His attention slides to me momentarily before flitting elsewhere. “Why does it sound likeIam to blame for that ridiculous display? It wasn’t as if I was an informed participant.”
I stare at him, perplexed. “Of course you’re not to blame.”
“But you are angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Yes, you are.” That dark, penetrative gaze manages to strip me of flesh, muscle, down to bone. “Perhaps you have simply lived with anger for so long you no longer recognize its face.”
I haven’t the words, only this murky pool cloaking my heart, in which I see nothing, not even my own reflection. The conviction with which he speaks only solidifies how uncertain I am. Why does fearso often manifest as ire? He cannot understand these grains of sand I attempt to collect in my outstretched hands. They slip through my fingers and are gone.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. He’s right, of course. It’s unfair to place blame onto the one person who is willing to stand by my side through this mess. The hurt I feel toward Father is irrelevant. He has insulted me plenty over the years, but that dig about Fahim was too raw, too fresh.
I open my mouth to respond when Notus drops his head into his hands. “Some forewarning would have been nice.”
“I know.” I bite the inside of my cheek. At the very least, the pain helps push thoughts of Father aside. “It likely doesn’t matter, but I didn’t know I was going to say those words until they’d already left my mouth. I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice.”
Even as my irritation boils toward the surface, I tamp it down. Notus could have outed me as a liar, could have renounced the engagement and put an end to this. But he didn’t. For that, he has my gratitude.
“I just… I couldn’t see it any other way,” I whisper. “Time is a luxury we can’t afford. If Prince Balior intends to release the beast from the labyrinth, I won’t make his quest for power any easier by marrying him. I’d hoped that by taking marriage off the table, he would be forced to leave the city and take his army with him. I didn’t anticipate Father’s stubbornness—or that the prince might consider staying to court a woman who has committed herself to another.”
He lifts his head. “What of the position you’ve placed me in, or your father? What of the consequences I will soon face for appearing to having asked for your hand?”
A bit of guilt digs at me. Once again, he is reminding me of all the ways I have made some imprudent decision of desperation. “Father may be stern, but he is no fool. He would not make an enemy of you, no matter how displeased he is about our engagement.”
“Will you continue to make excuses?”
For the second time in as many moments, I am left unbalanced, exposed, vulnerable. “I’ve already apologized. I take full responsibilityfor placing you in this situation. I can understand what a burden it must be for you,” I choke, the words like shattered glass in my throat, “to tie yourself to me through marriage. But worry not. This is only a ruse until Prince Balior gives up and departs the capital.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” he says.
I’m sure. “What is this really about, Notus?”
Moonlight dusts his fathomless eyes. Even after all this time, I struggle to identify his emotions. “You don’t want to marry the prince. But nor do you want to marry me.”
Eighteen-year-old Sarai would have argued differently.
He eases nearer, the ferns framing the garden path rustling against his ankles, stirred to life at his passing. “I am a tool,” he goes on.
Better a tool than a victim. Better the needle than the thread. “If that’s how you choose to perceive this, then that is your own prerogative. But I was under the impression you disliked the prince. Aren’t you glad to be rid of him?”
Notus eases onto the bench beside me, our shoulders brushing. A whiff of warm, salted air hits my face, and I swallow, fighting the urge to bury my nose into his neck.
“A man like Prince Balior will not accept defeat,” he says.
I am well aware. In rejecting the prince’s hand, I damn myself and my realm. Prince Balior was to be our salvation. Now I fear he will become its ruination.
“Prince Balior will beseech Father to reconsider his stance on Ammara’s customs. He will threaten war and demand our marriage be established. But I will not bend. And Father will not stand against our union.”
“How can you be certain?”
As if it is not already obvious. “You are the South Wind,” I tell him, and when he turns his face toward mine, I find our mouths separated by the smallest distance, warm shadow spiced by breath. “You are formidable. Immortal. Our greatest weapon in defeating the darkwalkers. But more so, you are an incredibly powerful deity, and Father would not wish to anger you for fear of retaliation.”
“I would never bring harm to Ishmah,” he says.
“I know.” It is why I trust him now, despite swearing never to do so again. “But Father doesn’t know you as I do. We can use that to our advantage.”
