Growling, I exhale and flop back down onto the mattress in a state of complete frustration. My body is on edge and my brain is all over the place. My thighs feel slippery, and I debate sliding a hand downward to finish what I’d started. It wouldn’t take much—but now that I’m awake, I’d definitely be picturing the prince’s face.
Whenever I think of Roshan, it’s undeniably thrilling. He’s real and gorgeous. Then my dream lover appears and takes over, and that feels elemental, something much deeper than any mere fantasy. He’s safe. Or at least it seems that way. Perhaps there’s darkness in my own soul and that’s why I dream of it—ofhim—so clearly.
My king of night.
Or maybe the shadowisthe metaphor, and the manifestation of him means that I’m scared of what being with Roshan would entail. I let out an aggravated snarl and roll my eyes.You’re thinking about this way too much, you probably need to just bang the prince and get it over with.
If only it were so easy. I’d wager that the last thing on Roshan’s mind is sex. He’s much too focused on keeping us safe and eventually getting us out of here in one piece.
Despite the odds, the medallions we’d stolen had worked like a charm once we’d come through the portal. Those men who’d captured us must have been in the upper echelons of the commander’s circle, because no one had questioned Roshan’s claims, and neither of us was going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Who knows how long our fortune might last?
Because as it turns out, the Indraloka baseisn’t the main Dahaka stronghold at all.
Apparently, the real fortress is located in the tiny city called Nyriell that lies near the northernmost tip of Oryndhr, at the foot of an impassable mountain range. The terrain there is unpredictable, the area plagued with drought and acid rain, which is why no one is foolish enough to venture there. Except for the Dahaka, clearly.
Roshan and I had been assigned crew quarters on one of the upper levels of the well-guarded bunker. My new chamber is spare, with a cot on one end, a shelved workspace on the other, and a water closet in the corner. A built-in locker along the third wall includes a few pairs of bland charcoal-colored jumpsuits.
Sliding from the bed, I undress and wash in the tiny water closet. The water is rationed, so I’m not surprised when the trickle from the pipes starts to lessen, but it’s still enough to cool my overheated libido.
I run a comb through my hair and divide the mass over my scalp into two tight braids. There are more strands of white on the left side, I realize. But they say stress can cause graying—in which case, I’m surprised my whole head isn’t leached of color. I smooth them down with a scowl and then chastise myself for being vain when I should be grateful to be alive.
I dress and head down to the small training area in the bunker. It’s not empty. Roshan is there, pulverizing a boxing bag with a ruthless right-hook, left-jab combination, his body drenched in perspiration and his vest clinging to his lean, muscular frame. Damp curls hang over his brow, his face flushed with exertion.
“Morning,” I say, my traitorous pulse kicking up a notch at the sight of all that glistening skin and the brain-smelting sight of Roshan’s soaked, honed body. Stars, can’t a girl catch a sandsdamned break?
He half grunts in reply. The scent of sweat, adrenaline, and something primal and male fills my nostrils. My heart does an uncertain double tap, and my lungs tighten with a familiar, steady pressure. I nearly drag my eyes away, cursing my earlier erotic dreams, but as I stare at him, I realize something is wrong. His body language is off. Everything about his stance screams with tightly coiled tension, as though he’s holding something in with the force of his entire body.
“Roshan?” I ask. “What’s the matter?”
“The king is dead.” It takes a moment for his words to register,but when they do, sorrow fills me. He punches the bag harder, his entire body vibrating with the force of his blows. “My father”—his voice breaks on the word and his strikes falter—“was a good man. He could have turned me away. Instead, he welcomed me, his illegitimate son, at his table. Isawhim taken to safety before I came to find you, and he was alive and well. And now he’s gone.” Pain saturates his voice as he stills, his hands hugging the bag.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, even though the words feel inadequate. My heart aches for him.
“No more than I. My brother and the queen achieved what they’d planned all along. He wasn’t sick, you know. He was being slowly poisoned. By her.”
I stare, shocked by the quiet, matter-of-fact accusation of regicide.
“I had no proof of it, of course,” Roshan says, resuming his punches. “She’s much too clever to be caught. And now they’ll blame his death on the Dahaka. They’ll gain the support of the houses.”
“What does this mean?” I ask quietly. “Are you... will you be...?” The wordkinghad stuck in my throat.
“No. Javed is alive. Long live Oryndhr.”
“How?” I whisper in disbelief. “Iknowwhat I did.”
Roshan finally glances up at me, his gaze dull with so much pain my heart squeezes. “According to the newssheets, he survived the Dahaka attack but is badly wounded. His mother will act as regent until he’s well enough to be coronated.”
I never truly wished the prince dead, but... Javed is not the kind of person to let go of what he wants so easily. His mother might have hunted me for revenge, but if he’s crowned as king, he’ll stop at nothing to find me, punish me, and use me. Even the dreaded commander of the Dahaka would be no match for the weapon I embody.
“When is the funeral?” I ask softly.
Wearily, he scrubs an arm over his sweaty face. “It already happened. He was cremated early this morning.”
From his expression, I can see how much it hurts him not to have been there.
“He knows you were with him in spirit, Roshan,” I say softly.
