This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(71)

Like a madman, he wanted to laugh.

How? How did she always manage to reduce him to this, to this shameful state? Once more he’d been convinced he understood her—had pitied her, even—and instead he was humbled by his own arrogance.

A vision of abject poverty, indeed.

The room was spotless.

Its walls and floors and ceiling had been scrubbed so clean the boards did not match the black, molding exterior door—which she’d left untouched. There was a small, beautifully patterned rug arranged on the ground next to a modest cot, which was neatly dressed in a silky quilt and pillow. Her few articles of clothing hung from colorful hooks—no, they were nails, he realized, nails that had been wrapped in thread—and a collection of miscellaneous items were placed with care in a clean apple crate. They appeared to be sewing supplies, mostly. But there was a single book, too, the title of which he could not discern, and which he peered at now, taking an unconscious step into the room. The entire space came at once into view—and too late, Kamran saw the candle burning in an unseen corner.

He went suddenly solid.

There was the familiar press of a cold blade at his throat, the feel of her small hand at his back. He heard her soft breathing and could tell merely by the unmuffled sound that she did not wear her snoda.

He must’ve surprised her.

His flutter of anticipation suddenly magnified. It was a bizarre sensation, for what he felt even as she held a knife to his neck was not fear, but elation. She was not supposed to be here, and he’d not dared to hope he might find himself alone with her again.

A miracle, then: her hand still pressed against his back, her racing pulse nearly audible in the silence.

“Speak,” she said. “Tell me what you seek here. Answer honestly, and I give you my word I will leave you unharmed.”

Was it terrible that his heart pounded in his chest at the soft sound of her voice? Was it worrisome that he felt nothing but pleasure to be held at her mercy?

What a fascinating creature she was, to be so bold as to offer him his life in exchange for information. What worlds he might be inspired to give up, he wondered, in the pursuit of knowing more of her mind.

She pressed the knife harder. “Speak the truth now,” she said. “Or I will slit your throat.”

Not for a moment did he doubt her.

“I have been sent here as a spy,” he said. “I come here now to rummage through your room in the hopes of gathering intelligence.”

The blade fell away.

Kamran heard the familiar slicing sound of metal coming together and realized that what he thought was a blade was, in fact, a pair of scissors. He almost laughed.

But then the girl stepped in front of him, and all thought of laughter died in his throat.

She was not dressed.

Her hair was loose; long, obsidian curls fell into her silver eyes, and she batted them away impatiently. Kamran watched, transfixed, as the silky locks grazed her naked shoulders, the delicate column of her neck, the smooth expanse of her chest. The dangerously low cut of her chemise was held up only by a corset, and Kamran discovered, to his dismay, that he could not breathe.

The girl was not dressed.

She was not undressed, not at all, but she wore only her underskirts and corset, and was covering herself poorly with one hand, clutching her sopping dress against her exposed bodice, her right fist still clenched around a pair of scissors.

He’d forgotten how beautiful she was.

This revelation was astonishing to him, for he’d spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about the girl, conjuring her face when he closed his eyes at night. He did not think himself capable of forgetting anything about her, and yet he must have, for he was struck stupid anew, drawing near her now like a hungry flame to tinder.

Kamran did not enjoy the feeling that overcame him then. He took little pleasure in this kind of desperation, in a desire so potent it inhaled him. He’d never felt this, not like this, for this was a uniquely powerful force, one that left him disoriented in its wake.

Weak.

“Turn around,” she said. “I must finish dressing.”

It took him a moment to process the request. Not only had his mind been upended, but Kamran had never been ordered around by anyone but the king. He felt as if someone had shoved him bodily into a tragic inverse of his real life—and what surprised him most was that he did not dislike it.

He obeyed her order without a word, silently castigating himself for his own incomprehensible reaction to the girl. Women wore all manner of scandalous garments in his presence; some wore gowns so dramatically low-cut that corsets were done away with altogether. What’s more: the prince was not a green child. He was not unaccustomed to the presence of beautiful women. How, then, to explain what overcame him now?

“So,” the girl said quietly. “You have come to spy on me.”

Kamran heard the distinct rustling of fabric, and he closed his eyes. He was a gentleman of honor. He would not imagine her undressing.

He would not.

“Yes,” he said.

More fabric swishing; something hitting the ground with a dull thud. “If that is indeed true,” she said, “I wonder why you would dare admit it.”

“And I wonder why you would doubt me,” he said with impressive calm. “You told me you would slit my throat if I failed to give you an honest answer.”

“Then you, of all people, should understand my suspicion. Certainly it will not surprise you to hear that none before you have ever accepted my terms.”