As they strolled through the neon-lit streets, hand in hand, Ceres couldn’t help but marvel at the improbable charm of Dharavi at night. Helping Udit sneak down from the roof had been a comedy of errors, a caper worthy of a spy novel, all to evade another run-in with her ass of a father. First, there’d been the matter of Udit getting stuck between two of the corrugated panels, her hips stubbornly refusing to budge until he’d applied some not-so-gentle persuasion. Then had come the challenge of her slipping on pigeon poop and him narrowly avoiding a swan dive over the edge as he’d lunged to catch her. But the pièce de resistance had been when they’d finally reached the ground, only to find themselves face to face with Mrs. Patel’s prized pot-bellied pig. Bhuvan had followed them, snuffling happily, intent on joining their clandestine escapade until finally Udit had convinced the creature to go home.
He flashed her a grin and she returned it, equal mischief dancing in her eyes.
It was all so absurdly normal, he thought; they could’ve been any run-of-the-mill couple, enjoying a night out. Their casual banter, though, concealed a hidden truth: he was a man on a dangerous mission, who’d met her when he’d taken her prisoner. Amidst this charade of normalcy, he couldn’t shake the gnawing question: would she have even spared him a second glance, under normal circumstances? Their connection might be a twist of fate, a stroke of luck in his favor…or it might be nothing more than trauma bonding, disguised as love.
In an attempt to distract himself, he looked around. There was certainly plenty to see: Dharavi transformed, at night. Laughter filled the air, mingling with the eclectic melodies of makeshift bands, their crude instruments surpassing the refined performances he’d witnessed at the Imperial Opera House. This observation sparked another conflicting mix of emotions: hope intertwined with despondency. Amidst the narrow alleyways, strings of lights cast a feeble glow, their tenuous hold on existence mirroring the precariousness of life itself. The prevailing mantra seemed to echo through the streets: eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Udit gasped, as she caught sight of a monkey juggling kumquats. The creature’s talent seemed to contrast sharply with its disheveled owner, whose drunken state was more than apparent. He attempted to flirt with her, but then he noticed Ceres. Udit, not in the slightest deterred, seized the moment. “I believe that our friend here could use a generous donation,” she suggested.
The organ grinder nodded enthusiastically.
With a grimace, Ceres fished out a handful of darics. He watched as the other man made them vanish into thin air, while Udit’s eyes sparkled with amusement at his possessiveness. The desire for her coursed through him like wildfire, every nerve tingling with longing, but the timing truly couldn’t be worse. He should go, he knew, and not drag her into his world; she deserved so much better than whatever he had to offer. Instead, he gestured at one of the food stalls. “Want something?”
Her grin widened. “Yes!”
He’d selected one of the less upsetting vendors, where another old coot beamed toothlessly at them from behind a spread of questionable culinary delights. His focus was clearly on Udit, prompting a warning glare. “Smooth,” Udit muttered. She knew full well that the man just wanted to make a sale, and so did Ceres; what he didn’t know, was what was wrong with him tonight.
“I aim to impress,” he said, his tone tinged with self-deprecation.
“I’ve decided that you’re not a warthog,” she replied primly. “Warthogs are discerning creatures.” She looked up at him, her eyes dancing mischievously. “You’re a camel. Stubborn as a boulder, and with a temperament as unpredictable and unpleasant as a summer storm over the desert sands.”
He caught sight of the vendor grinning at him, and his scowl intensified. “I’ll have you know,” he retorted with mock gravity, “that the camel is a noble animal.”
Udit stifled a chuckle. “Of course.”
“What’s this?” he inquired, diverting attention. He was pointing at a shriveled chunk of meat, wallowing in some kind of murky brown sludge. It looked like it’d endured one too many rounds on a medieval torture rack, with charred remnants of its tormentor—a stick—still poking out.
“Rat,” she answered casually.
He blinked, dumbfounded. “What?”
“It’s alright,” she consoled, her pat on his arm dripping with faux sympathy. “You’re just not adventurous.”
Pulling out his wallet, he turned to the vendor. “We’ll take five.”
“Those,” she declared, indicating some tumescent lumps, “are pureed potato that’s been floured and deep fried. And those, next to them, are spinach-filled dumplings. They’re all really good.”
They presented a veritable feast for the senses, if one’s idea of a feast involved gagging and dry heaving. He motioned. “We’ll take one of each, and something to drink.”
Five minutes later, they escaped clutching a sack brimming with expired rodents, an assortment of suspicious pastries that seemed more like relics of a culinary apocalypse, and a duo of glass jars containing a dubious liquid touted as iced tea. Ceres, reminding himself that he had princely composure, eyed the bizarre assortment. Neither his royal upbringing nor his time with the Brotherhood had prepared him for this culinary nightmare.
“What a gentleman,” Udit teased, “buying me dinner.”
“I’m going to eat this rat,” he announced, pulling one out of the bag and brandishing it at her.
Her laugh was a melodic sound. “You don’t have to!”
Every dish in this hellhole seemed like a dare from a mischievous deity, but despite his stomach’s protests, he couldn’t refuse her obvious challenge. So, apologizing silently to his ancestors, he braced himself for the impending assault on his taste buds—and hoped that his digestive system would forgive him. Udit, meanwhile, watched as he sank his teeth into it.
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The taste was beyond imagination, akin to chewing on a crumbling tire filled with sewage. The stench of decay enveloped him, threatening to overpower his senses. With sheer willpower, he persevered, forcing himself to chew and swallow. For the next agonizing minute after that, he battled the urge to retch, determined to convince her of his nonexistent fortitude.
“Well?” she inquired eagerly. “What’s the verdict?”
He grimaced. “Like licking a catalytic converter marinated in week-old piss.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve eaten quite the menu, I see.”
“I’ve done a lot of things I regret,” he shot back sourly. “But getting my tattoos felt like getting massages from wood nymphs, in comparison. I think I’ve chewed on concrete that was softer.”
Extending her hand, she waited. “My turn.”
“No!” He held it over her head, aghast. “This is a health hazard!”
“Coward,” she teased.
“Fine,” he grumbled, giving in. “Here.”
The rat exuded an odor so potent, it seemed to challenge the very air for dominance. Undeterred, she tore off a chunk with gusto. Her satisfied grin made it seem as though she were dining on gourmet delicacies, not this crime against flavor. He watched in disbelief, as she finished it. “You’re terrible at being poor,” she remarked, licking her fingers. “I’ll have to give you lessons.”
And he was supposed to be the experienced one.
With a playful squeeze of his hand, she linked her fingers with his once more.
He gave her one of the dumplings.
Nibbling at it, she turned his hand over, scrutinizing the intricate runes tattooed onto his knuckles. Her fingertip danced up his neck, next, tracing the intricate pattern of swirls and loops that ended just below his jawline. “How much of you is decorated?” she asked, her expression curious.
He shrugged. “You’ll find out.”
Tattoos had been a mark of disrepute, in his previous life, visible tattoos especially. It didn’t matter, now, and he rather liked how they made him look when he was in the formal attire of his regular life. The contrast was intriguing, between sophistication and rebellion. When clad in a tailored suit and tie—which he often was on Brontes—he exuded an air of refinement, every crease and fold meticulously arranged. Yet, it was the intricate tapestry of ink adorning his exposed skin that captivated onlookers, hinting at a deeper, more enigmatic persona beneath the polished exterior. With each movement, his tattoos seemed to come alive, weaving a silent tale of defiance and self-expression. He wore his uniqueness with confidence, even in his current tactical attire, a silent testament to his unwavering self-assuredness.
Instead of being intrigued, she turned beet red. “I don’t know,” she said, suddenly uncertain.
Worried that they’d seriously miscommunicated, he frowned. “What?”
“I’ve heard about, um….” She hastily shoved the remaining dumpling into her mouth, silencing herself mid-sentence.
“Just spit it out,” he urged, his tone impatient. “After everything else we’ve discussed, it can’t be that bad.”
“I’ve heard about….” She swallowed. “Modifications.”
He chuckled, relieved. “Oh, that. I don’t have any strange ones, just a couple of neural implants and a bolt through my cock.”
She giggled, then stopped. “You’re joking, right?”
“No.” He blinked, as surprised as she was. Piercings, it suddenly occurred to him, were as common on Mahima IV as hearing the word cock probably was in her house. “The Apadravya is quite stimulating, for both the wearer and his partners. I’ve slept with dozens of women,” he added, hoping to reassure her. “None of them complained.” In fact, quite the opposite.
“Gross!” She wrinkled her nose. “You are not making this better.”
“The earliest centurions had their nipples pierced,” he pointed out. “Along with the first emperor.” Pierced ears were also common on Brontes, for both men and women, along with all kinds of functional piercings meant to enhance sexual pleasure. Those were especially common within the Brotherhood, almost a rite of passage, and he’d never thought of the practice itself as strange. Then again, he’d never spent so much time with someone who spent so much time praying.
A small smile quirked her lips. “Mysterious and forbidden,” she said. “Just like you.”
“As well as quite discreet,” he added. “And attractive.”
She snorted. “And modest!”
“I have a question, now,” he said. Normally he’d be delighted to discuss his penis, but this whole conversation had made him feel a bit…judged. He’d better not suggest anything too exciting, tonight, or she really would run screaming. “Have you and Justi always been…just friends?”
She peered up at him, bemused. “Are you asking me how many lovers I’ve had?”
His gaze met hers, searching for something beneath the surface. “Yes, that you’ve chosen.”
An eyebrow shot up in response. “Jealousy isn’t attractive.”
In truth, he’d been wondering if her experience with men truly was that uniformly disappointing, or if there’d been some excitement. Judging from her reaction, however, Justi was an even worse lover than he was a barista. Imagining himself compared to that, he felt a swell of pride—followed almost immediately by a wave of self-reproach. He wanted her to want him for who he was, not because others fell short. “You don’t know how restrained I’m being,” he assured her.
Her eyes narrowed. “So long as you’re not about to give me a disease.”
His reaction was one of feigned disgust. “I know how to take care of myself!”
They arrived at the hotel, their hands still entwined, and passed by the perpetually napping desk clerk. As the door creaked open, he stirred. Then, reassured that this wasn’t a robbery, he snorted and returned to his dream as Ceres guided Udit upstairs to their room. Upon entering, he reached for her—only to have her dart, once again, into the bathroom.
“I have to take another shower!” she called, her voice echoing through the closed door.
He slumped into his chair, a mixture of frustration and amusement swirling within him. “Naturally,” he grumbled, to no one in particular, then put his feet up and waited for something to happen.