening. His mother had eaten at sunset, murmured something about a migraine, pressed a dry kiss to Priya’s forehead, and melted into the zenana wing with the other women. Now there was only the long rosewood table, the heavy crystal decanters, and the men.
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