6
DAWN FLAMES THE DESERT SANDS, yet the Red City still sleeps.
I arrive at the stables early to saddle the horses. Lamps flicker from their posts, producing small wells of amber light. The horses stir as I pass, dropping their heads over their stalls. Hoda, marked by a white star on her sandy forehead. Khaleed, whose coat is black as pitch. Shielded by stacked bales of hay, I am merely Sarai, a woman in the stables with the horses.
Zainab greets me with an expectant nudge against my shoulder. Of course, I have not arrived empty-handed. I present her the apple from my pocket. She consumes the fruit with an exuberant crunch.
“Hello, darling,” I coo, unlocking her stall door. “It’s been some time, no?”
Too long. Since Amir’s departure, Father’s expectations have climbed so high as to be nearly out of reach. I must attend every social event, every tedious political dinner. I must answer graciously. I must remember names, policies, ranks, titles. I must smile, always smile. Ask questions. Be happy, eager,engaged.
My throat cinches painfully, and I press my forehead against the mare’s muscular neck, struggling to breathe. Sometimes I feel as if I am little more than an ornament, something polished to catch the light, drawing the eye for a brief interlude.
Last night’s conversation returns in waves of increasing apprehension. I cannot shed the image of a babe in my belly. If Prince Balior possesses the answers we seek, that is what the future will hold for me. And if he does not? I will have wasted my final days catering to the whims of others.
It takes longer than usual to saddle Zainab. She prances in place, for she understands the weight of a saddle signifies a long, hard run. I cannot fault her for that. It is what she loves best. Generally, it is the hostlers’ responsibility to saddle the mounts, but I prefer completing the task myself. I have so little control over my own life. It feels necessary, taking matters into my own hands.
I’m slotting the metal pin into Zainab’s billet when an unexpected whisper of heat teases the ends of my hair. My skin tingles from the sensation.
Without turning around, I say, “Are you to be Father’s errand boy in addition to his guard?”
Hay crunches beneath the South Wind’s heavy tread. “I’m not here to deliver a message.”
“Then why are you here?”
When he fails to respond, I turn to face him. Tendrils of ebony hair poke from beneath his equally black headscarf. His eyes, glittering like beetles on hot desert rock, sit beneath thick, strong eyebrows. Even after all this time, he is still the most handsome man—god—I have ever laid eyes on. The Lord of the Mountain must truly hate me, to test me this way.
“I am to accompany you on your ride,” he says.
I bite back a particularly venomous response. Lovely. Absolutely lovely. “If you recall from last night’s discussion, I will be properly escorted. Prince Balior will see to my well-being.” Turning my back, I tighten the cinch before moving to saddle Essam, a handsome chestnut with coal stockings. I’m surprised Father is allowing the prince to ride him, considering his aggressive temperament. Not even I am allowed to mount King Halim’s prized stallion.
“With all due respect,” he goes on, “Prince Balior is a stranger. Until your union as husband and wife is made law—”
“You mean until he is in my bed?”
A muscle twitches in Notus’ jaw. I am petty enough to claim it as a victory, though paired with the triumph is the confusion this interaction holds, because there was a time when the only person I wished to share my bed was the immortal standing before me.
With admirable effort, I refocus my attention on Essam. “There will be time enough for Prince Balior and I to get to know one another. I understand you’re not from this realm, but these are our customs. Courtship, then engagement.” Which can only be broken if one of the parties renounces it. “A longer engagement is the norm, however, there are advantages to a shorter one such as mine—”
“You are not engaged,” he clips out.
And why should that bother him, I wonder? “Notyet,” I say with a smile.
The gleam in the stallion’s golden eyes is my only warning before he lunges, teeth clicking shut where my hand had been moments before.
“Brute,” I growl. He sidles toward the stall wall, making it impossible for me to secure the saddle.
The South Wind presses forward. “How can you trust that the prince’s intentions are noble?” An unmistakable edge roughens his tone. It is so rare a thing I’m temporarily distracted from my task and fail to see Essam lunge until his teeth are clamped around my elbow. I swat at him. He rears. The saddle slips from his back. Heavy hooves slash toward my face.
A warm band of air wraps itself around my waist and snaps me back into a hard body. Notus exhales, breath stirring the crown of my head, and I am falling into memory: our bare legs tangled in pale sheets, eve darkening the open window of my chambers. Notus’ head tipped back, his mouth parted, his low, agonized groan shivering through me as I played between his legs with hands and tongue and lips until he spent himself in my mouth…
I swallow thickly. My nipples rise to points beneath my dress.
As though sensing my body’s response, Notus curves one large hand around my hip bone. “Sarai.” Low and impossibly deep.
Wrenching free of his grip, I stumble toward the opposite side of the stall. I have been careful to avoid sharing space with the deity who discarded my heart as if it were nothing more than a filthy rag. It hurts that I still remember. That my body still remembers.
I’m no corpse. I am incredibly aware of this immortal’s virility, the span of his chest, the hard cut of his muscled arms. Now he is here, forcing himself into my life, and I haven’t the slightest notion why. He left. Clearly, I was not enough for him to stay. So why does he pretend to care about me?
