Chapter Fifteen

My clothing is splattered in ash and soot, but it’s the most grounded I’ve felt in days. Working in the forge is calming. Centering. Safe. Other than Amma’s kitchen, there is no place in the world I’d rather be than surrounded by tools and fire and covered in sweat.

And at least you’re not immolating anyone . . .

I shove that thought away as fast as it comes. Roshan had convinced everyone that a spontaneous lantern fire had caught us unawares. Aran’s easy, forthcoming forgiveness didn’t do much, however, to lessen my awful burden of guilt.

News had also come from the capital. Javed and Morvarid had been quick and ruthless in their removal of anyone who posed a threat to Javed’s succession, including any distant relatives from the House of Regulus who could have a hereditary claim. Even war leaders from Antares with minor armies of their own had been quietly deposed. According to gossip, the Aldebaran alderman who disputed the queen’s position as regent was sent to the arena and devoured by Javed’s pet azdaha, under false claims of treason.

There is danger on all sides of the realm. Roshan is facing danger on all sides of the realm.

The last thing I want to be is another fear for him.

Gritting my teeth, I reach for the blade I’m working on. There’s nothing like beating a piece of hot metal, shaping it into something malleable and useful, to bring a sense of order to things. Not that I’m having much success at the moment. I’ve already broken two pieces with my arrhythmic, heavy-handed hammering.

“Hey,”

Roshan says, making me jump in surprise as he leans gracefully against a nearby table. He’d been off prepping with Aran, who was heading to the Indraloka to get some jādū crystals, and I’d welcomed the time alone to pound out some of my frustration.

I pause in my work, trying to ignore the fractured beat of my pulse at the sight of him. “Hey.”

He studies me, his body propped in a casual stance. After a handful of days, his forearms have mostly healed, but that doesn’t stop the remorse from rearing its head every time I see the new, shiny flesh. Aran had also recovered with minimal damage, thanks to his protection runes. I suspect he’s had a hand in accelerating Roshan’s healing, too.

Lust, gratitude, and shame make for a charming cocktail of emotions.

“Do you need something?”

I ask, throat tight.

“No. Just checking to see how you are.”

Silky, dark curls fall over his brow, and his bottomless gold-flecked brown eyes are fixed on me. He bites his lip and my gaze flicks to his mouth. Warmth licks through my entire body . . . not the star kind, the I want to jump your bones kind.

By the maker, what is wrong with me?

My eyes drop to his reddened chin. “I hate that I burned your face,”

I say, swallowing against another wave of shame.

“Scars make us who we are,”

he replies. “And I’m way too pretty for this little blemish to make any difference.”

“Must you joke about everything?”

“Life is easier with a sense of humor, don’t you think?”

His familiar lopsided smile and easy manner make my heart squeeze. Sands, I’ve missed them both. Fighting the urge to throw myself at him like a desperate fool, I reach for a nearby cloth and drag it across my face.

“Need some help?”

he asks, eyeing the metal that I’ve just stuck back into the forge and the plethora of tools spread out around me.

After a beat of hesitation, I nod. I’ve been trying to hammer this sword for the better part of an hour and failing. While blacksmithing takes brute strength, it also takes finesse, and I’m sorely lacking in the latter at the moment.

Licking dry lips, I clear my throat. “Something’s wrong with the kiln. Or the metal. All I’m managing to do is leave hammer prints instead of flattening it, and I end up breaking it. The heat isn’t distributed like my forge in Coban.”

He cocks his head in thought. “That could be. Different cities have different types of design and fuel. Maybe it’s not hot enough. Or this metal might have a higher vanadium content, which makes it tough and fine-grained.”

Roshan squints at the fire. “You have to look at the color.”

I lift an irritated brow. “I know. It’s red.”

“Can I . . . ?”

Roshan stoops down, crouching in front of the forge, wedging himself between the wall and me. I try not to notice how crammed we are in the narrow space, but it’s nearly impossible not to be aware of his long, lean body hunched down next to mine. He grabs one of my tongs and reaches into the kiln, poking at the glowing blade. “With this particular kiln, I think we should wait until the blade gets to dark orange.”

“Be careful,”

I tell him, my eyes narrowing as a few embers pop. “It’s been sparking like that all morning. I wouldn’t want you to get burned.”

At that, I cringe in mortification. Ashes below, how fucking oblivious am I?

“Me, either.”

Though he says it with a smile in his voice. “Have you cleaned out the ash trap? That can increase the sparks.”

“Yes. Twice.”

I suck in a breath as he shifts the metal, but Roshan does everything with an innate confidence and ease. I wonder if the man even knows how to fail. That gnawing sense of despair burrows through me again . . . probably the whole reason I keep breaking the sandsdamned steel. I bet if he had this magic, he’d have learned how to control it, wield it, and master it by now.

Roshan’s attention is currently occupied with the blade in the furnace, but we’ve danced around the star-cursed monster I am for days. A Starkeeper with a simurgh as its immortal, magical form. A firebird of death and rebirth. Destruction and hope tangled in one. The significance of the creature doesn’t escape my notice—my mother had called me that ever since I was a little girl. How I wish she were here now.

“See? That’s now a nice burnt orange color,”

Roshan announces, drawing my attention back to him. “Guess we’ll know once we start hammering. May I?”

He grins at me, and warmth unspools in my belly. Deep down, I know I’m being selfish by not pushing him away more firmly, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I watch as he carefully removes the glowing shaft and places it onto the anvil. The muscles in his back and arms flex as he hammers the hot steel with an even, consistent stroke.

“Roshan,”

I ask softly, “did your stories ever mention what happened after the star warrior purged the evil from the world during the war of the gods?”

He falters midstrike as if surprised at the question. “The world was reborn anew.”

“But did everyone . . . die . . . for that to happen?”

“I don’t know.”

He glances at me, his brow furrowing, and resumes his hammering one inch at a time along the length of the steel, flipping it over every few strokes. “It’s probably metaphorical, phoenix rising from the ashes and all that. Why? What’s wrong?”

I’m startled by his mention of the phoenix and the crone’s mention of the simurgh, both similar legendary, mystical creatures. I take a beat and ask the question that’s been bothering me the most. “What do you know of Fero?”

His gaze is troubled when it lifts to mine. “He was Saru’s twin brother—the god of destruction and darkness. He was the one the Starkeeper banished with his magic.”

The knots in my stomach turn into full-on serpentine coils.

“Why do you ask?”

Roshan asks.

“No reason.”

He will be reborn from the void and wreak his vengeance.

Roshan looks unconvinced but lets it go. Finishing the round of hammering, he holds the thinned metal up. “This looks good, I think.”

I give it a critical once-over but see no obvious faults. His smirk is triumphant.

“Behold, the lord of steel,”

he says, winking at me.

“The ego on you,”

I say with a small smile. “But yes, well done.”

“You did most of the work.”

He grins at me again, making my stupid heart patter. “We make a good team.”

His hand shoots out to grab mine, and I nearly pull it away before giving in to the urge to touch him. My fingers get notched between his, and a delicious warmth spikes up my arm. I can’t control the blush that races over my skin. My breath hitches as Roshan leans toward me, his knuckles wedged tightly with mine as if he doesn’t want to let go, either.

Everything fades away except for the six inches of space between us. He’s so close that I can count the gold speckles in his eyes, see the frantic beat of his pulse at his throat, inhale his smelted iron, spice, and bergamot scent. Six inches become four and then two, and it’s all I can do to continue breathing.

Is he going to kiss me?

At the very last moment before our mouths meet, he shifts and grazes my cheek with his lips, leaving heat and embers in their wake. For a second, I see regret in his eyes, but maybe I’m imagining it. I blink and flush, then jerk back and busy myself gathering up my tongs and hammer while fighting the sting of rejection coupled with the urge to burst into tears. I’m over this almost kissing, this hopeless push and pull between us that is destined to go absolutely nowhere. Looks like the astrological vertex got this one abysmally wrong.

“Come with me, I want to show you something,”

he says quietly.

My throat tightens. “I have work to do.”

“Have you gone outdoors today at all?”

he asks, and I wrinkle my brow, not even sure what time of day it is. “I take that as a no. Come on. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

I hesitate. A part of me wants to go with him, and another is still licking its wounds at his slight. But being with him is like an addiction that I’m still trying to kick. Having some of him is better than none at all. I’m aware of how desperate and pathetic that makes me . . . but I find that I don’t care.

What’s one more bad decision between friends?

After cleaning and packing up my tools and making sure I’ve doused the kiln, I follow Roshan outside and across the square. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He easily navigates through the crowds, and once more, I am stunned by the wide variety of people making up the inhabitants in this underground city. I can’t help smiling at the children playing in the square who wave as we walk past. Roshan whisks a bag out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Give these to them.”

“What is it?”

“Boiled sweets.”

The happiness on their young faces makes my heart ache as the children reach out to catch the candy and laugh with delight, finding joy in something so simple. I can’t help also feeling sad, because something this inconsequential shouldn’t be such a momentous thing—treats and moments like these should be plentiful. And yet these people live underground to try to find some measure of security, and their children don’t get to see the sun. While I don’t know if I fully trust the motives of the Dahaka, I do feel for these refugees.

Life in Coban isn’t easy . . . but at least it’s free.

I let out a loud laugh when they pilfer the rest of the bag with wicked giggles, and after a moment, I realize that Roshan’s eyes are on me.

“What?” I ask.

“Your whole face lights up when you laugh.”

I don’t know what to do with that, so I stay quiet and reinforce the armor on my much-too-impressionable heart.

We ascend to the surface, and I wonder at the fact that no one stops us. Then I realize that Roshan likely arranged all this in advance. At the top, there’s no wailing sandstorm like the last time when we arrived, only a pinkish sort of haze over the barren, dusty red earth. This time I notice the neat border of jādū shards that power the illusion.

We climb into the waiting wagon hitched to a pair of horses. If there’s a road, I don’t see it. I frown and look over my shoulder. “Are we allowed to leave? Or are we going to be arrested for stealing this?”

Roshan winks at me. “You call it stealing, I call it borrowing.”

“Ro!”

He grins and pumps his fist. “You called me Ro. I can’t believe you remembered that from so long ago. By the ashes, have you been obsessing about me all this time, my lady?”

I scowl at my slip. “I’ll be sure to tell them your nickname for your eulogy when we get shot on sight. Turn around and let’s go back before we’re caught.”

“Live a little,”

he says. “Enjoy the view while it isn’t hidden by a storm.”

What view?

But my mouth falls open as we crest a hill and I take in the changing landscape around us. A shadowed path of sagewood shrubs and prickly cactus cuts through the red terrain, winding into the distance. The horses don’t seem afraid, so I’m guessing they’ve walked this way before. That eases my tension a bit.

Colossal rock formations rise around us, undulating cliffs and gorges so massive and intricate they take my breath away. Enormous slabs of brown, orange, and tan curve around us into a deep canyon, the swirling multihued ribbons mesmerizing. Hints of greens, pinks, and violets shimmer through the bedrock, changing even as the light hits it.

“This is incredible,” I murmur.

Roshan nods. “These canyons are millions of years old, scoured into place by an infinite number of storms.”

Warm wind lifts my hair and gusts over my face, cooling slightly with the increased speed of the coach. Oddly, I don’t feel claustrophobic as the canyon narrows around us. I feel free and glad to be out of the city walls. We ride past a rock swirl that arches overhead, dipping down to eventually create a wide cavern that tunnels down into the rock. The air cools even more, and somehow, it smells like rain.

“What is that?”

I whisper. There’s something shimmering in the distance. “Stars above, is that water?”

“It’s a submerged aqueduct,”

he replies. “Water is scarce here in Nyriell, but it’s not completely gone, just hidden in pockets like these. Natural hot springs.”

He draws the horses to a stop and lights a lamp. Rock deposits in the walls reflect the light in a multitude of different colors even more so than the canyon walls above. Malachite-hued stalactites and stalagmites curve around us, covered in glowing lichens that make the cavern seem magical, like thousands of stars caught in the grip of an underground sky. I gasp, my eyes falling to the inky shimmering reservoir of water before me, catching the light and refracting it back. I’ve never seen anything like it.

There’s a rustling sound behind me.

I turn and go utterly speechless at the sight of Roshan shedding his clothing. Hills and valleys of rich brown skin and the sculpted, sleek muscles of his back ripple when he pulls his shirt over his head. My throat dries as he turns, the warm expanse of his broad chest and sculpted abdomen caught in the flickering lamplight. Sands on fire, the man is mesmerizing.

Boots and trousers go next before I realize I’m holding my breath. As I suck in a shuddery lungful of air, my eyes drop to the snug pair of linen underwear slung low on narrow hips . . . that do absolutely nothing to hide the bulge of his masculinity between thick, hair-covered thighs. Gods. Yes, I realize I’m calling on ancient gods outlawed by a bigoted monarchy, but it seems fitting: this man could be a deity in the flesh. I feel my cheeks scald and warmth pool in my belly.

“What are you doing?” I mumble.

“Swimming, what else?”

With a shout, Roshan runs to the edge and dives in. I stand, unable to do anything but stare as he kicks his way to the surface. “Are you going to come in? It’s warm!”

Water droplets shimmer in his hair and drip in tantalizing lines down his skin, and holy mother of immaculate perfection. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to be in that pool.

I don’t look at him as I strip down to my own linen undergarments and quickly dive in. The water is warm, deliciously so, kissing and caressing my dry, moisture-starved skin. Laughing aloud, I kick out into the center and turn to float on my back, watching the lights around us flicker. It’s much darker down here, but it almost seems clearer as my pupils adjust.

“I wouldn’t have thought there were many water holes in the desert.”

Droplets trickle over my lips, and my tongue darts out to taste them. “It’s salty!”

“High mineral content. Not potable, but it won’t hurt you in small amounts. Who taught you to swim?”

Roshan’s voice echoes somewhere to the right of me. The dappled darkness gleams with pockets of light from the lichen, the sparse lamplight, and the reflection off the surface. His face comes into view and then disappears as he treads water. The effect is both mesmerizing and eerie.

“My mother,”

I say. “She used to take me to the fancy public baths as a treat on my birthday. Said all young girls needed to know how to swim, even desert-bound ones.”

“My mother taught me, too.”

I turn to face him, absently rubbing my hand over my chest against the ache of nostalgia. “What was she like?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time, and I wonder if it’s too personal a subject. But then he clears his throat, the sound echoing over the water. “She was kind, warm. She laughed a lot. She’s the reason I love books so much.”

“Mine, too,”

I admit, delighted that both our mothers had been bookworms. “My mama and I would read stories and then invent our own endings. We used to pretend to be princesses in the palace all the time.”

“Whenever I felt sad or upset or angry, which was often, especially when it came to Javed, mine would bring me a new book from the library. It became our love language—the stories had a way of helping us through tougher times. She always knew the best books to pick, too.”

I smile, touched by the poignancy in his words. “That’s beautiful.”

“Books can be the best kinds of bridges.”

He shrugs, the water lapping against his shoulders, a melancholy timber to his voice. “The library in the palace has nearly three stories of books. Maybe I can show it to you one day . . .”

Roshan trails off as if remembering who and where we are: fugitives with little chance of returning to Kaldari not clad in irons, much less embarking on a tour of the royal library. Regret fills me for everything he has lost—not just his parents but the only home he’s ever known.

“I’m sorry she’s gone, Ro.”

“Don’t be,”

he says. “I’m not. She’s in a better place, and I’m sure wherever she is, she’s surrounded by the things she loved—her books and her art.”

Roshan moves toward me, the water rippling over my skin the closer he gets. He ducks under the water. I don’t swim back, and I can feel his nearness before I see the dark outline of his head and shoulders emerging and bobbing a few feet away. He moves closer still, until I can mark his features in more detail in the guttering lamplight, his dark hair plastered to his skull and sparkling droplets on his long, spiky eyelashes. He looks like some kind of mystical water spirit, ready to lure me to his depths. I shiver with awareness and a breathless anticipation.

“What was your favorite thing about her?”

I ask, unable to breathe properly with him so close.

“She loved to paint. Mostly landscapes. She painted the gardens in the palace, especially when the flowers were in full bloom. I liked how happy it made her.”

I purse my lips, surprised. His mother had been welcome in the palace? I don’t know why I’d had it in my head that Roshan’s mother had been a commoner—maybe it’s because of the way Javed treats him. But I’m not sure how to ask the question. “Was she an artist?”

I say instead.

“An amateur, but quite talented. My father built a gallery just for her.”

He pauses, sadness lacing his tone. “It was abandoned after she died. Now it’s a storage room or some such.”

“Where are her paintings now? Still there?”

“Morvarid had them burned.”

A pained gasp escapes my lips. “What a horrid bitch! I’m so sorry.”

“No argument here,”

he says. “Don’t worry, I managed to salvage one or two.”

“I’m glad,”

I say feelingly, and try to lead the conversation in another direction. “Was your mother Kaldarian?”

“No, she was an ambassador from Eloni.”

Ambassador? I nearly swallow a mouthful of water and push myself upright. My feet scrape the rocky bottom as I angle my body toward Roshan in the lambent light. Most ambassadors of any of the houses hailed from noble families. And Eloni is the second-wealthiest city in the kingdom and the birthplace of Queen Morvarid herself.

The king’s marriage had been a strategic political alliance, uniting two of the most powerful noble families in Oryndhr. Though in the end, all it had served to do was widen the gap between the wealthy and the starving, adding to the growing unrest in the kingdom.

“Was your mother from the House of Regulus?”

I ask, knowing most of its institutes and colleges are located in Eloni.

“Fomalhaut,” he says.

I frown. “What was she doing in Kaldari?”

Roshan sighs, eyes like onyx in the greenish light. “She was visiting her sister.”

He pauses and heaves a deeper breath, as if the words are too painful to get out. I understand why when he finally speaks. “Morvarid.”

“The queen’s your aunt?”

I thought he’d run out of ways to shock me, but I was wrong. He’s the queen’s bloody nephew. “No wonder Javed hates you.”

“Javed hates me for a host of reasons, but yes, that’s up there with the best of them. The ties of noble blood strengthen my claim to the crown, you see. If my mother had been a faceless commoner, I would be less of a threat. Instead, I’m a noble bastard with powerful bloodlines exactly the same as Javed’s. Now you know why my parentage is such a secret. One that Javed and the queen will do anything to keep hidden.”

“Tell me more about her, your mother,”

I ask, wanting to ease the sudden ugly tension that has turned his body to stone beside me. “Was she very charming?”

“She was. Her smile could brighten a room.”

Roshan’s tone grows softer with fondness. “As much as my aunt is as cold as ice, my mother was like the sun, drawing everyone to her. Including my father. He’d been in love with her as a boy long before that marriage was arranged.”

He sighs again, softly. “After my birth, she lived in the palace for many years. Servants were sworn to silence. She and Morvarid never spoke. Their relationship had been strained before she came to Kaldari, and my father’s affection severed it for good.”

His voice breaks. “My father’s marriage to the queen was purely political, and he couldn’t help what he felt for my mother. He told me so himself. And after she died, he vowed to keep me close.”

“Why didn’t he marry your mother instead of Morvarid?” I ask.

“Morvarid was the firstborn. It was her right and duty.”

Even as he says it, I know I’ll never understand this level of political machination. The diplomatic ties would have been the same, wouldn’t they, regardless of which sister he married? And three people would have been happy. Instead, all that arranged marriage had done was tear apart two lovers and estrange two sisters. And more than that—lead to this painful legacy.

“How did she die?”

I ask quietly.

“She went for a walk and just . . . never came back. I was fourteen.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “They found her body broken in the courtyard beneath the highest tower in the castle. She’d fallen hundreds of feet to her death.”

His grief is like a tangible force in the open air, and I reach out blindly for him in the water, gripping his palm in mine. “There were rumors of her death being by her own hand. Others said she tripped over a loose stone and fell. But I knew my mother. She was terrified of heights. She would never have gone up there alone. Never. But no one—not even my father—could prove foul play.”

I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat at the vehemence in his tone. “You think she was lured there?”

He shrugs, his shoulder shifting against mine. “I have my suspicions. In any case, the two who would benefit the most from her death were not in attendance—the queen was not in the palace that day, and Javed was part of a diplomatic visit to the House of Antares in Veniar, part and parcel of learning his duties as prince.”

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t behind it.”

“We’ll never know, will we?”

I can feel his breath feathering over my temple. “I’ve watched my back ever since. The only reason I’m alive is because of my father. Murdering a visiting noble, even if she was the queen’s sister, is different from an explicit attack on the king’s son, bastard born or not. But now that my father is dead, that will change.”

“How so?”

Another rasp of breath on my skin. “While my father considered me a member of the Imperial House, there are lords in the lower houses who don’t believe I have any right to succession because of my illegitimacy.”

“I know you can’t believe that birth is a true measure of leadership. Courage is, and heart.”

My hands move to his strong forearms and grip them tightly. “You’re the bravest man I know. Your circumstances of birth don’t define you. You’re still a prince. One who keenly understands privilege and responsibility, and your people need that.”

He’s silent, but I can feel him watching me, his gaze like a caress, though he makes no move to close the distance between us.

Mere inches separate us . . . inches of space and an entire kingdom.

But here and now, he’s not a prince, and I’m not a peasant. There’s no one here—only the two of us. There’s no judgment. No barriers.

Nothing to keep us apart.

My pulse thunders in my ears, my body feeling full and quivery with elation and mounting desire. It feels as though my skin is going to come apart at the seams. Overwhelmed at the intensity of my emotions, I turn and dive underwater. When I resurface, I’m several dozen feet away, and I can no longer touch the ground. I laugh out loud and dive again, holding my breath until my chest aches. Something yanks at my leg and I flail away, sputtering. It’s only Roshan, his face lit by a wicked smile.

“You’re going to pay for that!”

I squeal, and heave myself at him.

He dodges. “You have to catch me first.”

Our enthusiastic, very splashy game of chase lasts until we’re boneless and exhausted. We find a spot on a half-submerged ledge and lie back, staring up at the luminescent lichen scattered across the top of the cavern. Roshan’s arm rests next to mine, and after a moment, he winds our hands together. Shivers detonate inside of me, and my breath hitches when he props himself up on his elbow and turns to face me.

“You’re such grace and steel combined, Suraya, like a jādū-forged blade sheathed in silk.”

His voices turns husky. “I never expected someone like you. Never expected . . . this.”

I blush at his soft words, grateful for the muted light. I keep my stare firmly on the roof of the cave, but my pulse races as his fingertip winds a tortuous trail up my palm. He traces each finger and each line—heart, head, life, fate—over the soft rises of flesh and the hollow at the center. It’s a delicious, devious kind of punishment, keeping myself motionless, when all I want to do is throw my needy, quivering body into his arms and demand to be held. To be kissed senseless. To be teased and touched in every sinfully wicked way.

But I stay unmoving, riveted by that acute searing point of contact.

My stomach curls into knots of desire as his finger grazes over my wrist to the crook of my elbow. A tremor runs through me. Heat pools at my core, my sensitive skin unnervingly on edge as his touch dances upward. His intake of breath is sharp when his finger brushes the inner curve of my bare arm, so tantalizingly close to my breast.

Sands, I want him to touch me there so badly.

He can’t not notice the state of my taut nipples, ones I make no move to cover under my thin, sheer smallclothes. I wonder if I glance down whether he will be in a similar condition—his body flush with arousal. His undergarments are as transparent as mine, and that bulge had been more than obvious even in a flaccid state. Will he be swollen and jutting out against the fabric? Straining toward me as my own body yearns for his?

The thought makes me swallow a soft whimper.

More heat gathers between my legs, the need for friction overwhelming.

Unable to keep still, I shift my knee up, and suddenly, my thigh is in contact with a hot, burningly thick erection; he’s so hard and long that I can feel the full imprint of him against my hip. My pelvis rolls in unconscious desire, and Roshan’s fingers close over my upper arm, a soft groan leaving his lips. The hungry sound makes my thoughts scatter in the wake of such a ferocious desire that my core starts to throb.

It aches to be touched, to be filled . . . by him.

I’ve never been with anyone that way. But I’ve explored my own body plenty and I know what it likes. If I were alone—in my private quarters—I would snake a hand down to my inner thighs to seek the release that has started to build. But this is all new territory for me—sharing such intimacy with a man. Should I touch him back? I hesitate because my advances have been rejected before and I’d die if he stopped now.

Clenching my legs, I squirm slightly as Roshan’s hand drifts up to cup my cheek. He stares at me, though I can’t read any expression in his sparkling eyes. His thumb grazes my cheekbone in a slow, tender caress that has me drawing toward him, leaning into his touch. Stars above, what is he thinking? Feeling? Does he want this as much as I do?

Maybe he’s waiting for permission. I am such an idiot. Of course he’s waiting for my consent. That’s just who he is.

“Roshan—”

“We should probably go,”

he says at the same time, his palm falling away.

The intense moment fractures.

Disappointment crashes through me, and I barely hold back a frustrated scream. It’s obvious there’s something between us. Something that has been brewing since we first met. He’s choosing not to act on it for reasons of his own that probably have to do with honor and propriety and princely things, but he doesn’t get to make all my decisions for me. For us.

When it comes to our safety, maybe. But when it comes to my consent, to this choice, no.

We’re fugitives on the run from the Oryndhrian king.

We’re hiding out with a rebel army.

We could die at any moment.

Roshan moves to sit up, but I straddle his waist in a quick motion and push him back down to the warm stone. He gasps, eyes rounding as he stares up at me, big hands fluttering to my hips. I’m on display for him. I know I am without looking down, the white translucent undershirt clinging to the curves of my body. I see it in the way his jaw goes slack and his breathing heightens. “Suraya, what are you doing?”

“Letting you know what I want. Then you can decide if you still want to go.”

“And what do you want?”

His voice is strained.

I swallow and rock my hips back against his very obvious arousal beneath me. “You.”

For an infinitesimal moment, a hint of savagery barrels through me, the taste of it like a bitter poison in my throat, and I falter at the venomous bite of it. Mine, mine, mine echoes in tune with my pounding heart, along with a violent burst of rage that disappears as quickly as it’d come. For a split second, I falter at the strangeness of it.

Is it my magic? But then everything in my head goes brutally—and blissfully—silent, as if some link is snapped. All my tumultuous feelings rush back in. I stare down at my captive prince, whose limpid gaze holds mine. Here. Now.

I exhale; I want this. I want him.

Before I can lose my courage, I lean over and seal my mouth to his.