The bangles pressed together.
"What are you doing here—" Her voice. Attempting the voice of someone who has a position and is maintaining it. Finding it harder than expected. "What have you done to him — go — you have to go — my father—"
"Is outside," Raven said, walking toward her. "Laughing about something with your uncle."
"If he comes in—"
"He won't."
"Raven—"
She pushed.
Both hands on his chest — the full, physical attempt of a woman who has made a decision and is trying to implement it with her body — and he caught both her wrists and turned and the bed arrived at the backs of her thighs and she went down.
The flower petals scattered.
The jasmine and roses and the white sheets and her red dress and his hands still at her wrists — all of it landing together on the decorated wedding bed of Preet Mehta's arranged marriage.
She looked up at him.
He looked down at her.
