An RPG hit his chest at the revelation. Made it hard to think. Obliterated all his arguments about her. The news was a gamechanger. Shifted Kasra from the category of “monster” to…
What exactly?
Sickened, Range pushed to his feet. Felt sorry for the guy who would have to live with that mistake for the rest of his life?—yet he also wanted to pound him into the next life. “Does she know what you did?”
Regret clawed at the young, bearded face as he nodded. “And she never hated me for it.” His lips trembled again.
Unfathomable—Kasra knew her childhood friend was the reason she had been sold and didn’t hate him? “Never?”
“Not even the day they took her.”
Range stood. Looked at a man he suddenly wanted nothing to do with. Wanted to lay into him. Instead, he pivoted and stalked down the hall. Felt like he could tear something to shreds. He heard soft steps coming down the front hall ahead. Did not want conversation. Or those green-brown eyes boring into his willpower. Needed time to unpack what he’d just learned.
He banked left and up a flight of stairs. Found his way onto a rooftop terrace that looked south toward Pakistan. The privacy was surprising in such a tightly packed town. But he was grateful for the solitude. Stood staring out into the distance. Could almost see the border crossing with its towering checkpoints and dust stirred by the busy site.
They would head more southwesterly. Maybe stay in Afghanistan another day, then veer off the beaten path across the border.
Who was he kidding? He couldn’t focus on their plan. His thoughts were still in that kitchen. Still unpacking the betrayal perpetrated by a friend.
Her own brother sold her.
How had she risen to power over Roud then, if she’d been sold? All this time, he’d … hated her. She had been betrayed by her closest friend and sold by her brother—and no hatred.
Range regretted that he’d never considered that she might’ve been sold into that life. That he’d treated her so poorly. Apparently like every other man in her life.
“It was a mistake to come here.” Her voice was quiet as she joined him. “Zaki … he is a good friend—”
“How can you say that?” He adjusted to face her, ignoring the tweak of pain in his side. “He is responsible for—”
“No!” Kasra strode to his side. “No, he is not. Even at fifteen I knew the fault of being sold rested with men who only knew how to hurt people.” She sighed. “Zaki and I were dearest of friends all those years ago. When Razam asked for me … It was so terrible. Two brothers at war”—she motioned to herself—“over me. This! Can you imagine?”
“Yes!” Way too much.
Expression startled, she seemed to shrink away. “No, do not do that.” Her words were taut, strained, then she looked to the distance again. “I told you not to be nice to me. It makes me not trust you.”
He caught her arm, but she tried to tug away, her laugh empty and pained. “Kasra, look at me.”
She tried to wrest free. “Why?” Writhing, she slipped into a fierce visage. Jerked free. Stepped back.
It was like an animal with its foot caught in a trap. Any attempt to help free it was met with frenzied panic. He made the mistake of tugging her back.
With a lightning strike to his face—which missed—she hopped away. Startled. Then laughed. “This is what we do best, yes? Spar.”
“No. Kas …” He knew if he made a move, she would begin fighting. “Please—” He held out a hand, knowing if he protected his wound, he wouldn’t be able to block her. “Let’s—”
A jab. A strike. A knife-hand. A flurry of movements.
“Please—”
One of her so-called playful strikes nailed his wound. He doubled, groaning.
“Range!” She was at his side. “I am sorry. I did not—”
He wrapped her into his arms. “Listen.”
She stiffened. “Let me go.”
“Listen—”
