“If you think,” she said carefully, “that I will ever accept an article of clothing from you again—then you, sir, are deluded.”
She saw the uncertain movement in his chest, the sudden tension in his jaw. “There is no danger to be derived from this garment. It was only the gesture of a gentleman.”
She felt a spark of heat near her sternum just as surprise widened her eyes. “Agentleman? Do you often confuse yourself for such a man?”
“With what ease you insult me,” he said, his eyes mocking. “Were you anyone else, I’d have you executed.”
“Goodness, more poetry. Are these tender declarations meant to endear you to me?”
He fought a smile at that, running a hand through his hair as he looked up at the stars. “Tell me—is it too much to hope for our future that you will not make it a habit of slapping me in the face?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Then married life will be exactly as I imagined.”
“Let me be plain: I detest you. I would sooner ingest poison than marry you, and I am astonished to discover that you think I’d even consider submitting to such a horror when it is clear your every action is predicated upon the demands of the devil himself. You are an incorrigible reprobate; how you could ever hope to be a gentleman I will never understand.”
Cyrus was quiet for a beat too long.
He did not meet her eyes when he spoke, not even when he forced a smile. “Do let us cast aside decorum, then. I promise to never again endeavor to be a gentleman in your presence.”
“Is there any point, sir, in setting a goal for an accomplishment already achieved?”
Cyrus tensed before turning suddenly to face her, his eyes glinting in the moonlight with something like fury. He said nothing as he allowed his gaze to travel, too slowly, from her eyes to her lips, down the column of her neck, the curve of her breasts, the narrowing line of her barely there bodice, then lower—
“You really are a terrible scoundrel,” she whispered, hating the way she flushed under his attentions.
For all the darkness that enveloped them, there was a great deal of illumination, too. She could see Cyrus quite plainly in the glaze of starlight, the luster of the moon. It could not be denied: his was an objectively striking face, so much so that Alizeh could not decide whether it was the wicked copper of his hair or the piercing blue of his eyesthat proved his greatest asset. Then again, she did not care to decide, for not only was she unmoved by his beauty, she nursed a private hope that, given the right opportunity, she might be able to kill him.
“That dress was meant to protect you,” Cyrus said bitterly. “I wasn’t expecting you to set it on fire. Twice.”
The nosta warmed against her skin, and Alizeh drew a sharp breath. She’d never been more grateful for the nosta, the marble-sized magical orb that sorted truths from lies. She’d tucked it deep into her corset before Cyrus’s abrupt arrival in Miss Huda’s bedroom, but after her most recent spiral from the heavens, she’d nearly forgotten its existence. Remembering it was with her did a great deal to fortify her heart, for she’d now acquired enough key information to know, unequivocally, that Hazan and Cyrus had not worked in tandem to assist her—which meant that Cyrus need never know that she possessed the powerful object. No matter the horrors ahead, at least she would always know whether he lied.
Alizeh experienced a pang of heartache at that realization, for it was Hazan who’d gifted her the nosta, and it seemed a categorical fact that she would never see him again.
He would no doubt hang at dawn.
It was Hazan who’d brought hope back into her life, whose existence inspired her to imagine an end to the wretchedness of her days. Hazan was proof that there remained any Jinn who still searched for her, believed in her. Alizeh had not known his true identity—that he was in fact a minister to the crown, that he worked alongside the prince every day. He’d risked his life in the attempt to transport Alizeh tosafety, and he would pay the price for it now. It was a sacrifice she would never forget.
“Had I known you’d incinerate the gown I might not have wasted so much magic in its making,” Cyrus was saying, shaking his head. “Much good it did you, in the end. That dress was meant to hide you from any who wished you harm; instead, you destroyed it, exposing in the process both your identity and your undergarments to all of Ardunian royalty. You must be well-pleased with yourself.”
“I beg your pardon?” Alizeh looked up at him in horror. “Myundergarments?”
“Surely you possess a pair of eyes,” he said, staring intently at her face. “You are practically naked.”
“How dare you.”
In a fluid motion Cyrus draped his coat over her shoulders, surprising her so completely she’d no chance to protest before she was rendered powerless by relief. The lingering warmth of the wool garment was crossed with the heady, masculine scent of its owner, but Alizeh could ignore this; the heavy coat enveloped every inch of her folded, huddled body, its silk-lining caressing, then soothing, her wind-chapped skin. Alizeh tried to resist this luxury, but no matter her silent castigations toward herself, she could not animate her arms enough to shrug off the article. The satisfaction was in fact so painful that treacherous tears sprang to her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound of pleasure.
When she finally looked up, she found Cyrus watching her, bewildered. “You’ve been truly suffering,” he said. “Why did you say nothing?”
She was unable to meet his eyes when she confessed quietly: “I am always suffering. The frost lives with me much like an unwanted limb; it does not diminish. I seldom dwell on it.”
“Then the frost is a real, lived experience?” Cyrus seemed to frown as he spoke. “I’ve heard mention of it, of course, but I’d assumed it was meant to be a poetic turn of phrase.”
She’d forgotten: Cyrus had known only a little of her heritage.
Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled, grateful her body seemed to be losing the worst of its tremors.
