The Wrath and the Dawn (The Wrath and the Dawn #1)(38)
“Do you want to pity me, Shahrzad?”
“No. I do not.”
“Then don’t.”
Frustrated, she snatched his cup from the table and drank what remained of its contents.
A corner of his lips rose ever so slightly.
The wine burned; she cleared her throat and set the goblet before her. “By the way, I’ve decided how you can make amends. If you’re still willing, of course.”
He leaned back into the cushions, waiting.
She took a deep breath, preparing to spring her trap. “Remember last night, when Aladdin saw the princess in disguise, roaming the city streets?”
The caliph nodded.
“You told me you envied the freedom the princess experienced in her city, without the mantle of royalty about her shoulders. I want to do that. With you,” she finished.
He stilled, his eyes scanning her face. “You want me to go out into Rey without bodyguards?”
“Yes.”
“With just you?”
“Yes.”
He paused. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Why?”
He didn’t refuse outright.
“For the adventure,” she goaded him.
He cut his gaze.
Calculating.
“And you are indebted to me,” she pressed.
Please. Don’t deny me this chance.
“I agree. I am indebted to you. I accept.”
Shahrzad beamed.
His eyes widened at the brightness of her smile.
And, to her great surprise, he offered her one in return.
It looked foreign on his usually cold and angular face.
Foreign, yet wondrously striking.
The tightening in her chest . . . would have to be ignored.
At all cost.
? ? ?
They stood in a small alley next to the entrance of the souk. The sky above was purpled by dusk, and the mixture of spices, sweat, and livestock filled the spring air with the heady perfume of life, in all its abundance.
Shahrzad pulled her dark grey cloak tight about her. The crystal of poisoned sugar she had stolen away in her pocket felt like it would catch flame at a thought.
The caliph’s keen ochre eyes took in the scene around them. His black rida’ was bound across his brow by a slim circlet of matching leather.
“Have you been to Rey’s souk before?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Stay close. It’s very much like a labyrinth. Each year it grows bigger, its corridors snaking about without rhyme or reason.”
“And here I had every intention of leaving you behind to explore on my own,” he murmured.
“Are you trying to be funny, sayyidi?”
His brow furrowed. “You can’t use that word here, Shahrzad.”
A fair point. Especially considering the riots against him in the city streets.
“You’re right . . . Khalid.”
He expelled a quick breath. “And what should I call you?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do your friends call you?”
She hesitated.
Why am I trying to protect a silly nickname Rahim gave me when I was ten?
“Shazi.”
A suggestion of a smile played across his lips.
“Shazi. It suits you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come with me.”
With that, Shahrzad left the safety of the shadows and darted out into the bustling crowds of Rey’s most active outdoor market. The Caliph of Khorasan followed closely behind as they passed under the archway and into the sweltering maze of people and goods.
To their right were vendors plying food wares—sugared dates and other dried fruits, an assortment of nuts in water-stained wood barrels, mountains of spices piled high in vivid hues—and to their left were vendors of spun cloth, dyed fabric, and skeins of yarn idling in a faint breeze, their colors like a banner cut from a rainbow. Many salesmen pounced on the couple, trying to coax them to taste a pistachio or sample a delicious dried apricot. At first, Khalid tensed at every one who approached them, but soon he fell into the leisurely gait of an ordinary patron wandering around the souk on a warm spring evening.
Until a young man leapt from behind a post to wrap Shahrzad in a bolt of bright orange silk. “So beautiful!” he sighed. “You must buy this. It suits you so.”
“I think not.” She shook her head, pushing his hands away.
He pulled her closer against him. “Have I seen you before, miss? I would not forget such beauty.”
“No, you have not,” Khalid said in a low tone.
The young man smirked back at him. “I am not having a conversation with you. I am having a conversation with the most beautiful girl I have seen in a long time.”
“No. You are having a conversation with my wife. And you are quite close to having the last conversation of your life.” His voice was as cold as the edge of a dagger.
Shahrzad glared at the young man. “And if you want to sell me fabric, being a lecherous bastard is not the way to go about doing it.” She shoved against his chest, hard.
“Daughter of a whore,” he muttered.
Khalid froze, his knuckles turning a perilous shade of white.
Shahrzad grabbed his arm and dragged him away. She could see the muscles ticking along his jaw.