Girl, Serpent, Thorn(72)

Soraya turned from him, gulping in the night air like it was water as her arms wrapped around her waist. It was too difficult to remember all that he had done to her and to the people she loved when she saw him like this.

From behind her, Azad’s hands—his soft, smooth hands—rested on her shoulders. “I understand if you can’t strike down your brother,” he said, his voice low and sympathetic. “I was the same once. After I killed my father and brothers, I thought I had done wrong. I agonized over it, over every death that brought me to my throne. But before long, all that pain and doubt burned away, and there was only the knowledge of what needed to be done. You’ll see in time, but until then…” His hands glided from her shoulders down her arms and found her own hands, his fingers entwining with hers. “Until then, let me be your hands. Let me be your rage. Tell me you’ll be mine, and I will do what needs to be done.”

Soraya leaned back against him, letting him bear her weight, as he promised to do. Was there any point in fighting him anymore? Wasn’t he right that they were alike, that his past was her future, that a different kind of poison still ran through her veins? Hadn’t she proven that herself when she had struck out at Ramin?

I couldn’t stand to leave you alone with her. I saw the way your eyes followed her when she and Sorush would leave you behind in your dismal passageways—that jealous, hateful look.

How simple it would be to close her eyes and only open them when all of this was over. It would be like falling asleep, she thought as she felt the rise and fall of Azad’s chest against her back, his pulse in time with her own. And when she awoke, the world would be new and different. Sorush would be gone, along with the memory of his final harsh words, and Soraya would take his place in a world turned inside out. She would grieve for him, but as Azad had said, all that guilt and grief would soon burn away.

A sigh escaped her, and Azad slid his hands out of hers and swept her hair off the back of her neck, fingers grazing the sensitive skin at her nape. And yet, Soraya felt nothing at his touch, neither revulsion nor pleasure, only a kind of numb relief. When she didn’t stop him or pull away, his hand moved lower, dipping below the collar of her gown to the ridges of her spine. A memory ran through Soraya’s whole body—the smell of esfand; the feeling of soft skin under her fingertips; the sound of breathing in the darkness; a whorled pattern on a patch of skin between shoulder blades. Between her wings.

The sight of those wings, torn to shreds, hanging down Parvaneh’s back.

Soraya flinched away from him with a vehemence that surprised them both. The vividness of her memory paired with the visceral touch of Azad’s hands on her spine had made her react, as if hers were the wings he had torn.

She had spun to face him, and they stared at each other now in mutual confusion. Soraya could still feel the pressure of his touch along her spine, but it only made her think of being in the dungeon, of wanting to brush her fingertips against Parvaneh’s spine as she carefully stitched her wings back together, repairing what Azad had destroyed.

And he had destroyed so much. She thought of Parvaneh, of the other pariks sleeping in cages, of her mother as a terrified child confronting a monster in the forest, of Laleh’s ruined wedding and her brother on his knees … and she wondered how she could have ever trusted Azad to absolve her of anything.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Azad said, his voice hoarse.

She felt like she was waking from a dream, the world taking solid shape around her. “I’m sorry,” she said, edging away from the window, so she wouldn’t be cornered. “I need time to think.”

Her plea sounded like the stall for time that it was, and so he tensed with frustration as he nodded. “I understand,” he said, coming forward to close the gap between them. “But I can’t leave your brother alive for much longer, Soraya.” He was backing her toward the fireplace now, and she looked behind her anxiously as she tried to think of how to further placate him. “I need you to make your choice.”

There was a cold glint in his eye, and Soraya almost thought he was going to transform again. But he remained human, and just as she had once been startled to see the eyes of the boy in the Shahmar, she now saw the eyes of the monster in Azad.

The gulf is not as wide as you think. It had been a plea when he’d said it before, but she heard it now as a threat.

“It’s not my choice,” she said, her voice strained, “when I’m still your prisoner.”

With a dismissive shake of his head, he said, “You’re not a prisoner, Soraya.”

His tone made her bristle. “I’m not a prisoner? Because I’m not locked up in a cage hanging from a tree? Because you said I can now move freely through Arzur? As long as you have my family, I’m under your control and you know it.”

She swept past him and headed toward his door, ready for this night to end. But as she started to pull open the door, a powerful, scaled hand pushed it shut, trapping her inside. Soraya turned to find the Shahmar standing over her, transformed.

“How did you know where I imprisoned the pariks?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.





24


Soraya went cold as she realized her mistake. She had let herself become angry, and so she’d spoken without thinking over her words first, without considering how much she was supposed to know. “I don’t—I didn’t—”