This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(108)

Alizeh closed her eyes, tried to calm her breathing.

She didn’t know where she was and she didn’t care; she could hardly hear her own thoughts over the sound of her heart, beating wildly in her chest.

She’d not even been able to decode the first riddle she’d received from the devil—how was she supposed to understand this second one?

Worse, so much worse: his visits had proven over and over to be an omen. It was just days ago that he’d filled her head with whispers of misery, and oh, how she’d suffered the consequences. How dramatically had her life changed and collapsed since she last heard his voice in her head? What did that mean for her now? Would she lose every crumb of hope she’d recently collected?

There was no precedent for this precipitous visit from Iblees. Alizeh usually experienced months, not days, of a reprieve before his torturous voice infected her mind again, bringing with it all manner of calamity and unrest.

How, now, would she be tortured?

“Alizeh.”

She stiffened, turning to face an altogether different torment even as she grasped for purchase at the cool column. Alizeh’s heart pounded now in an entirely new fashion, her pulse fluttering dangerously at her throat.

Kamran stood before her, magnificently turned out in a heavy green coat, the open, buttonless front cinched closed with a complex emerald harness, his neck wrapped up to his chin in more gleaming jewels. His eyes were made impossibly darker with kohl, more devastating as they searched her now. But it was the glint of the circlet in his hair that sent a terrifying bolt through her heart.

He was a prince. She’d nearly forgotten.

“Alizeh,” he said again, though he whispered it now, staring at her with a longing he did nothing to conceal. The infinite darkness that was his eyes took in every detail of her face, her hair, even her gown. Alizeh felt weak standing this close to him, disjointed in her mind. Nothing was going according to plan.

How had he even spotted her in the melee?

She’d glimpsed him, briefly, from afar, watched him coolly receive a long line of guests she’d been certain would distract him through the night. Surely he had responsibilities he could not abandon—surely someone would soon be along to collect him—

The prince made a sound of distress that startled her, sharpening her instincts; Alizeh drew closer without thinking, stopping just short of touching him. She watched as Kamran winced a second time, gently tugging the collar away from his neck, doing his best to find relief without disturbing the artfully constructed ensemble.

“What is it?” Alizeh asked softly. “Are you in pain?”

He shook his head, attempting a brief laugh that did little to deny his obvious discomfort. “No, it’s nothing. It’s only that I find these costumes suffocating. This coat is supposed to be made of silk, but it’s frightfully stiff and coarse. It was uncomfortable before, but now I swear it feels as if it’s full of needles.” He grimaced again, pulling at the lapel of his coat.

“Needles?” Alizeh frowned. Tentatively, she touched him, felt him stiffen as she drew her hand along the emerald brocade, its raised embroidery. “Do you— Do you have a sensitivity to gold?”

His brows furrowed. “To gold?”

“This is silk, yes,” she explained, “but it’s silk woven with a gold-spun weft. The threads are, in some places, wrapped with gold fibers. And here”—she grazed the raised embroidery at the collar, at the lapels—“here it’s overlaid with yet more goldwork. These are real gold threads, did you not know?”

“No,” he said, but he was staring at her strangely; for a moment his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I didn’t know one might weave gold into fabric.”

Alizeh took a breath, stole back her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “The garment should feel heavy, and perhaps a bit rough against the skin, but it shouldn’t hurt you. It certainly shouldn’t feel like needles.”

“How do you know this?”

“Never mind that,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “What’s more important is that you are in pain.”

“Yes.” He took a step closer. “A great deal of it.”

“I’m—I’m sorry to hear it,” she said, nervous now. She began to ramble. “It’s quite rare, but I think you might have an aversion to gold. You should perhaps avoid wearing such textiles in future, and if you want a softer fabric, you might be more specific and ask your seamstress for silk charmeuse, or satin, and avoid georgette and certain types of, of taffeta or—or even—”

She stopped breathing when he touched her, when his hands landed at her waist, then moved down her hips, his fingers grazing her skin through the layers of sheer fabric. She gasped, felt her back sink against the marble column.

He was so close.

He smelled like orange blossoms and something else, heat and musk, leather—

“Why did you come tonight?” he asked. “How? And your injuries— This dress—”

“Kamran—”

“Say you came back for me,” he whispered. There was a thread of desire in his voice that threatened the good sense in her head, her very composure. “Tell me you came to find me. That you changed your mind.”

“How—how can you even say such things,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble, “on an evening you are meant to choose another as your bride?”