The Wrath and the Dawn(21)
A corner of his lips twitched. “And all this time . . . I could have sworn you didn’t want to die.”
Shahrzad blinked.
And then decided to laugh.
The sound carried over the terrace, bubbling out into the night, filling the sky with the tinkling music of bells.
The caliph watched her, his spark of surprise quickly masked by somber reflectiveness.
“You’re very strange,” Shahrzad commented, once her laughter had subsided.
“So are you, Shahrzad al-Khayzuran.”
“At least I know it.”
“I’m aware of it as well.”
“But I don’t punish people for it.”
He sighed. “I envy people who see the world as you do.”
“Are you insinuating I’m simpleminded?” Anger seeped into her words.
“No. You see things the way you live your life. Without fear.”
“That’s not true. I’m afraid of a lot of things.”
He cast her a searching glance. “What are you afraid of?”
Just then, as if the night had foretold the moment, a vicious breeze raked across the terrace, whipping through Shahrzad’s long black hair. Tendrils flew into her face, obscuring her features.
“I’m afraid of dying,” she announced over the wind.
And I’m afraid of losing to you.
He stared at her as the gust died down . . . as it finished toying with Shahrzad’s tresses, winding them to and fro.
When the last vestiges disappeared, that same errant lock from earlier in the day still hung in her eyes. She started to reach for it— But he caught her hand in one of his own and brushed the curl behind her ear, gently.
The fluttering in her stomach returned with a vengeance.
“Tell me why you’re here.” It sounded entreating in his low voice.
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.”