I open my mouth and shut it. He’s right, the flaming Scav turd. Scowling at his logic, and because I don’t have a better plan, I mutter a curse under my breath. “Fine, but I’m keeping my dagger. Turn around.”
When he does so without taking the opportunity to tease me about my modesty, I realize how serious he is. I shimmy out of my dirty gray jumpsuit and pull on the gossamer layers of handspun silk. I won’t lie—the fabric feels like heaven against my skin after the coarse material of the Dahaka gear, but it also makes me feel vulnerable.Exposed.
Grimacing, I palm my dagger from its sheath and slash a piece of fabric from the jumpsuit to fashion a makeshift holster, securing it around my thigh. I swallow my discomfort and tug on the last part of the outfit—a pair of supple, beaded slippers—and then straighten.
The soft silk overdress falls from my shoulders in graceful folds, and though the matching split skirts are slightly long, the cuffed ends hold them in place around my ankles.
“I’m done,” I grumble. “Though I don’t see why I couldn’t have been a junior aide and wear something less... racy.”
Roshan turns to face me, his hot gaze sweeping me from top to bottom. “You look good in racy.” Bold appreciation glitters in his eyes, and I fight not to flush at the perusal, keeping my mouth compacted into a scowl. But my body has other ideas. Blood rushes to places it shouldn’t, making me bite back a hum of pleasure. “One more thing,” he adds, and closes the distance between us. His hands remove the cap on my head and thread through the snarls along my scalp.
Well,nowthe blasted hum turns into a needythrob,making it hard to breathe. Roshan combs gentle fingers through the heavy mess of curls that loosens to tumble halfway down my back. His touch lingers over the pale swath of curls on the left side of my crown. My eyelids flutter as his fingertips tangle in a knot and the small bite of pain makes me hiss on the heels of the pleasure spiraling through me.
“I fail to see how any of this is going to help usnotdraw attention to ourselves,” I grit out, fighting the rush of arousal with everything I have. Obviously, this is neither the time nor the place, but it doesn’t stop me from the wicked fantasy of yanking him into a dark alcove and demanding that he soothe the ache he started down south. With his tongue.
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?” I echo.
He peers at me. “Youwouldfail to see it. Come on. Chin up. Do not react to anything you may see or hear. Act like all of this is beneath you. That evenI’mbeneath you.” He smirks. “Emulate my aunt, if it helps.”
Roshan’s fingers slip around my elbow as we saunter forward past the crates. With no time to think, I do as he says and hold my head high, channeling a frigid hauteur to rival Queen Morvarid’s. It’s no easy task as a dozen pairs of curious eyes swivel in our direction and discreetly fall away.
I peer up at Roshan through my eyelashes. His handsome face is stern and authoritarian, as befits his supposed rank. Then again, heisa prince, so arrogance and command come naturally to him. He takes long, confident strides, and I notice all the men standing at swift attention, cupping their left hands over their right fists at chest level in a show of deference, along with muted whispers of “sir” echoing through the warehouse.
The high-ranking uniform is doing the job more effectively than we could have hoped. The men’s gazes drift to me, too, but skitter away as fast as they land. I feel the press of a gaze, and a familiar, heart-shaped face framed by a skein of black glossy hair snags my attention for a half second.Clem?I stumble and crane my neck, searching the sea of faces.
“What is it?” Roshan asks.
“I thought I saw... never mind. I was mistaken.” There’s no logical reason Clem would be here. It must simply have been someone who looked like her.
As we walk, I feel Roshan’s comforting presence behind me, his palm once more at my elbow, and I absorb some of his strength to calm the erratic patter of my heart. His hand falls to the small of my back as we approach the security checkpoint, an unreadable gaze meeting mine. That cool mien betrays nothing—he’s back to the controlled royal, ever in command of his emotions.
“Identification?” a soldier at the checkpoint asks, and my heart trips.
Roshan hands over the medallion from his pocket.
The soldier pales at whatever he sees etched there, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Sorry, sir. All clear. Thank you, sir.”
We enter the doorway, and I turn to Roshan feeling nearly delirious with relief. “Thank goodness for that medallion. Was that also courtesy of your cousin?”
He gives me one of those sardonic smirks, and I roll my eyes. Of course it was.
“What do we do now?” I ask as we walk down the corridor.
His mouth curls into a wry smile. “We find Aran.”
***
Luckily, Aran finds us before more trouble can.
He leads us past a mess hall that’s teeming with soldiers, through a winding set of corridors, and to a trapdoor near the back of a grain storage room. We slip down into a dark shaft before he drags the bags back as best as he can and secures the way behind us.
The tunnel is dark and smells of dust and old cobwebs. I imagine one of the residents of those cobwebs skittering over the base of my neck, and I swallow a whimper. I fucking hate spiders.
Don’t think about spiders, think about staying alive.
Though perhaps some light might help. I focus inward as Aran has been teaching me and envision the rune for the sun—a dot within a circle—and call my magic. At first, nothing happens, but ever so slowly, a golden sheen creeps over my palm. Elation fills me. Until I see just how many cobwebs are above me, and the light winks out.
