He kissed me, his lips meeting mine in a question, one that I answered readily. I pushed down any of the trepidation I felt and just thought purely ofhim. Of the way he made me feel, of the sounds in the back of his throat when he pressed me against him. I kissed him back with everything I had, and suddenly it wasn’t enough, and we were flying together, spiraling down a mountain of anger and passion and such fierce longing I could barely breathe.
And then the sick churning in the pit of my stomach, that gnawing growing deeper, darker, like an abyss ready to swallow me whole. And all the while the same thought kept replaying in the forefront of my mind.
He thinks you are someone else.
He thinks you are someone else.
My insides roiled. My mouth tasted of ash. I pushed away from him with everything I had, practically throwing him against the wall.
Our heavy breaths filled the silence of the room. His dark eyes were wild as they took me in, lips red from our kiss.
“I can’t,” I said desperately, not caring about his response. I couldn’t go down this road, no matter what my vengeance was. Every part of my body rebelled against what I was doing, against who I was becoming.
If I led him here, Mazin wouldn’t be truly saying yes. He wouldn’t have agreed to be withmebut with Sanaya.
“I can’t,” I repeated, touching my hands to my swollen lips, letting my words hang in the air. Then I raced out of the room, not bothering to wait for a response, not taking the dagger he’d just given me, desperate to escape this fate I’d built for myself.
Thirty-eight
I ran through the halls of the palace, holding myself together as much as I could until I found a vacant room to hide in, away from the performers and crowds. I stood in the darkness, back braced against the door, my heavy breath the only sound besides the muffled revelry beyond.
Then I broke apart.
I finally allowed the tears to fall.
For my father.
For all the love I’d had in my heart for Mazin.
But most of all, for me, because even though I’d escaped prison, it felt remarkably like I was still there.
Sobs choked my body as I folded over, my face pressed to the floor, and cried for everything I’d never have again. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the cool marble against my skin, wishing not for the first time that I could go back in time to when choices seemed easy and every step wasn’t a betrayal against myself or my family.
Eventually my ugly sobbing stopped and I pressed the heel of my hands to my eyes, wiping away the tears.
I sat up slowly. This was what I would allow myself.
This small bit of emotion, before I donned my armor once moreand went out to the battlefield. I threaded my fingers through my hair and massaged my scalp to ease the ache there, wishing I had some of the heated mustard oil from Afra Aunty to calm me.
The emperor hadn’t even arrived at the festivities yet, and I couldn’t stay hiding in this room. I wouldn’t break. Not now. Will was the only thing keeping me going and seeing this through.
I got up and paced around the dark room, drying my face and letting the emotion drain out of me to be replaced by a steel blade. Somehow I managed to open the door again, walking back into the throngs of people laughing and exclaiming over the djinn power on display. But its true power—more than just street performer tricks—was on display too, they just didn’t realize it.
It could transform you into a living weapon. It could reconstruct the skin you wore, reform your bones.
You could conquer empires with it.
My eyes searched the room for Noor, but I didn’t see her dark cropped hair. After a few moments, the throng of people began quieting and the performers stopped ingesting zoraat. The noise hushed to a whisper, and the people stood, waiting.
The emperor was coming.
I only had a few memories of the emperor, from when my father had taken me to the palace. That Vahid chose to use me as his political pawn showed that he had taken more notice of me than I ever supposed. Or perhaps it was that Mazin had been the one to suggest me.
From the upper level of the palace the crowds parted. The emperor walked through them as if he was born to it.
But he wasn’t. Vahid had started as a humble farmer before making a bargain with a djinn that had helped him take an empire.
None could doubt the grandeur of his outfit—the golden sherwani, the buttons made of diamonds, curled emerald shoes embroidered with silver and pearls, and a gold circlet emblazoned with rubies and topped with a jewel made with the most precious commodity of all—djinn magic.
