I startle, whirling around. “Fahim.” My back hits the hedge with a sharp crinkle of leaves. “I thought you were with Papa.”
My eldest brother steps forward. Behind him, couples spill out onto the patio in their refined robes and elegant gowns. “I need to speak with you about something.” He sounds pained, though there exist no outward wounds that I can see. “Please.”
I glance at Notus, who is doing an excellent job of staring straight ahead and pretending we had not just exchanged words. “Sure. Can you just… give me a minute?”
Fahim glances between Notus and me, suddenly suspicious. He knows. How can he not? The desire I feel toward the South Wind is palpable.
“Is there something you wish to tell me?” he demands.
My stomach bottoms out. These hedges rise high. Too high to climb. “Please, don’t tell Papa,” I whisper. It is too frail, this bloom. Too young to withstand any external force.
Fahim sends Notus off with an abrupt wave of his hand. I bite back my protest. As heir, Fahim has authority over the South Wind, but I do not appreciate that he treats him so disrespectfully.
When we are alone, Fahim demands, “How long has this been going on?”
I stiffen. “That’s none of your business.”
“How long?”
He bristles with aggression. This has become more common of late. Fahim is as docile as they come, but the last six months have bred rising tempers, frustration, outbursts fueled by contempt.
“As I said,” I reply coolly, “it is my business.”
“Ibramin claims you’ve been spending a lot of time together.”
Fact—and fuel to these flames. “It is not Ibramin’s place to share the details of my private life.”
“But it is his obligation to inform me of his concerns regarding your studies,” Fahim counters. His next word comes low. “Well?”
Arms crossed, I glare at him. I am beholden to no one. But this is my brother, whom I love, and who loves me. “If you must know, Notus and I have developed a friendship over the last few months.”
My brother considers this. The darkness in his eyes is entirely foreign to me. “Has he touched you?”
I deliberate on ignoring this question altogether, but I’m afraid Fahim will do something rash, like attack Notus. “No.” And what a frustrating thing that has been. The South Wind is honorable. Always, he stands an appropriate distance. His eyes neither wander nor linger. Sometimes, I question if my attraction toward him is one-sided.
But when we speak late into the evenings, I watch this god transform. He is warm and sturdy, gentle and open. Slowly, so slowly, I pry pieces of his story free, when he allows me to do so. I wish to know everything he is.
Eventually, Fahim sighs, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. “Don’t let him become a distraction, Sarai. You need to focus on music.”
Sometimes I wonder if Fahim resents me for living out his dream in his stead. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s fine—”
“It’s not fine!” he cries, then draws me deeper into the garden as heads swivel our way. “Your competition is weeks away,” he whispers, voice dropping to an inflamed hiss. “This is your chance. I just… I don’t want the South Wind getting in the way of your aspirations.”
I reach for my brother’s hand, hold it tight. I understand him, I do. “You know I would never let that happen.”
“Sarai—”
“Please, Fahim. I know what I’m doing. You don’t have to worry about me.”
He falls quiet, which makes my heartrate stutter for reasons unknown. In this moment, he is small and bent and defeated. Without saying farewell, he wanders off, and becomes night.
Later, when the palace has bedded down, there comes a knock at my chambers. With the guards dismissed for the evening, no one is around to witness me pull the door wide, allowing Notus entry. A flick of my wrist, and the lock is engaged.
My chest strains as I turn to face the South Wind. Immortal. Swathed in sapphire and shadow. This pull, which I can no longer deny. As if in a trance, my hand lifts to press over his heart. Its stoic, even-keeled rhythm grounds me. Stable as the earth.
Easing nearer, Notus lowers his mouth. His lips part mine with a hunger that dizzies me, for I have lain awake aching for his touch. The breadth of his hands spans my waist, the small of my back. I am spiraling. Down and down and down I go. A gentle tug, and he pulls me onto the bed.
I wake deliciously sore, body boneless, mouth sweetly bruised. Rolling onto my side, I glimpse the rumpled blankets, the imprint of where Notus had slept. I reach over, touch the soft white silk. It is cold.
