The Wrath & the Dawn (The Wrath & the Dawn, #1)(18)

I’m here to win.

“Promise me you won’t kill me,” she breathed back.

“I can’t do that.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say.”

? ? ?


As with the first night, Shahrzad was amazed by her ability to detach from reality.

And again, she remained strangely grateful he never once tried to kiss her.

Grateful . . . yet somewhat perplexed.

She had kissed Tariq before—stolen embraces in the shadows of vaulted turrets. The illicit nature of these encounters had always thrilled her. At any time, a servant could have found them; or worse, Rahim could have caught them kissing . . . and he would have needled Shahrzad mercilessly, as he’d done from the moment he’d crowned himself the brother she’d never had.

So, while she appreciated not having to kiss a murderer, it did appear odd for her new husband to refrain from this particular act, especially when it seemed a great deal less intimate than . . . other things.

Shahrzad found herself wanting to ask why. And her curiosity grew by the hour.

Stop it. It doesn’t matter.

Instead of rising to dress as he did, Shahrzad lingered on the bed and grabbed a large cushion the color of bright carnelian. She pulled it against her chest and wrapped her slender arms around its center.

He turned to face her when she did not join him by the table.

“I’m not hungry,” she stated.

He inhaled, and she watched his shoulders move in time with his breath.

Then he returned to the foot of the bed so that they were positioned on opposite ends, as far from each other as possible.

So strange.

Shahrzad rolled on her side and burrowed into the mass of silken pillows. Her bronze ankles dangled off the bed.

The edges of the caliph’s amber eyes tightened, ever so slightly.

“Would you like me to continue the story?” she said. “Sayyidi?”

“I almost thought you were above the use of honorifics now.”

“Pardon?”

“Have you forgotten who I am, Shahrzad?”

She blinked. “No . . . sayyidi.”

“So then a lack of decorum just comes with your sense of comfort.”

“Inasmuch as bitter apathy does yours.”

Again, his shoulders rose and fell. “Tell me, why do you find it permissible to talk to me like this?”

“Because someone has to,” she replied without hesitation.

“And you think it should be you?”

“I think it should be someone who isn’t afraid of you. And, though I do feel . . . anxious in your presence, the more I see of everything around me, the less I have reason to fear you.”

As soon as she said the words aloud, she was startled to realize their truth. In the single day she’d been his wife, she’d seen remarkably little of the bloodthirsty monster she’d expected.

This time, it was much more than a mere flash of surprise that etched its way across his face. His astonishment burgeoned into dismay before it melted back into the landscape of emptiness that forever shrouded his features.

“You know nothing,” he countered.

Shahrzad almost laughed at this. “You’re right. I know nothing. Would you care to educate me, sayyidi?”

It was a quiet taunt . . . a poisoned glass of wine, meant to intoxicate and exsanguinate.

Meant to compel him into exposing his weakness.

Please. Give me the rope from which to hang you.

“Finish the story of Agib, Shahrzad.”

The moment was lost.

For now.

She smiled at him from across the bed. “The shadow forming within the blue plume of smoke solidified . . . and began to laugh.”

The caliph’s shoulders relaxed. He eased forward.

“Agib scrambled back farther, his terror mounting. The laughter grew until it echoed across the black sand of Adamant’s shore. Agib covered his face with trembling hands. And, from the depths of the shadow, a figure emerged. He was bald, with sharply tapered ears adorned in gold. His skin was blanched white and covered with raised markings in a language Agib did not recognize. When the figure opened his mouth to speak, Agib saw that every one of his teeth was filed to a razor-sharp point.”

Shahrzad bunched a pillow below her neck and crossed her ankles. When the caliph’s gaze flickered down her bare legs, her eyes widened in awareness, and he glanced away.

Ignoring the rising warmth in her neck, she continued. “Agib was sure he was about to die. He clasped his hands before him and closed his eyes, offering a silent plea for a quick and painless end to a worthless life. So when the creature spoke to Agib in a voice that shook the very ground they stood upon, his words were the last things Agib expected to hear, for a multitude of reasons. The creature said, ‘What question does my master wish to ask of me?’ And Agib just sat there, speechless. The creature repeated himself. Agib sputtered, almost inaudibly, ‘Question? What kind of questions do you speak of, O creature of the cup?’ The creature laughed again and replied, ‘That was the first of my master’s three questions. He is permitted three, and only three. After this, he has two questions remaining. The questions I speak of are the questions the master of the Bronze Chalice may pose to the All-Knowing Genie of the Bronze Chalice. I possess the answers to questions—past, present, and future. Choose them wisely, for once you ask three, you are a master no more.’”