“You know I never like to do anything halfway.”
“Yes. It’s disconcerting to have you put that focus onme.”
I inhaled sharply. “Unwelcome?” I asked hesitantly.
“Never.” One word, said with a vehemence that took my breath.
“I…” I didn’t know how to have this conversation, but there was something I had to tell him, so I wet my lips and began again. “Sometimes I get bad cramps,” I blurted out. “When it’s my monthly time.”
He stared at me. “Do you have them now?” he asked, confusion lacing his voice at my abrupt change of topic.
“No, I’m not…” I shook my head and took a deep breath. “I’m not explaining myself well. Afra Aunty gave me pakaal tea to ease them. I drink it regularly.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “It’s… normally used to prevent pregnancy.”
“Ah.” A flush crept up his neck as understanding dawned.
“Yes. Now excuse me while I go throw myself off your balcony.”
He laughed, pressing me down to the divan when I attempted to get up. “No, don’t do that. At least not before I’ve had my way with you.”
I swatted at him, but my hand stayed on his chest. We both looked down at my fingers laid hesitantly against his skin. I ran them down, feeling the small scars littering his body, many of them from our fights.
“I’ve marked you,” I said, wonder in my voice as I swept my fingers down to his navel. He sucked in a breath and I stopped my hand, my fingers curling into my palm.
Then his smile was slow and deliberate and I felt like I was about to combust. “Shall I tell you my favorite ones?”
He grabbed my hand, not waiting for me to respond, as if I could find my voice anyway. It felt like being at the edge of a storm, knowing the way forward was dangerous, but wanting to feel the cool rain on my face. He placed my palm against the side of his taut stomach, and I felt the raised skin there, like a hook.
“This one.” His words were low. “Do you remember it?”
I tried to smile, but it was getting increasingly difficult to maintain light humor with the dark intensity of his eyes.
I don’t even know how to forget.
“Of course. I’d just begun to train with scimitars.”
“I thought I’d best you then, given I’d used mine so much more, but you swung your sword at the last moment, catching me in the side.”
“I was beside myself,” I blurted out. “I could hear your cry of pain in my nightmares for weeks. How can this be your favorite? The dirt turned red with your blood, I thought I had finally succeeded in killing you.”
I felt the lift of his lips like they were against my own skin. “It was because of what happened afterward. You stitched me up, berating yourself the whole time, administering the salve with a touch so gentle I didn’t know you were capable of it.”
I swatted him on the arm and he leaned forward so his lips were inches from mine. “It was the most we’d ever touched outside of training, and I knew then I’d never be able to get you out of my skin. You marked me, but in more ways than one. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, the way your hands felt. The apologetic smile when you applied the salve, the way your eyes grew dark when you concentrated on the stitching.”
“What you are saying is that you liked it when I stabbed you.” My laugh was a little breathless, my attempt at humor stuck in my chest. “Only I could find a boy who was as bloodthirsty as me.”
He lifted my hand to his cheek, and I felt a long, ridged scar there, underneath the stubble along his jaw. “This one?” he asked, his voice as breathless as mine.
I swallowed. “The first time you beat me in an open fight. I’m sure this is your favorite.”
He barked a laugh and it rumbled through him, making medeeply aware that he was shirtless on top of me. “Not because I won that bout, but because of afterward. Do you remember?”
I thought back to last year when it happened. It had been at the palace this time; my father had been commissioned to outfit the royal guard with new weapons and he’d been summoned more often than usual. I met Maz at the training yard, the ground flush with green grass instead of worn dirt, the knives so polished I had ached to bloody them up. We fought, and Maz had used my own move against me—sliding his sword along the edge of mine and then flicking backward so I lost momentum. But not before I had slashed him with the broad sword, marring his victory just a little bit with a wound of my own. I thought back to what we had done after the fight and remembered the sugary taste of kulfi on my tongue, the ice cream dusted with almonds—a rare treat we never had in the village. But mostly, I remembered the feeling of laughter rumbling in my belly and throwing my finished kulfi stick at Mazin’s face after he brought up winning against me for the millionth time.
“Afterward,” I said, thinking as I processed the memory. “We ate kulfi in the grass, and you told me about your mother.” I smiled, remembering Anam running around, grateful we were finally paying her attention. “Then we played lattoo with your sister until her spinning top broke.”
He nodded. “Your father joined us and we had dinner at the palace.”
I nodded, thinking about the small room we’d gone to, not a large palace dining room, but a warm, cozy space usually used by the servants. Maz had told me that he and Anam normally ate alone at the palace.
