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Vaguely, I register that it is warmer in here than it should be, warmer than I would think the shelter of the cave accounts for. Not that it matters, because the heat isn't penetrating my skin. I still feel like I am freezing from the inside out.
With some effort, I turn my head to the left side, and what I see makes me wonder if I have woken up at all, or if I am merely dreaming this entire bizarre scene.
The king is frantically stripping his clothes off, laying some of them out on the floor and putting others in a pile nearby. Again, I think how this cannot be real, because no one is sculpted as perfectly as he appears to be. Each chiseled muscle is accentuated by the shadows in the hazy green light, lending him an ethereal quality.
"What?" I breathe the word out through my chattering teeth.
He turns to face me wearing nothing but his silver chain, and I focus my eyes on the key dangling from the end, the way the light glints off of it, rather than his taut body.
Some distant part of my brain is absurdly grateful that my blood refuses to flow well enough to flood my cheeks. There is no trace of embarrassment on his features, though, only determination with the barest edge of fear around his eyes.
"We need to get you warm." He says it like it's an explanation, like somehow his nudity correlates to my warmth, and the whole exchange lends itself to the unreal quality of this moment.
But the sharp pain, like a thousand needles stabbing me all over my body, manages to permeate even through the numbness brought on by the cold, convincing me of how very real this is.
My eyes close again, and when they open, he is kneeling next to me. His hands go to the hem of my shirt.
"No." The word comes out weakly, but he stops and meets my eyes.
"Zaina, you have hypothermia. Your body is freezing, and if we can't get it warm, you will die. It is warmer in here than it is outside, but that will not be enough to save you." He says the words bluntly, firmly, and whether that's a compliment to the fact that he thinks I can handle it or he is trying to scare me, I'm not sure.
And I don't have the energy to explain to him how it seems that death is constantly courting me, seducing me, and pulling me under with its quiet promises of peace in a world where all I seem to know is pain.
“Zaina!" His tone is urgent, and I realize I have drifted off a little.
"Please," he says in a softer tone, and I think it might be the first time he has ever said that word to me.
Why is he saying it now?
He pulls urgently at my shirt, and I remember.
"Go ahead." I grant him my permission, telling myself that it's only because it's easier than arguing with him, that I know he will do this regardless, and not because a part of me wants to stay here in this moment with him, in this world with him.
He makes quick work of removing my clothing, and there is nothing sensual about it. His gaze rarely leaves mine, and if he has to glance down quickly to find a button or clasp, his eyes move right back to my face.
I don't know what to make of that, because I have not seen this side of a man before, but it feels like, for all I have accused him of not respecting my privacy or my wishes, perhaps in this moment he has lent me more respect than any single male who has come into my life since I was six years old.
Images assault me, like a portrait flashing before my eyes in between each violent rock of my body. A hand that lingers too long on my arm, another man's voice sounding in my hair, whispering crass and obscene things while his breath is too hot, too moist, and too close to me. Rough hands shoving me against the wall while a much larger body presses against mine. My sister’s katana at the man's throat.
That last image almost makes me smile, and I feel my head loll.
"Stay with me." Einar's voice is less controlled than I have ever heard it, and it almost strikes me as funny, because I couldn't go anywhere now if I tried, but I can't stay with him, either. Not really.
All of these thoughts flit around my head like the wraiths my mother used to talk about, my real mother, the one I never allow myself to think about and will never see again. The one who probably doesn't even know that I'm still alive.
Or was, anyway.
“Please.” He says that word again, startling me from my reverie, and I feel his arms come around me.
He lays me gently on the cloak he has spread out on the floor. He presses himself against me, his skin against my skin, and takes the clothes he has piled next to us. He puts something over our feet and another under our head, then pulls the cloak as tightly around us as he can, cocooning us inside.
So many times, I have noticed the way he seems to emanate heat from within, and that was through the fabric of his clothes. With his bare skin next to mine, he is a solid source of warmth, searing its way into my skin and chasing away the ice that has settled down into my bones.
Khijhana's weight settles in behind me, and I allow myself to surrender consciousness again at last.
Chapter Forty-One
Screams echo off the cave walls, and it takes me a moment to register that they are mine. I force my eyelids to open, then try to take a breath so I can calm down. The king is looking down at me with concern from where he has me cradled against him, carrying me, both of us still undressed.
