Alizeh’s anger sharpened; she was growing tired of his childish jabs at her pride. “If you’re so keen to die,” she said, “why not let the devil do it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, attempting a smile. “I watched you kill five mercenaries with an assortment of sewing supplies. I think I prefer your creativity.”
“Wait— What?” She blinked, alarm awakening her pulse, which fluttered fast now against her throat. “You were there?”
“I was there to protect the devil’s darling,” said Cyrus, his eyes darkening. “Clearly, he underestimated you.”
“But—if you’d seen me,” she said, her mind buzzing, “why did you later mistake me for Miss Huda?”
At the mention of Miss Huda, Cyrus’s expression soured only further. “You were always wearing your snoda,” he said. “And I never saw you in daylight. I stood watch that night, but only from afar. Had I been able to get closer without exposing myself, I might’ve been able to better hear the scandalous whispers of your next assignation; but then, I saw enough of your meeting withHazanto piece together the more unsavory aspects of your life.”
Alizeh was too astonished—too outraged—even to speak.
“Tell me one thing,” Cyrus said bitterly. “Just how many men do you have wrapped around your finger?”
“None,” she breathed, shaking her head. “Why—whydo you continue to misjudge me? Why would you assume the worst of me based on a single scene you witnessed without context—”
“You stunning little hypocrite,” he said angrily, “I might ask you the same question.”
She looked up at him then, rendered briefly speechless, for she knew not how to respond. It was true: most of what she knew of Cyrus—even the shocking tale of his father’s murder—had been pieced together entirely by hearsay and speculation. It was just that so many people seemed to agreethat he was a vile person, and the story of his rise to king was so incontrovertibly horrific that she—
Alizeh hesitated, then frowned.
“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Cyrus, you murdered your own father for your crown.”
His face cleared of expression at that, his eyes going vacant and cold. “That wasn’t a question,” he said.
“You committed patricide,” she went on, “in the pursuit of domination and glory, for control of a formidable empire. You went to such lengths for power! It couldn’t have been a small thing to kill your own parent. So why would you then toss your spoils at my feet, as if your title means nothing to you?”
Cyrus visibly swallowed. It was a long moment before he said: “I’m quite desperate.”
The nosta warmed at this, but Alizeh’s irritation only intensified. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It doesn’t follow reason. There’s something you haven’t told me.”
“There are all kinds of things I haven’t told you.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused. “I didn’t say a word until I was three years old. I don’t like eggplant. And you have a single little freckle in the hollow at the base of your throat.”
Alizeh clasped a hand involuntarily against her neck, almost surprised when her fingers met with the heavy gold collar of her dress, which all but obscured her throat from view. “How did you know that?”
“I have eyes,” he said flatly.
“You’re lying to me.”
“About my eyes? I assure you, they’re quite firmly affixed to my skull.”
“Cyrus—”
“Even if Icould— You think I’d tell you, of all people, my sorrows?” he said, turning away. He sounded suddenly bored. “Did you think I brought you here against your will because I was in want of a sympathetic ear?”
“No.”
He looked up at her, a strange emotion flitting across his face. “No,” he echoed softly. “And you should take care to remember that. Should you marry me, it would be in title only. I have no interest in your companionship.”
The nosta went cold.
Alizeh fought both her shock and the impulse to flinch against the icy spark, her heart thrumming in her chest as she held Cyrus’s gaze, her alarm escalating. Was he lying about having no interest in her companionship? Or was he lying about their marriage being in title only?
