And that he might even understand what I’m telling him. But he’s intelligent—he’d communicated with Razulek—so I believe he does.
The following afternoon, though a little later than I usually visit, I approach the enclosure. By now, Nuadar’s face is a permanent scowl, but I ignore him. He’s convinced that one day he’ll have to drag out my remnants piece by piece because of my own folly.
“You’re playing with death, Oryndhrian,” he snaps. “That thing isnothuman.”
I pause, bristling at his rudeness. “I know he’s not, but that doesn’t mean he’s undeserving of care. And he’s your king, in case you’ve forgotten.”
His eyes slit at the reminder. “In that skin, it is a monstrosity.”
The laugh that emerges from my lips is cold. “We’re all monsters in some shape or form. Open the door, Nuadar, please.”
He does, though his expression is openly hostile as he stares at me. I don’t know how we got off on the wrong foot, but it’s clear he doesn’t care for me very much. However, if I remember one lesson from my childhood, it’s that I can’t take responsibility for his bad feelings.
Entering the enclosure, I let the coolness of the dark interior and the rich hearth scent of the manticore that has penetrated the space flow over me. Sighing, I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, everything inside of me settling in a peculiar way that astonishes me every time.
“Good afternoon, Dare,” I say, closing the distance to find him lying in the same place as yesterday and the day before. I have a feeling he situates himself in exactly the same position on purpose, as if he’s conscious of my sense of safety and comfort. While he may be a monstrosity according to Nuadar, the small act leaves me reeling with a peculiar feeling of gratitude.
I plop down right next to him and breathe in his warm, earthen scent as I reach out a hand to stroke the very edges of his mane. He doesn’t react, those golden eyes remaining ever vigilant. I’m under no illusion that this beast has been tamed by my peaceful visits, but I trust my magic, and my simurgh maintains that he won’t hurt me. Raz had said to trust her, and I do. Implicitly.
I stroke through the strands of his mane again and, as I grow braver, lean over to run my fingers down his muscled side. The shorter fur there feels like the sleekest velvet. The ground-shaking rumble of his purr makes me even bolder, and I venture to run the tip of my finger over the leathery curve of his folded wing. He quivers with pleasure, his purr growing louder.
Intrigued, I let out a small laugh and continue my gentle ministrations, exploring the delicate bones that run the length of the wingspan, then return to his fluffy mane. “I like you like this, my king. Quiet and unable to annoy me.” For a second, I think humor glints in those bright, golden eyes, but then they shut on a lazy blink as he sets his huge head upon his paws. “How long will you stay this way?” I muse. “And why now?”
As the minutes pass, I keep talking, unsure about what’s compelling me to do so. But being here brings me a sense of peace I haven’t had in what feels like a lifetime. I tell him more about Coban and my childhood, about my family, about Laleh and our adventures. And when I’m done with those, I confide things that I’ve never told anyone: that I’m afraid I’ll never get all of my memories back, that I’m scared of what awaits me back home.
That deep down, I might not want to leave.
The manticore doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening to the sound of my voice because his soothing, rhythmic purr never stops. The more I talk, the more relaxed I feel, until my eyelids start to droop and then slowly flutter closed.
***
IWAKE TOintense agony.
Groaning at the sharp, excruciating ache in my bones—the obvious consequence of falling asleep on a very hard floor—I stare up at the cavernous ceiling with the first touches of dawn creeping through a large skylight. My brow wrinkles.
Where am I?
The answer hits like a jolt, and my entire body goes stiff when I realize that my head is lying cradled on a very warm chest that is rising and falling with deep, even breaths from underneath me. Dear heavens, did I truly fall asleep? I blame the somnolent purring, though I’m not going to complain.
One, I’m alive, and two, despite my unhappy joints, that was the best night of sleep I’ve had in a while. I sigh as my simurgh stirs, magic rippling through me in a restorative wave.
My makeshift pillow is still asleep, thank the stars. Gingerly, I inch my head up and peer to the side, catching sight of skeins of silvery hair and tawny skin. Then I blink. Wait, that’s not right. The manticore is reddish gold... and furry.Notbrown and mouthwateringly lustrous.
I scramble off him and turn, only to feel my face light on fire.
The king is naked. Very, very, very naked.
And human.
Andnaked.
Swallowing past my dry throat, I stumble backward, feeling like every nerve in my body is in a state of acute awareness, but I can’t stop gaping. I’d seen Darrius shirtless in the ring and know he’s nauseatingly fit, but this is beyond any of my wildest imaginings. From his well-shaped bare feet and the bulging calves dusted in dark hair, to his even heavier, ropier thighs and the thick half-hard manhood, the man is sculpted like a scarred, battle-hardened warrior god.
And yes, those tattoosdogo everywhere. I hadn’t had a chance to study them in depth before, at least not the endlessly complex swirling lines on his biceps and chest that never seem to remain the same. Interspersed between those on his paler brown hip bones and thighs are twining roses and vines, the head of an elegant azdaha rippling over the corded muscles of his torso, its body disappearing to his back, and several different kinds of weapons, as well as gorgeous lines of a runic script I don’t recognize along his muscular thighs.
The shadow tattoos—the ones made of magic—swirl and dance with the litany of scars and art that cover him over and down what Laleh calls the pin-me-to-the-wall muscles, right to the base of that long, impressive...
Stop ogling the king.
