The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(28)
“That hurts, too.” She pushed his hands away.
Flustered, she snatched the comb from her lap so she could finish untangling her hair— And grimaced with pain.
Her arm.
“Do you need help?” he asked.
“No. I do not.”
He sighed. “I—”
“If I need help, I’ll wait for Despina. In any case, I do not need your help.” When she moved to stand, he caught her waist and pulled her back against him.
“Please, Shahrzad.” He spoke into her still-damp hair. “Let me make amends.”
The hammering in her chest grew as he wrapped his other arm around her, holding her close.
Don’t.
“There are no excuses for what happened this morning. I want you to—”
“Where were you?” Shahrzad tried to control the tremor in her voice.
“Not where I should have been.”
“This morning and last night.”
His breath fanned on her skin as he bent toward her ear. “This morning, I was not where I should have been. Last night, I was not where I wanted to be.”
Shahrzad tilted her face upward, and her eyes grew wide at what she saw.
His hands tightened at her waist. He lowered his head and pressed his brow to hers, his touch as soft and gentle as a whisper.
“My Mountain of Adamant.”
She felt herself leaning into him, bowing into his caress. He smelled of sandalwood and sunlight. Strange that she’d never noticed before—that in her desire to distance herself from him, she had not detected something so simple and yet so marked as a scent.
She inhaled, letting the clean fragrance clear her thoughts.
As he placed his palm against the side of her face, Shahrzad realized something horrifying.
She wanted to kiss him.
No.
It was one thing to return his kiss; she’d been prepared for that. But it was another thing entirely to want his kiss . . . another thing entirely to desire his affections. To melt into the arms of Shiva’s killer at the first sign of adversity.
Weak.
She sat up in disgust, destroying the moment in a single action. “If you want to make amends, I will think of a way.”
And it will not involve you touching me.
He withdrew his hands. “Good.”
“Are there any rules?”
“Does everything have to be a game?” he said in the barest shred of a whisper.
“Are there rules, sayyidi?”
“The only rule is that I have to be able to grant your request.”
“You’re the Caliph of Khorasan. The King of Kings. Is there a request you cannot grant?”
His face darkened. “I am just a man, Shahrzad.”
She stood up and faced him. “Then be a man who makes amends. You tried to have me killed this morning. Consider yourself lucky I have not tried to return the favor.”
Yet.
He rose to his feet, more than a head taller than Shahrzad. The veil of dispassion had returned, and it deepened the lines, as always.
“I’m sorry.”
“Pitiful. But a start, nevertheless.”
His tiger-eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. He bowed his head. Then he made his way to the door.
“Shahrzad?”
“Yes, sayyidi?”
“I’m leaving for Amardha this afternoon.”
Shahrzad waited.
“I’ll be gone for a week. No one will bother you. Jalal will be in charge of your security. Should you need anything, go to him.”
She nodded.
He stopped himself once more. “I meant what I said to General al-Khoury the day I introduced you.”
The day he called me his queen.
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
He paused. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
“My queen.” He bowed again before he left, his fingertips to his brow.
Shahrzad closed her eyes tight, falling against the bed as soon as the doors shut behind him.
Shiva, what do I do now?
A RIGHTEOUS BLAZE AND A RESTLESS SPIRIT
THE HALF-MOON OVER REY WAS A MILKY COLOR, framed by a thin haze of clouds.
Along the border of Reza bin-Latief’s elegant courtyard, the torches blazed in their sconces, throwing off shadows that danced with abandon against the walls of tan stone. The musky scent of smoke and ambergris hung heavy in the air.
“I feel human again,” Rahim announced as he crossed the courtyard and took a seat at the low table before him.
Reza smiled warmly. “You look a great deal more rested, Rahim-jan.”
“I was promised a cloud of perfume, and I was not disappointed, Reza-effendi.”
Tariq joined them a moment later, sitting across from Rahim in the open-air gallery.
Soon, platters of food were brought before them—steaming, buttery basmati rice with bright orange saffron staining its center, surrounded by lamb in a savory sauce of dates, caramelized onions, and tangy barberries; skewers of marinated chicken and roasted tomatoes, served alongside chilled yogurt and cucumbers; fresh herbs and lavash bread, with rounds of goat cheese and sliced red radishes splashing brilliant colors against a polished wood backdrop.
The aroma of the food mingled with the fragrance of the tapers, saturating the senses with spices and decadence.