The Wrath and the Dawn(106)
They knelt facing each other in silence. Studying each other. Truly seeing each other—without any pretense, without any masks, without any agenda. For the first time, Shahrzad allowed her eyes to linger on every facet of him without the fear of his sharp mind tearing through veils of gossamer and gold— And seeing the truth.
The small, barely noticeable scar by his left eye. The darkly hostile set to his brows. The pools of liquid amber beneath. The perfect furrow in the center of his lip.
When he caught her staring at his mouth, Khalid exhaled slowly. “Shazi—”
“Be with me tonight,” she breathed. “In all ways. Be mine.”
His eyes turned to fire. “I’ve always been yours.” He cupped her chin in his palm. “As you’ve always been mine.”
She bristled and started to protest.
“Don’t.” He returned her biting glare.
“Your possessiveness . . . may present a problem.” She knotted her brows together.
The corners of his lips curled upward, ever so slightly.
Shahrzad took Khalid’s hand and led him to the bed. Though every part of her body remained acutely aware of the tall, solid presence behind her, she did not feel nervous. She felt calm. A remarkable sense of rightness.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stood before him.
Khalid leaned his brow against her stomach. “I won’t ask for forgiveness, but I am so very sorry,” he said, with the simple brevity she was learning to expect.
She pressed her lips into his soft, dark hair. “I know.”
He looked up, and she eased onto his lap, with a knee at either side of his waist. Khalid pulled the hem of his qamis over his head, and Shahrzad skimmed her palms across the lean planes of his chest. She paused at a faint line of white along the length of his collarbone.
“Vikram,” he explained.
Her eyes narrowed. “The Rajput? He cut you?”
“Why?” It was almost teasing in tone. “Does it bother you?”
She wrinkled her nose.
Khalid drew her closer. “It happens, from time to time. He’s better than I am.”
“I don’t care. Don’t let him cut you again.”
“I’ll do my best.” He tilted her chin upward. “What about this?” His thumb ran along an old mark at the underside of her jaw, sending a shiver down her back.
“I fell off a wall when I was thirteen.”
“Why were you on a wall?”
“I was trying to prove I could climb it.”
“To whom?”
When she did not reply, Khalid tensed. “I see,” he muttered. “And the fool just watched you fall?”
“I didn’t give him a choice.”
A smile ghosted across his lips. “Against all odds, I feel a drop of sympathy . . . amidst a sea of hatred.”
“Khalid.” She shoved his chest.
“Shahrzad.” He caught her hand, his features abrupt in their intensity. “Is this really what you want?”
She stared at him, surprised to see a flicker of vulnerability on his face.
The mighty Caliph of Khorasan. The King of Kings.
Her beautiful monster.
Shahrzad leaned forward and took his lower lip between hers. She trapped his jaw between her palms and swept her tongue into sun-laved honey.
As he said, there was never a choice in the matter.
One of his hands slid to the small of her back, and she arched herself against him, molding her form to his. The laces of her shamla were tugged free, and cool air rushed across her body, followed by the welcome heat of his touch. The feel of his skin against hers.
When his lips moved to her throat—to rest with care beside the wound made by the Fida’i dagger—Shahrzad made a decision.
“I love you,” she said.
Khalid lifted his head to hers.
She placed a hand against his cheek. “Beyond words.”
His eyes still fixed on her face, he lowered her onto the cushions. Then he covered her hand with his, brushing his lips across her inner wrist.
“My soul sees its equal in you.”
All that was before her melted into amber and truth.
And, with a kiss, Shahrzad let herself fall.
For the boy who was an impossible, improbable study in contrasts. The boy who burned her life to cinder, only to remake of it a world unlike any she had ever known.
Tomorrow, she could worry about such a thing as loyalty. Tomorrow, she could worry about the price of such betrayal.