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There’s the growling prince.
“There are rules, Huntress,” he said, stepping closer.
Zafira stopped breathing.
“Wahid: Never sneak up on an assassin, unless you want to get caught.”
And closer. Her heart climbed up to her throat.
“Ithnayn: Never wander near a murderer, unless you want to be next.”
He slipped even closer, and she had to tip her head up, slightly. She could smell him now, a hint of amber and a touch of myrrh. His breath was warm on her skin. She only needed to lean closer and—
“Thalatha: Never watch a man undress, unless you want him to get the wrong impression.”
Oh.
He pulled back, mouth pressed into a thin line. He backed away farther, mouth shifting, scar gleaming. Is he … Zafira’s breath seized. He was daama grinning. This wasn’t the hashashin prince she was coming to know. This was a boy she knew nothing about.
Oh no. She wasn’t going to leave without a last word. But everything had slowed when he stepped so daama close, and everything she had built in her mind scattered like snow in a storm.
She pushed away from the tree and dusted off her hands, ignoring the ricochet of her pulse.
“Watching you undress would be a bore. I got there after,” she said. Then she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “For the good stuff.”
His eyes dropped to her lips again, and Zafira knew he felt the same pull she did. It darkened his gray eyes. Trembled on his exhale. She thought she would explode—never had anything felt more thrilling. For the first time in her life, she wished she hadn’t worn her cloak. He lifted a hand.
And let it drop by his side.
“Run away, Huntress.” He sounded tired. “The dark is no den for a fair gazelle.”
CHAPTER 54
Nasir had been foolish. Mindless. He had been the mutt his father always called him.
Now he had a blood debt, someone had seen his scars, and he had been seen without his mask. He knew she had seen him, because she was a daama open book herself.
He had never cared about how those scars made him look until last night. He had never felt as much as he had last night. That soap still plagued his senses. Heady, sharp, stirred with a touch of femininity that sent his pulse rac
ing. Sandalwood, dark oud, smoky rose. Rimaal. He cursed the portion of his mother’s training that had forced him to learn every scent there was.
He didn’t know which was worse—the encounter with the Huntress or Benyamin’s smirk when Nasir had returned to the camp before she did, fresh from a bath.
The river he had bathed in rippled beside them now, the sun beaming above. Nasir never thought he could miss the unwavering sun until Sharr. They may have a bleak future in Sultan’s Keep, but sun against sand was what made them who they were. Not this haze of shadow that obscured everything, darkening the world. Sentiments are for the weak.
This journey was changing him.
Kifah used a glass instrument to concentrate enough sunlight to start a fire. When she saw him watching, she shrugged. “My father made it. It works best when I imagine I’m lighting him on fire.”
Nasir quirked an eyebrow.
He knelt by the small fire and sharpened his scimitar, and after a moment she left him to taunt Altair, who was refilling their goatskins. Benyamin washed clothes, and the Huntress helped wring them. Nasir tightened his jaw at their camaraderie.
It would be foolish to kill them off now when he could avail himself of the benefits of the zumra, particularly the comfort of knowing that the others had his back if ifrit—or worse—ambushed them again.
“Careful, or you’ll murder the blade,” a voice said. He stopped his grinding and glanced at the worn brown boots that had stopped beside him. Smoky rose soothed his thoughts. Soothed?
“What do you want?” he asked.
