She had been asking the wrong question all this time?—whatthe Jackal wanted, when she should have been askingwhom. She had carelessly assumed that Hasan wanted money or weapons, never guessing for a second that he may have been negotiating on behalf of someone he loved?—because she had never imagined him as capable of love.
She tried to picture what the third brother would be like. Was he as cool and collected as Zeyar? Or was he as intense and unpredictable as Hasan?
Hasan.Her fingers crawled to her throat, where her knife wound had scabbed over. Hasan’s mother had given it a cursory check, deeming it too shallow for stitches, but the wound of her terror ran so much deeper. She’d been manhandled by Hasan before, but it was nothing like the way he had caged her in the museum, cutting her throat as though it were no harder than slicing through an envelope with a letter opener.
Poppy had only ever wielded blunt knives, meant for cutting through tender, cooked meats. She’d never thought about the butcher’s knife, never imagined the animals’ terror before the cold kiss of steel drained years of their lives away in seconds. She had been hunted by Richard, and trapped by Hasan, but she was not truly prey until the moment the Jackal’s pointed claws rested at her throat. She knew without a doubt, if Richard had asked him to drive the blade into her artery in exchange for his brother, he would have done it, no hesitation.
That kind of devotion was terrifying. But it was terrifying because it was powerful, and if Poppy could harness that power, then she had a decent chance at fighting back against Richard. Though Hasan had tried to work with him, Richard was still their common enemy. Hasan would be just as eager to see her fiancé fall as she.
She wondered where Hasan was now?—if he had made it through the night. If someone had asked her yesterday, she’d have been certain that he’d bounce back immediately. Shadows couldn’t die. But Hasan was made of flesh and blood, and his soul could be severed from his body just as easily as the soul of anyone else.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lady Fingers
Poppy was sitting at the window, watching a pair of hawks circle over the field, when the doorknob rattled on the other side of the room. She spun around and, when Hasan walked through, jumped to her feet.
“You lived!” she said, and for once, she didn’t have to fake the emotion in her voice. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Then her eyes fell to the knife in Hasan’s hands. Her stomach knotted. She touched the scab on her throat involuntarily. “What’s that for?” she asked, hating how her voice wavered.
He took a step toward her, then another. Poppy scuttled back, but her borrowed salwar was several inches too long. Her heel caught on the excess fabric, and she tripped backward, hitting the hardwood floor with a muffled thump. Hasan crouched beside her swiftly. He caught her wrist and squeezed hard on one of her pressure points, causing her fingers to splay. Her stomach churned.
“Stop,” she begged, wrenching her arm back. His grip was too strong, and the bones of her wrist popped as she continued to struggle. “Please, Hasan.”
The sound of his name?—hisgivenname?—seemed to have some effect on him. He froze, staring down at her.
Zeyar appeared beside Hasan, helping him pin Poppy’s arm to the floor. “Do it now,” he ordered.
“Wait,” she said. Her mind was racing faster than her pulse, searching for the right combination of words to stop the nightmare. “Wait, please. Richard won’t want me back if I’m damaged?—”
“Then he shouldn’t have tried to pull a fast one on us at the museum,” Hasan said. His voice was tense, stretched thin as though he were holding something back. “Now we have to do things the hard way.”
He put the edge of the hunting knife to the base of her thumb.
“No,” she gasped. All her eloquence and rationality crumbled into panicked pleas. “No, no, please?—”
Hasan began to make the cut. Her soft skin parted easily, a line of red welling to the surface. She had to stop him, had to offer the men something they wanted more than her thumb.
“Paranjay!” Poppy yelped, remembering suddenly. “I can get him back for you. Just stop! Listen to me.”
Hasan stiffened, but he didn’t push the knife down any farther. He and Zeyar exchanged a glance, as if silently coming to an agreement. Hasan turned back to her, eyes narrowed, not removing the knife from her hand. “How?”
“Let me up, first,” she said. “Can’t we talk about this like civilized people?”
“No,” Zeyar barked. “Talk. Now. Or Hasan will finish what he started.”
She bit her bottom lip, staring at the blade. She had so few cards left to play, she was loath to flip them over. But if she held her silence, then she wouldn’t even have fingers to hold those cards. Taking a deep, ragged breath, she said, “Okay. Fine. Do you remember how long it took Richard to respond to your letter?”
“I knew there was something wrong about that,” Hasan said.
Poppy bobbed her head eagerly. “It might sound far-fetched to you, but Richard doesn’t truly care for me. He has been plotting to marry me only to inherit my father’s office as viceroy, and then dispose of me once he’s gotten what he wants.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke, all the rage and devastation from her engagement night rising to the surface. Hasan scrutinized her face, but she refused to look away. After a brief standoff, Hasan glanced at Zeyar, whose face was still blank.
“Continue,” he said.
“I have a plan.” Poppy rushed forward, tripping over her words. “Richard thinks he can oust me, but I won’t give up so easily. I intend to outmaneuver him and become heir to my father’s office.”
