Chapter Eleven

I jolt awake, but the darkness is thick and swarming with shadows.

Familiar shadows.

Twisting in the rough-worn sheets that scratch against my skin, I shift between sleep and wakefulness. Or maybe I’m not truly awake at all. I must be dreaming, but it feels as though I’m conscious, because I can feel the prickle of gooseflesh spreading over my skin and the warmth pooling in my chest and lower.

Like a dream within a dream.

My heart is pounding, and a fine sheen of sweat covers my face. I glance down to the edge of the bed where the gathering darkness looks deeper than in the rest of the room. Swirling layers of midnight and onyx transfix my gaze as a figure emerges. Ethereal and magical, the presence is large, over six and a half feet and shaped like a man, but I’m not afraid. Not with him.

The shadow doesn’t move, but I can feel that deeply familiar, powerful stare watching me as I lie still, canvassing every inch of my bared body that has wrestled free of the sheets. But there’s no worry in me, other than a strange sensation of restless impatience.

“You’re here,”

I hear myself say.

I’m always here. The words are multilayered, their gravelly cadence making my nipples peak beneath my thin sleep shirt, and my thighs press helplessly together. Unable to help myself, I skim my fingertips over my sides where my sleep shirt has ridden upward, the graze against my belly making me whimper.

“Why?”

I ask breathily.

We don’t like when you’re afraid.

We? Dark wisps burst apart and then come back together, their presence almost as agitated as I feel inside. I’m hot and fevered . . . and by extension, they are, too. My fingers toy with the edge of my undergarments, and I sense rather than see the shadow move forward. If I squint, I can just make out features, though they dance in and out of focus.

I know it’s a dream, but something about it feels unusually intense.

“Show yourself,”

I whisper.

Gleaming depthless eyes like shards of obsidian, slashes for cheekbones, and a cruel, hard mouth take shape. Moon-kissed locks frame the most mesmerizing face I’ve ever seen. His shoulders are broad, the contour of tattooed muscles over a powerful body, leading down to trim hips and . . . fuck. I swallow hard, my thighs instantly going slick.

Dream lover is naked and wants me to see it.

An exhilarated laugh slips out of me. Of course he does. This is my dream. The flash of the features I’d seen definitely hadn’t been Roshan’s—Thank you, subconscious; no need to encourage infatuation with someone real—but the body is close to what I’ve imagined his to be. All stacked muscles, lean sinew, and long limbs. Not to mention the tool of sensual destruction between those thick legs that makes me liquid with desire.

Shadows graze over my ankles and slide up my calves. Inky tendrils touch everywhere, every inch of skin, every dip and every curve, making my body shiver with need. He knows exactly where to touch and by the time my shadow lover hovers directly over me, I’m a whimpering mess. My eyes flutter shut.

Look at me. The dark command reverberates over my sensitized skin, even as cool shadows slip under my shirt and flutter against my tight, aching breasts.

As I comply, the darkness coalesces into a dense shape, powerful arms bracketing either side of my quaking body. The shine of silvery hair, longer than mine, catches my eye again, but it’s gone just as quickly. Flickers of his brutally handsome face appear and disappear—winged eyebrows and midnight eyes staring down at me over a bold nose and thin but sculpted lips, bracketed by a jawline that could cut glass. He’s fucking beautiful. The air fizzles in my lungs.

For a moment, I wonder if this is truly a dream and not some lucid hallucination. Like the crone in the carriage . . . another bored deity toying with me somehow, but I can’t bring myself to care one way or another. I want more of whatever this is.

Boldly, I reach up to touch that granite jaw, but when I do, there’s nothing there but a phantom sensation of mist on my fingertips. Those thin lips curl as if my touch is pleasurable, nostrils flaring as he drinks me in with an intensity that leaves me breathless. A shadowed hand drifts upward to rest on my throat, pinning me in place. My entire awareness narrows to that evanescent point of contact.

Are you afraid, Starbright?

“No,”

I say, the soft nickname at odds with the multilayered gravel of his voice.

You should be.

The echo is much too similar to the terrifying warning I’d heard in the alley behind the tavern in Coban, and I bolt awake for real this time in my new quarters, eyes flying open as I gasp for breath.

I’m alone in my tiny chamber, no corporeal male-bodied shadows in sight.

Fuck.

I can’t even get distracted in my dreams.

Growling, I exhale and flop back down onto the mattress in a state of complete frustration. My body is on edge and my brain is all over the place. My thighs feel slippery, and I debate sliding a hand downward to finish what I’d started. It wouldn’t take much—but now that I’m awake, I’d definitely be picturing the prince’s face.

Whenever I think of Roshan, it’s undeniably thrilling. He’s real and gorgeous. Then my dream lover appears and takes over, and that feels elemental, something much deeper than any mere fantasy. He’s safe. Or at least it seems that way. Perhaps there’s darkness in my own soul and that’s why I dream of it—of him—so clearly.

My king of night.

Or maybe the shadow is the metaphor, and the manifestation of him means that I’m scared of what being with Roshan would entail. I let out an aggravated snarl and roll my eyes. You’re thinking about this way too much, you probably need to just bang the prince and get it over with.

If only it were so easy. I’d wager that the last thing on Roshan’s mind is sex. He’s much too focused on keeping us safe and eventually getting us out of here in one piece.

Despite the odds, the medallions we’d stolen had worked like a charm once we’d come through the portal. Those men who’d captured us must have been in the upper echelons of the commander’s circle, because no one had questioned Roshan’s claims, and neither of us was going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Who knows how long our fortune might last?

Because as it turns out, the Indraloka base isn’t the main Dahaka stronghold at all.

Apparently, the real fortress is located in the tiny city called Nyriell that lies near the northernmost tip of Oryndhr, at the foot of an impassable mountain range. The terrain there is unpredictable, the area plagued with drought and acid rain, which is why no one is foolish enough to venture there. Except for the Dahaka, clearly.

Roshan and I had been assigned crew quarters on one of the upper levels of the well-guarded bunker. My new chamber is spare, with a cot on one end, a shelved workspace on the other, and a water closet in the corner. A built-in locker along the third wall includes a few pairs of bland charcoal-colored jumpsuits.

Sliding from the bed, I undress and wash in the tiny water closet. The water is rationed, so I’m not surprised when the trickle from the pipes starts to lessen, but it’s still enough to cool my overheated libido.

I run a comb through my hair and divide the mass over my scalp into two tight braids. There are more strands of white on the left side, I realize. But they say stress can cause graying—in which case, I’m surprised my whole head isn’t leached of color. I smooth them down with a scowl and then chastise myself for being vain when I should be grateful to be alive.

I dress and head down to the small training area in the bunker. It’s not empty. Roshan is there, pulverizing a boxing bag with a ruthless right-hook, left-jab combination, his body drenched in perspiration and his vest clinging to his lean, muscular frame. Damp curls hang over his brow, his face flushed with exertion.

“Morning,”

I say, my traitorous pulse kicking up a notch at the sight of all that glistening skin and the brain-smelting sight of Roshan’s soaked, honed body. Stars, can’t a girl catch a sandsdamned break?

He half grunts in reply. The scent of sweat, adrenaline, and something primal and male fills my nostrils. My heart does an uncertain double tap, and my lungs tighten with a familiar, steady pressure. I nearly drag my eyes away, cursing my earlier erotic dreams, but as I stare at him, I realize something is wrong. His body language is off. Everything about his stance screams with tightly coiled tension, as though he’s holding something in with the force of his entire body.

“Roshan?”

I ask. “What’s the matter?”

“The king is dead.”

It takes a moment for his words to register, but when they do, sorrow fills me. He punches the bag harder, his entire body vibrating with the force of his blows. “My father”—his voice breaks on the word and his strikes falter—“was a good man. He could have turned me away. Instead, he welcomed me, his illegitimate son, at his table. I saw him taken to safety before I came to find you, and he was alive and well. And now he’s gone.”

Pain saturates his voice as he stills, his hands hugging the bag.

“I’m so sorry,”

I say, even though the words feel inadequate. My heart aches for him.

“No more than I. My brother and the queen achieved what they’d planned all along. He wasn’t sick, you know. He was being slowly poisoned. By her.”

I stare, shocked by the quiet, matter-of-fact accusation of regicide.

“I had no proof of it, of course,”

Roshan says, resuming his punches. “She’s much too clever to be caught. And now they’ll blame his death on the Dahaka. They’ll gain the support of the houses.”

“What does this mean?”

I ask quietly. “Are you . . . will you be . . . ?”

The word king had stuck in my throat.

“No. Javed is alive. Long live Oryndhr.”

“How?”

I whisper in disbelief. “I know what I did.”

Roshan finally glances up at me, his gaze dull with so much pain my heart squeezes. “According to the newssheets, he survived the Dahaka attack but is badly wounded. His mother will act as regent until he’s well enough to be coronated.”

I never truly wished the prince dead, but . . . Javed is not the kind of person to let go of what he wants so easily. His mother might have hunted me for revenge, but if he’s crowned as king, he’ll stop at nothing to find me, punish me, and use me. Even the dreaded commander of the Dahaka would be no match for the weapon I embody.

“When is the funeral?”

I ask softly.

Wearily, he scrubs an arm over his sweaty face. “It already happened. He was cremated early this morning.”

From his expression, I can see how much it hurts him not to have been there.

“He knows you were with him in spirit, Roshan,”

I say softly.

Exhaustion and grief line his face. The king was his only real remaining family. Queen Morvarid has never favored him, and now that Javed is king, Roshan will have no place to call home. I can’t imagine not having a family or a safe haven.

“What will you do?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“If you go back there, it will be to a dagger in your back or poison in your wine,”

I say quietly. “You have a biological claim to the Oryndhr crown. Neither Javed nor Morvarid will suffer to see you alive.”

“I know. It was only by my father’s grace that I breathed all these years.”

“So come back to Coban with me.”

His smile is strained as he eyes me. “I fear that Javed’s shadow will follow me wherever I go, and I wouldn’t wish him to harm you because of me.”

The utter bleakness in his tone burrows under my skin, but I force a smile. “We’re in this together. Javed’s going to come after me whether you’re at my side or not. And trust me, when you taste my aunt’s cooking, you won’t want to leave.”

He chuckles, but the laughter doesn’t find his eyes.

When I’m sad, a hug helps, but I can tell that Roshan needs to get out of his own head. “You have to get this anguish out of you,”

I tell him softly, watching his shoulders immediately tense. “Or you’re going to splinter apart.”

“I am letting it out,”

he says, with a violent kick to the bag. “I’m pretending this is my devious fucking brother.”

I keep my tone light, even though my heart feels like it’s breaking for him. “I suppose that’s one way to deal with your anger, but what about the rest of your feelings?”

His eyes are hard, a muscle twitching in his lower jaw. “What would you have me do, Suraya? Complain? Wail? Cry?”

He growls the last word. “Princes do not display such useless emotions.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a prince.”

His hands stall their violent attack, fluttering in midair, as he turns fully to me. The latent anger in his eyes dissipates somewhat as a ghost of a wry, crooked grin hovers over his lips. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Something comes over me then, a desire to hold on to him, and I move forward, reaching my arms around him as he’d done with me in the coach. His bare skin feels slick but warm, his shivering muscles jerking beneath my fingers. The scent of him—smelted iron, warm spice, and bergamot—is a heady combination that does a number on my ability to hold a coherent thought. I struggle to keep my feelings in check as every nerve ending in my body comes vibrantly alive.

Stars, touching him was a mistake.

“What are you doing?”

Roshan asks, an imperious eyebrow vaulting upward. His words are gruff, but I let my arms drift up over his shoulders, noticing that his pupils have dilated and his irises have shifted to the color of sun-warmed umber.

“You looked like you needed a hug.”

“Suraya . . .”

he begins.

No one says my name the way he does, like it’s a delicacy. I laugh a trifle breathlessly at the pouting movement of his lips shaping the word.

“I’m sweating like a pig,”

he says. “And I stink.”

“I don’t mind, and you don’t stink.”

He doesn’t. His sweat smells musky and rich, but not unpleasant. I have to force myself not to let my greedy fingertips explore the glistening, satiny curves and hollows of his sculpted biceps, from chasing the thick layer of dark scruff on his jaw, or from stripping that damp undershirt off his hard body and gorging my greedy eyes to distraction.

I’m flirting with disaster, I know, but I can’t help it.

It’s Roshan’s instinct to protect that has really burrowed its way past my defenses. Even though he’s safeguarding me out of some sense of misplaced guilt, everything he’s done up until now has been for my sake, and even in his sorrow, I’m still a priority. And now, when I see him drowning in his own pain, all I want to do is help him.

Comfort him, which I have no idea how to do.

You could kiss him.

Every muscle in my overheated body locks into place, the very thought making my breath hitch and gooseflesh dance over my skin. As if so compelled, my gaze settles on his lush mouth. Sands on fire, no man should have lips like his—perfectly formed and full. Soft and inviting and stupidly kissable. Unlike my dream lover, whom I couldn’t touch, Roshan is warm and real beneath my fingers.

I sway closer.

“Do I have something on my chin?” he asks.

Frowning, I look up at him only to see that he’s staring quizzically at me—and has noticed my fascination with his mouth. I release him in a hurry, my cheeks alight. “Oh, yes, you have a . . . um, a smudge of something below your lip.”

Roshan swipes at his face with his forearm and reaches for a towel from a nearby bench. He scrubs his face and tosses it around his neck. “Sorry. I told you I was filthy.”

No filthier than thoughts I have no business having.

“It’s fine,”

I say, and smile brightly to cover my discomfort.

If only Laleh were here. She’d have had him, or any person, eating out of her palm and begging for more without breaking a sweat. Me? I’m breaking out in hives all over and can’t think past the fog of awkward panic in my brain. Then again, this isn’t about me and my ineptitude with another sex. It’s about Roshan and getting him out of his own head.

Focus, Suraya! Think of something, anything!

“Does Javed have more of those creatures?”

I blurt out. “The azdaha?”

He stares at me with a blank expression for a moment, then reaches for his water and takes a long sip. “No,”

he replies. “It was hard enough for him to get the one. It killed hundreds of soldiers, including the runemasters who brought it through a portal to Kaldari.”

“I thought you said it was a gift.”

His jaw hardens. “More like a stolen souvenir.”

Curious about the magic I’d felt from the creature, I press him further. “It came through a portal? From where?”

“Beyond our kingdom in the lands to the north,”

he says, running the towel over his damp hair. “There are many more creatures out there. Griffins, manticores, basilisks, and chimeras, and they’re strong. The men manning the borders caught that azdaha because it was wounded and crashed into the cursed forest at the heart of the Barrin Mountains. The dearth of akasha here confused it.”

The Barrin Mountains are impassable, as far as I know, and the cursed forest is indeed cursed. Stories abound of people who’ve entered it and never returned. “So there’s magic there then?”

I ask, the skin on my neck prickling. “There must be, if there’re other creatures like the azdaha, I mean.”

“Seems like it. Can you imagine a world where everyone has magic? Where akasha flows so plentifully across magical leylines that it’s as present as the air we breathe?”

“No.”

I shake my head. Fingers of ice skate over my skin. “I sensed its power that day in the arena. The azdaha.”

“Even at its weakest, it’s powerful,”

he murmurs in agreement. “I suspect that’s part of Javed’s future plan. Harnessing your Starkeeper energy to enslave more of those creatures. Invade the northern lands and even the ones across the seas. He’d rule all of Endara if he could. With you under his yoke, such a thing might very well be possible.”

The idea of magic being used in such a ruthless fashion makes me feel sick. The pain I’d felt from the azdaha had been excruciating. I can’t let that happen to me or to them. Despite my vow to understand my magic, I haven’t been able to test my star power since we arrived.

Unleashing it in the Indraloka is too risky.

But if I plan to make a stand, I’m going to need to learn.