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“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Altair asked no one in particular.
“I don’t know what’s a good idea anymore,” Kifah said dryly. “I’m on Sharr.”
Nasir drew his sword with a flourish, the hilt dancing across his knuckles as it pivoted in the air. A look that claimed Zafira was purely ridiculous flashed across his face. For a prince who preferred secrecy and shadows when she first met him, he seemed to be enjoying the attention now.
Fear spiked through her, churning with a thrill she welcomed. She knew the stories. She knew exactly how deft the Prince of Death was with a blade.
He stepped closer.
And everything
moved
quickly.
She threw up her blade and he did the same, black hilt melding into his gloves. The air was a blur of flashing steel until metal clanged against metal, jarring her teeth, her brain, her idiocy, and—skies, what a fool she was.
But he wouldn’t kill her. He needed her. They all did. She didn’t need them.
The one person she needed was dead because of him.
She put all her weight behind the clashed swords and pushed. Nasir was stronger, taller, broader, but he slid back a hairbreadth. He was the greatest assassin unused to his kills fighting back.
She pushed again with renewed fervor.
“How endearing.” He pulled free with a whispered laugh.
She stumbled, pushing a hand against the rough stone to regain her footing. She growled and lifted her arm before he clashed against her scimitar again, the force rattling her teeth. He isn’t holding back.
Didn’t he need her?
Zafira feinted left, but he didn’t react. Then she feinted right, and he raised an amused eyebrow, anticipating her move before she even perceived it. Altair chuckled. Her neck burned.
&
nbsp; They clashed blades again, and he leaned close.
“You know who I am. Give up, Huntress,” he murmured, his dark voice rumbling straight through her.
She saw her opportunity the moment he prepared for another strike. For she was the Demenhune Hunter. Quick. Precise. Untrained. She could rival a trained, methodical assassin.
She darted forward and ducked beneath his arms. His breath swooshed past her skin and she hooked her boot around his leg and pulled. He pitched backward, nostrils flaring. He saw her triumph and growled, locking her legs between his in one last fight before he fell on his back with a muffled thud.
And she atop him, the breath yanked from her lungs.
She threw one of her hands on his shoulder to stop her fall, but their legs were a tangle of limbs, sand sinking beneath them. Her torso brushed his, the traitorous ring settling on his heart, rising and falling with his heavy breathing. Their faces were mere breaths apart. Without the shelter of her cloak, every brush of him against her felt as if she were wholly bare. Heartbeats galloped in Zafira’s chest.
“Any closer and I’d have to close my eyes,” Altair remarked in a loud whisper.
And the prince had the nerve to grin.
A lie, said her stuttering mind, for that gaping unhappiness was reflected in his eyes, the color of dead flames and lifeless stone.
“Go on, end my misery,” he said, voice soft. The cool words caressed her skin. Murderous hashashin weren’t supposed to be gentle.
Only then did she realize she had the scimitar pressed against his throat, the same way she held her jambiya to the throats of her kills when she hunted.
Zafira pressed the blade farther into the skin of his neck, watching the smooth column of his throat bob. Goose bumps skittered along his golden skin, and she had the insane urge to smooth her finger down them. To touch her mouth to them.
