The Rose & the Dagger (The Wrath & the Dawn, #2)(5)

Seated at the very center of this teeth-rattling tumult was an old man with a keen pair of eyes and an unkempt beard. When he saw Shahrzad, he smiled at her with a surprising amount of warmth. To his left was a woman of similar age with a long braid of muted copper. At his right sat Shiva’s father, Reza bin-Latief. Shahrzad’s stomach tensed, her flash of guilt resurfacing. She’d seen him last night, but in the clamor of their arrival the exchange had been brief, and she was not yet certain she was ready to face Shiva’s father.

So soon after failing to exact revenge for the murder of his daughter.

So soon after falling in love with the very boy who had murdered her.

Deciding it was best to avoid unwanted attention, Shahrzad kept her head down and took the cushion beside Irsa, across from Tariq and Rahim.

She avoided the gazes of those around her, especially that of the boy with the ice-fire eyes, who took every opportunity to burn through her with the heat of his discomfiting stare. The desire to draw attention to his behavior was always at the forefront of her mind, but Irsa’s earlier admonition continued to ring true: she was a guest here.

And she could not behave in such a reckless manner.

Not with the welfare of her family at stake.

A leg of roasted lamb was placed at the center of the well-worn table. Its serving platter was an immense affair of hammered silver, dented on all sides from age and use. Thick slices of barbari bread, coated with butter and rolled in black sesame seeds, were left in baskets nearby, alongside chipped bowls of whole radishes and slabs of salted goat cheese. Squabbling children reached for the radishes and tore hearty chunks of barbari in half before grabbing at the meat with their bare hands. Their elders crushed stems of fresh mint before pouring dark streams of tea over the fragrant leaves.

When Shahrzad chanced to look up, she found the old man with the keen eyes studying her, another warm smile pooling across his lips. The gap between his two front teeth was pronounced, and, at first glance, it made him appear almost foolish.

Though Shahrzad was not the least bit fooled.

“So, my friend . . . this is Shahrzad,” the old man said.

To whom is he speaking?

“I was right—” The old man cackled. “She is very beautiful.”

Shahrzad’s eyes flitted down both sides of the table. They stopped on Tariq.

His broad shoulders were rigid; his chiseled jaw was tight. He exhaled through his nose and lifted his gaze to hers.

“She is,” Tariq agreed in a resigned voice.

The old man quirked his head at Shahrzad. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble, beautiful one.”

Despite the reassuring hand Irsa placed atop hers, Shahrzad’s ire rose like embers being stoked to flame.

Aware she lacked grace in that moment, Shahrzad chose to say nothing. She rolled her tongue in her mouth. Pinched her lower lip between her teeth.

I am a guest here. I cannot behave as I desire.

No matter how angry and alone I may feel.

The old man smiled again. Ever wider. Ever more gap-toothed.

Infuriating.

“Are you worth it?”

Shahrzad cleared her throat. “Pardon?” she said, keeping tight rein on her emotions.

The boy with the ice-fire eyes watched with the rapt attention of a hawk.

“Are you worth all this trouble, beautiful one?” the old man repeated in maddening singsong.

Irsa wrapped a pleading hand around Shahrzad’s fingers, cold sweat slicking her palm.

Shahrzad could not risk her sister’s safety. Not in a camp filled with unknowns. Unknowns who could just as soon as toss her family into the desert for an errant word. Or slit their throats at a misread glance. No. Shahrzad could not put her father’s dubious health in jeopardy. Not for all the world.

She smiled slowly, taking time to subdue her fury. “I think beauty is rarely worth the trouble.” Shahrzad gripped Irsa’s hand tighter in sisterly solidarity. “But I am worth a great deal more than what you see.” Her tone was airy despite the veiled rebuke.

Without hesitation, the old man threw back his head and laughed. “To be sure!” His face shone with merriment. “Welcome to my home, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran. I am Omar al-Sadiq, and you are my guest. While within these borders, you will always be treated as such. But bear in mind: a calipha in silk or a beggar in the street makes no difference to me. Welcome.” He dipped his head and brushed his fingertips along his brow with a broad flourish.

Shahrzad released a pent-up breath. It escaped her in a rush of air, taking with it the tension from her shoulders and stomach. Her grin stretching farther, Shahrzad bowed in return, touching her right hand to her forehead.

Shiva’s father watched their exchange with a blank expression, his elbows folded against the table’s weathered edge. “Shazi-jan,” he began in a somber tone.

He caught her just as Shahrzad reached for a piece of barbari. “Yes, Uncle Reza?” She lifted her brows in question, her hand hovering above the breadbasket.

Reza’s features turned pensive. “I’m very glad you are here—that you are safe.”

“Thank you. I’m very grateful to everyone for keeping my family safe. And for taking such excellent care of Baba.”

He nodded, then leaned forward, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “Of course. Your family has always been my family. As mine has always been yours.”