They flew from Varanasi to Kochi, crossing the width of India while Amber slept with her head on Kabir's shoulder, her hand still resting on her belly. She had not let go of that spot since leaving the ashram. Whether it was intuition or wishful thinking or the lingering effects of the kundalini awakening, she could not say. But the spark was there. She felt it like a secret whispered in a language only her body understood.

Kabir's private jet was outfitted with a bedroom, and he had carried her there himself after takeoff, laying her down on the silk sheets, pulling a cashmere throw over her body. He had watched her sleep for an hour before joining her, his hand covering hers on her belly, his lips pressed to her hair. She was a Rajput princess, the daughter of a lineage that stretched back to the sun itself, and she had surrendered herself completely to him. An Arab. A billionaire. A man whose dominance was not a performance but a fact of nature, as immutable as the desert wind.