We Hunt the Flame(118)

Then she bolted.

He flicked his gaze to the others and took off after her, Altair’s warning echoing in his ears.

You will need to end lives.





CHAPTER 82


Zafira knew the people who were following her, despite the shroud growing in her mind.

A part of her recalled their laughs and smiles. The camaraderie in conflict. One’s lingering looks that lit her aflame. The rest of her remembered what they were: the enemy. Her exploiters.

She darted between the wisps of shadow, feet silent, breathing hushed. A single pair of boots pounded behind her, not bothering with stealth.

Only one other could see and follow with such clarity through the darkness.

Only one other was arrogant enough to follow her.

Her ring struck against her chest, a silent reminder. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

Yet another voice whispered: savior.



* * *



Nasir followed without a word, making his presence known, but she would not slow.

Just as our eyes tailor to the darkness, so do our souls.

The ground gleamed of polished marble, a soft light rising to an arched ceiling. The place reeked of magic, old and weary. Columns rose up ahead, a wall of shadow growing beyond them.

“Qif!” he finally shouted. Nothing. Only the whisper of her movements and a wheeze as her breathing grew winded. He couldn’t bring himself to say her name.

He saw his moment.

He cursed beneath his breath. And leaped.



* * *



Someone collided with her, knocking her to the ground.

She jolted when the warmth of him entwined with the ice of her. It awakened something. Her senses. Her mind. It cleared the mugginess that had clawed her when she’d stepped upon this whisper-ravaged path.

“Sorry,” said a voice that had likely never said the word before. He carefully held himself above her.

His arms encircled her, the fringe of the keffiyah around his neck brushing her shoulders. His gray eyes shone in the dull light feathering above them, darkening as they roved her face, riffling something inside her.

She wanted to trace the length of his scar with her hand. She wanted to run a finger across his lips. She wanted—

Skies, he was beautiful.

Her brow creased. She’d never thought him beautiful before, not even when she had straddled his legs and seen his broken gaze. She had never allowed herself to think in such a way before. She had certainly never lay beneath him, his entire body pressed against hers.

Delicious heat spread through her limbs, up her neck, across her nose and cheeks. She was grateful for the dim light, for the shadows obscuring her skin’s betrayal. The whispers hummed, and she silenced them as a very different hum stirred from the depths of her stomach.

“I’ve heard Demenhune never blush.” His voice was rough; his words brushed her lips.

She had forgotten that he could see, that he was now as much of the darkness as the darkness was of him.

A sudden snap seized their breathing as one, and Nasir drew her to her feet, sheltering them between the columns. Her legs quivered, and she reached for the cool stone.

He scanned their surroundings, but his exhale told her they were alone.

She wasn’t sure if what she felt was relief or panic.



* * *



Nasir was abuzz.

Every fiber of his being was at war with itself. She was in his arms, pressed against the stone. She was supposed to be at arm’s length, leading him to the Jawarat.

She was supposed to be beneath his blade.

But before she had recognized him, the look on her face had scared him. It had instantly cleared the mugginess that fogged his mind when he stepped upon this path. It was a look he knew very well. A look he didn’t like.

Murder.

The darkness was taking hold of her, and worse, she was allowing it to sink its teeth into her heart. Why do you care, boy? You’re the same. He clenched his teeth at the echo of Ghameq’s voice in his head. The Lion’s voice.

The sultan. He was the sultan, regardless of whether his father or the Lion stared back.

Her eyes fell to his mouth and he knew what to do. He knew how to make her forget the darkness. To bring her back to herself.



* * *



The dangerous charge in the air lifted the hairs on Zafira’s neck. She was aware of every subtle thing. Like his shallow breathing and the distance between them. Like the shift that brought him closer.

“Zafira.”

His voice was a caress. It lilted across the length of her name, tasting it. Teasing it. She wanted him to say it again. And again and again. She wanted him to do to her what he had done to her name.

Everything inside her stumbled to a crash at that thought. But he was watching. Waiting. Those dark eyes intent, her insides aflame. She said something but didn’t know what. Her voice was a distant thing, intoxicated with whatever crackled between them.

“What are you doing to me,” he said more than asked. His voice was a rasp. The sharp sounds and throaty underscores of the language from his lips made her shiver. “Am I too close?”

“No.” He was too far.

He skimmed his knuckles up the length of her arms, fabric snagging between them. Her heart stopped. Her breath shook, and his echoed.

She felt his strangled emotions in his every exhale against her skin, in the heat of his gaze. The hum of their bodies. He stepped impossibly closer and dipped his head. “And now?”