Chapter Seven

After the gladiatrix massacre, we were granted a day of blessed reprieve to recover. I don’t know if that’s because of the crown prince’s skewed notion of generosity or because something even more sinister is to come. Either way, I’m on tenterhooks, expecting the royal guards to arrive and demand the surrender of my dagger. But no one comes except Clem’s handmaiden, with the message that she’d started her monthly courses and was bedridden with cramps. I don’t envy her, but at least she can get some rest.

I have only one goal in my head: survive whatever is next.

Which is a celebration ball, or so my handmaidens say, and right in line with my expectations of this shit show. Both my handmaidens have become much friendlier after the combat trial, likely because I’d survived and consequently, they still have a job. I had not been a favorite to win, per the wagers that had been flying around the palace. The favorite had been Helena, the Regulus woman who had cornered me and tried to stab me on the sands. She’s said to be the main contender for the prince’s hand. She can have him, for all I care.

Some of the women had survived their wounds in the colosseum and had been sent home. Others had not. Parvi had made it, thankfully, though it probably would have served her better to go home to safety. I almost wish I had been injured, come to think of it. I just want to get out of here with Clem and return to Coban in one piece.

I’d spent a large part of the previous night on my balcony, searching for routes of escape, but guards were stationed everywhere, seemingly on every single corner. And even if I could find a way to leave the palace, I have no portal to get back home. And I would not survive a two-week trek through an unforgiving desert without adequate protection and supplies.

A quiet knock on the balcony door interrupts my thoughts. Curious, I unlock it, only realizing my stupidity when it’s already half open. It could be anyone out there. And I don’t even have my dagger; it’s currently tucked away under the mattress on my bed.

But it isn’t just anyone. Prince Roshan stares back at me, dark hair tumbling over his brow, with that crooked smirk that only seems to appear when we’re alone firmly in place. My stupid pulse trips over itself as those brown eyes spark with heat at the sight of my tiny sleeping shorts and bare legs visible beneath my open robe. A dark flush crests his cheekbones when I pull the sides together.

“Is this a bad time?”

he asks, his voice slightly husky.

“No. How did you get up here?”

I ask, glancing toward the ground. The balcony has to be at least fifty feet up.

“I have my ways. May we speak?”

I nod uncertainly, still flummoxed at the sight of the prince on my bedchamber’s balcony. Perhaps he’s good at climbing, or maybe he has his own special princely portal magic. But even so, that would require a runecaster . . .

“Do you want to go inside?” I mumble.

“Let’s stay out here. Less chance of being overheard,”

he says in a low voice. “Are you well?”

“I didn’t get eaten by a sandsdamned azdaha, so there’s that,”

I hiss. “Where did it even come from?”

His expression flickers with emotion. “It’s Javed’s pet. Supposedly it was a trading gift from the northern kingdom of Everlea.”

“Pet or not, I saw a lot of innocents brutally slaughtered. Why would the crown prince do something like that?”

He stares at me and then runs a hand through his hair. A muscle clenches in his cheek, but eventually he answers. “As far as I know, it’s part of a test.”

“For what?”

Indecision crosses his face. He has no reason to trust me, but he has come here for a reason, so I wait in silence. “My brother is searching for something. A power that manifests when in mortal danger. Sooner or later, he’ll find who he’s looking for.”

“So he’s trying to kill us to incite a . . . a reaction?”

I stuff my clammy palms into the pockets of my robe. “What kind of power?”

“An extinct one.”

He sighs. “From a prophecy about magic.”

Wild laughter bubbles up my throat, and his warm hand covers my mouth. The scent of him—smelted iron, bergamot, and spice—invades my senses before his palm drops away when I freeze and remember where we are. On a balcony where any of the guards can see. I inhale a breath and keep my voice low. “That’s what this is about? A random prophecy?”

“Where did you get the jādū for your dagger?”

the prince asks.

“I bought it from a trader,”

I say with defiance.

“And the runes carved onto its surface?”

Sands, so he had noticed those. “They’re nothing. Etchings that I made up.”

“You engraved them?”

I hesitate but nod. “They’re not runes of power,”

I explain quickly.

His face goes so blank that I suspect he’s hiding something. Had he seen the runes glow from where he’d been in the arena? In hindsight, I’m not even sure what I’d seen. The shimmer off my blade could have just been a trick of the sunlight and the sand and my panic, nothing more.

“We need to get you out of here,”

he murmurs, and I stare at him in confusion. Why would he want to help me? I’m no one to him.

Our eyes lock for a moment, but before I can respond, I hear the sound of my handmaidens entering the chamber. Hastily, I turn toward the door to let them know I’ll be inside in a moment—the last thing I need is them barging out here and fueling the gossip mill. I have enough attention on me as it is.

But when I turn back, the prince is gone.

Though his worrying words linger.

Could I skip the ball scheduled for that evening? Clem’s ill, and I could claim the same. It’s a tempting thought. But, with only twenty women left, my absence would be noted, and I’d rather not find out what would happen if anyone discovered I was lying. And I shouldn’t depend on Prince Roshan, either. I have to depend on myself. Which means buying myself time to figure out an escape plan that doesn’t get me killed.

If this ball is a culling challenge as well, I won’t buy time through being a wallflower. People are dying. And this so-called prophesized power that the prince is searching for is no longer gilded in civility.

If I am to survive, I need to be noticed. Curse. My. Luck.

With a determined breath, I stride to the massive armoire and pull Laleh’s special teal outfit from its sheath, my fingers gliding over the silky fabric. Both handmaidens practically vibrate with delight, though my heart is in my throat when they finish fastening the silk to my body. I look . . . not like me.

Off my body, the two-piece ensemble had been provocative enough. On my body, the garments cling to my ample curves like a slinky second skin. The beaded bodice hugs my chest, the embroidered neckline swooping down into wide belled sleeves that taper back to my wrists. The top itself leaves a swathe of skin at my hips exposed, grazing the jeweled waistband of pants that fall in sheer folds to the floor, where the voluminous material gathers into cuffs at my ankles. A delicate headpiece attached to a sheer silver-and-teal veil crowns my hair. Filigree bangles at my wrists and dainty slippers are the finishing touches.

Laleh would flaunt the hell out of this. On me it feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar, with far too much skin on display, but I am assured by my enthusiastic handmaidens that I am a vision and sure to catch Prince Javed’s attention. I swallow my discomfort. That’s the plan, even if I don’t like it. I glance longingly to where I’ve hidden my dagger beneath my mattress for safekeeping, but there’s no way I can conceal it underneath this filmy fabric.

My handmaidens escort me through the palace toward the western turret, passing through a gallery that has my neck craning. A pair of double doors are open to reveal a towering column of bookshelves, and I jerk to a stop. Is that the library? I move longingly toward it, wanting a better look, but one of my handmaidens coughs loudly, looking pointedly at me. With a sigh, I make a mental note of the location and quicken my steps.

We enter an enormous foyer with gilded marble pillars and two curving staircases flanking each side of the room. Carved likenesses of the royal family are on prominent display, though I notice one member is glaringly absent. Prince Roshan doesn’t appear to have his own bust. I shouldn’t feel a pulse of pity for him, but I do. I may be poor and the furthest thing from a princess, but I’ve always known the love and affection of family.

Lines of gorgeously garbed women ascend the stairs, and I dutifully follow until we reach the top, where the handmaidens bow and then take their leave. I squash down the small pulse of panic that I’m making an enormous mistake by drawing attention to myself and hold my head high. It’s one evening . . . all I have to do is make it through. The plan is to be noticed enough, but not too much. The idea of spending any actual time with the crown prince is nauseating.

Would he try to grope me in a dark corner?

I shake off my nerves as I reach the ballroom entrance.

“Lady Suraya?”

I glance up at a handsome young man standing before me. “I am Lord Reza Turan of House Aldebaran, and I will escort you inside, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I say.

After I am announced by the majordomo, Reza takes my arm to enter the massive chamber, and I try not to gape at the grandeur. Floor-to-ceiling gold-trimmed windows and massive oil paintings adorn the walls, with artfully crafted flowers and golden vines climbing the marble columns at each corner. Eight glittering chandeliers hang at precise intervals, reflecting off the intricately mirrored ceiling and wainscoting, and sending sparkling prisms of light over all the dancers. In rich, silk-draped alcoves, plush carpets and tufted furniture offer places to sit, and towering hand-carved statues border the perimeter.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and a part of me sighs in wonder. Laleh would absolutely love the splendor of it all.

A refreshments room opens off the main chamber, and the polished dancing floor takes up the middle. An orchestra seated at the far end of the room plays a lilting melody. Reluctantly impressed, my gaze wanders over the space and to all the beautifully dressed courtiers milling about. They must be nobles and representatives from the various houses. Most of the chosen, like myself, have handsome escorts—young aristocrats like Reza who appear to be part of the court.

“Shall we take a turn about the ballroom, Lady Suraya?”

he asks me politely.

This would be the perfect way to be seen. Despite the knot of tension in my throat, I smile and nod. “That would be lovely.”

Like the perfect gentleman, Reza leads me on the outskirts of the ballroom floor, and I hold my head high as we amble through the crowd. All of this would almost be enchanting, if not for the undercurrent of tension and fear permeating the air.

While we weave through the sumptuously dressed people, I notice that attention is coming my way . . . deeply envious looks from some of the other remaining contestants; hot, lustful glances from their male counterparts; and an especially admiring one from Prince Javed himself, who is sitting on a raised dais. Clearly, my handmaidens—and Laleh—know the prince’s taste.

When our promenade is finally over, I breathe a sigh of relief. That was much harder than expected.

I thank Reza, who seems more than happy to be done with his duty, and settle myself into a quiet corner for a moment. I keep a careful eye on the crown prince’s movements. Despite the occasional heated look in my direction, he seems occupied conversing with other nobles and occasionally dancing with a few of the chosen. I sample some of the sweets being served on silver trays—custards, pies, chocolate-covered almonds, dates, cakes, truffles—each one more delectable than the last.

Well, at least if I die, it will be with a full, sated stomach.

Just make it through to the next round, Sura.

Whenever I notice Prince Javed beginning to veer toward me, I move backward into the shadows and skirt the periphery of the room to find another secluded spot, keeping us always at opposites. The point is to earn enough of his attention that I survive this round, but not so much of it that I have to interact with him. So far, my evasive measures seem to be working. Finishing the last morsel of my coconut cake, I discreetly lick the crumbs off my fingers and summon a nearby footman with an array of drinks.

“Try this,”

a low, familiar voice says from behind me, waving the footman away.

“I’m starting to think you’re stalking me, Prince Roshan,”

I say softly. “First the maze, then my balcony, and now dark corners of a ballroom.”

“Can you blame me?”

he says, and I turn to face him.

Startled by the genuine warmth on the prince’s face, I stare at the glass he has offered me. “What is it?”

“Elderflower liqueur.”

I’m not much of a drinker—having seen too many patrons at the tavern under the influence, I prefer to be in control of my wits—but I take the glass. Maybe it will help take the edge off the dread riding my nerves.

Swirling the drink, I take a cautious sip, surprised at the pleasant, smooth taste. I watch him over the rim of the delicate flute, noticing that he is impeccably dressed for the evening as well. Like the crown prince, he’s garbed in a charcoal tunic and trousers, the dark fabric threaded through with silver. The wide decorative sash at his waist displays the Imperial House seal of the golden sun, crown, and wings. He looks incredibly handsome.

Desire tightens my chest, and I take another sip that turns into an indelicate gulp. A warm, buttery feeling spreads through me on the heels of the honeyed liqueur. “It’s not bad.”

It’s bloody delectable, and I need more of it.

“You seem to be in determined spirits, despite this cat-and-mouse dance you’re doing with Javed.”

I’m not surprise he has noticed. I pull a face. “This mouse wants to stay alive.”

“Keep those opinions to yourself, especially in here where the walls have ears.”

His voice lowers, a hint of scorn in it. “This is Javed’s party, after all, and you are one of his chosen.”

“The invitation should have come with a warning—death highly probable,”

I whisper recklessly, and take another deep draft. “What’s your professional royal opinion of my chances tonight? Will I make the cut?”

I immediately regret asking, as an impish look breaks across his face, making his dimple appear and one corner of his lips crook upward. My pulse stutters. Sands, what in the pits of Droon is in this drink? It’s turning my insides into jelly.

“Fishing for compliments, Lady Suraya?” he says.

“Forget it,” I mutter.

“Your light casts every other woman into the shade.”

“My light . . .”

I swallow my snicker. “You princes and your flattery.”

“I’m a bastard, not a prince,” he says.

Hearing him call himself such is jarring. “I’m sorry,”

I say sincerely, though I suspect it’s the liquor making me feel sorrier for him than usual.

“Don’t be,”

he says. “I’m not. I get to do as I please without being encumbered by all the princely fanfare my esteemed brother so loves.”

“It doesn’t seem like you like him very much.”

“No. The feeling is mutual between my brother and me. You see, he thinks my place shouldn’t be in the palace. If he treats me like nothing, I become nothing.”

“But you are the king’s son, too.”

He shrugs. “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”

“Where’s that from?”

I ask, curious.

“A very old book.”

“You like books?”

I blurt out.

He favors me with a sidelong perusal. “Does that surprise you, Lady Suraya? As far as I know, it’s not a crime to read.”

“No, it’s not, thank the heavens.”

I peer up at him, astonished to have anything in common with this prince, bastard born or not, much less a shared affinity for books. “I just didn’t expect you of all people to openly admit a passion for reading, Your Highness.”

“I’m a man of many passions,”

he says with a heated look that I desperately try to ignore and fail miserably when my body warms. “And I’m Roshan. My friends call me Ro.”

As a commoner, there’s no way I can address him by his given name or a nickname, even with his permission, so I wrinkle my nose. “You have friends?”

His eyes dance. “So vicious.”

“Why were you dressed like a servant that first day anyway? Got tired of having your hair brushed with jeweled combs and being hand-fed sweet rice pudding and nougat?”

He laughs. “Something like that. I wanted to see for myself what kind of women my brother had invited without the idolatry that comes with my station.”

“Idolatry?”

I flick an eyebrow upward. “You’re pretty full of hot air for a non-prince.”

“It’s all that tasty rice pudding,”

he says solemnly. “Goes to a man’s head.”

I’m enjoying our exchange so much that I can’t help smiling, even with the grim reality of my situation. Or maybe that’s the elderflower liqueur’s effect. A tiny voice insists that I should probably try harder to keep my wits about me, but another revels in the easy feeling of enjoying his company, my worries fading into the background. That’s the problem with alcohol: it creates a false sense of well-being.

My attention flicks to Helena, who is dancing with the crown prince. I wish he’d just pick her and get on with it. They’re perfectly suited to each other: calculating, brutal, and cold.

So unlike the surprising man beside me.

I peek up at him through my lashes, only to find his gaze intent on me, his full bottom lip snagged between his teeth. Ashes below, the things I could do to that lip. Arousal unspools through me, tightening my skin and curling down into my abdomen like liquid flame. That’s it. I’m never drinking again.

My heart thuds in my chest as he removes my nearly empty flute from my hand. His fingers are warm and strong. “Dance with me, my lady.”

The smarter side of me balks at the request while the stupid side is swooning. “Your Highness, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m not the best dancer, and I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“It’s Roshan, and you could never embarrass me.”

I beg to differ, having watched the other women dipping and gliding about the room like so many colorful birds. Without a doubt, I’m going to look even more like a graceless ostrich among them. I glance up at the prince. “This is a Kaldarian court dance. I don’t know the steps.”

“Lucky for you, I am an excellent dancer,”

he murmurs. “All you have to do is hold on to me and follow my lead.”

His grin is irrepressible. Irresistible. “I live to rescue damsels in distress, you know.”

I laugh despite myself, despite the mild panic I feel when he guides me expertly to the edge of the ballroom floor, his palm warm against mine. I may not be a damsel, but my distress is gratingly real.

His other hand settles on my back, and warmth feathers over my skin as we maneuver into position and the music starts. My heart feels like it’s going to pound its way out of my rib cage, just from the press of his fingers . . . and the sensation of them gently guiding my body into movement. “Relax, Suraya. Let me lead,”

he whispers.

Heat winds through me at his soft rasp, making my limbs go liquid as if all he has to do is speak for me to comply. Sands, this is going to be a starsdamned disaster if I can’t control myself.

Barely inches apart, I’m acutely aware of everything about him—his elegant grace, the coiled strength in his lean frame, and his crisp scent—as we twirl with the other dancers.

I try to ignore the fact that my hand is clasped securely in his and the other is resting on the curve of his hard biceps.

But the more I try not to think about the feel of the sleek bulge of muscles beneath his silk shirt, the more I have to force myself not to squeeze and sigh and run my greedy hands all over the front of him to search for more.

Would the rest of his body be as firm? As sculpted?

Who knew I was the type to swoon over any man’s muscles? Men were always tearing their shirts off in the tavern, and I’d never had the desire to look twice or to be so handsy.

I glance up to find his amused gaze on mine as he expertly moves us in tune with the beat, and I scowl. “What?”

“You feel good, too.”

“You’re full of it,”

I sputter, face burning with the force of a thousand suns. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”

A slow curl of his bottom lip does unspeakable things to me. “I can hazard a guess. You looked exactly as you did when you were eating dinner the other night, relishing each morsel and sucking the spices off your fingers with moans of delight.”

I didn’t think I could flush any further, but my entire face feels like it’s aflame at the knowledge that he’d seen me eating with such abandon. Or that I’d been ogling him the same way . . . with undisguised relish. “Well, you would be wrong, Your Highness. If you must know, I was thinking of wood-burrowing beetles and their impact on local vegetation.”

The prince barks out a loud laugh that draws the attention of the nearest couples. “I’ll have to get your expert opinion on that sometime.”

“I shall be happy to give it to you,”

I reply with a sniff.

Note to self: research beetles indigenous to the capital city.

Despite my outrageous fibs, it takes every ounce of concentration to keep my spine locked and not flop into his arms like an overcooked noodle. I could blame the liqueur, but deep down I know it’s not the drink . . . it’s him.

I manage to hold my own, until the prince’s long fingers skim the bare flesh of my torso after a neat half-turn, and the touch of skin on skin drives away any sham of composure. Spidery ribbons of delicious heat unravel through me, making my vision swim and my lungs tighten, and I have to remind myself how my legs are supposed to work in tandem with the rest of me.

“You dance well, Your Highness,”

I say in a desperate bid to distract myself.

“Will it kill you to say my name?”

“It might. Queen Morvarid won’t approve of such impertinence, and I’d like to keep my head.”

“I have a feeling you enjoy breaking the rules, Suraya Saab.”

He guides me into another turn, lifting a challenging brow, and I meet it without hesitating. “Only if the payoff is worth the risk.”

A blush warms my cheeks at my boldness, but his eyes light with pleasure as he pulls me into a skilled spin.

Clearly, Prince Roshan is enjoying our verbal sparring—and our physical compatibility—as much as I am.

As we twirl together for the final part of the dance, his warm breath grazing my ear, my body feels like it’s on the brink of a towering precipice.

One more touch, one more heated graze, and I’ll tumble over the edge and shiver apart into a million unrecognizable pieces.

Something of my precarious state must be visible in my gaze, because when Roshan meets my eyes, his breath catches and his pupils blow out, a slight tremor running through him as well.

Stars above, is it a thousand degrees in here?

When the dance comes to a close—finally—Roshan doesn’t immediately release me. Instead, he pulls me closer, fingers tightening . . . as if he can’t bear to let go. Mesmerized, I’m drowning in the turbulence of his eyes, in that sea of unguarded desire and something all too real, until his arms reluctantly loosen. “You are a dangerous woman.”

I stare at him with a racing heart, knowing the danger is very mutual. I take several breathless steps back, putting a healthy amount of space between us, and sink into a curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness.”

“Roshan,”

he insists.

I balk at the soft, deliberate command, suddenly conscious of our avid audience and the fact that we are the only ones left on the ballroom floor, locked in an apparent standoff. Not that that isn’t drawing more attention. And I can’t very well leave him there: it would cause even more of a scandal.

I give in and whisper with an ungracious huff, “Oh, very well, you overgrown toddler. Roshan. If anyone overhears and I get executed, that’s on you.”

“Not on my watch.”

“Why is it that on your watch I feel like I’m about to dive headfirst off a cliff?”

I don’t hide my eye roll. “A very tall cliff with ugly, sharp rocks and a mountain of carnivorous beetles congregating at the bottom, waiting to consume my poor, dead carcass?”

He laughs but offers his elbow to me as we leave the floor. “I have to admit, I’m deeply fascinated by that imaginative brain of yours.”

“You wouldn’t be if you saw what it wants to do to you.”

My insides contract at the wicked quirk of that full mouth. “Is that so?”

he asks in a voice like sun-warmed honey. Or maybe it’s just that stupidly befuddled brain of mine, thinking of honey and sunbathing and wicked princes.

“Definitely pain,”

I say. “Maybe some torture.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,”

he teases, and everything inside of me ignites again.

Those gold-flecked brown eyes meet mine, a barrage of emotions I can’t begin to separate warring in their depths. Ushering me to the side, he surveys the room and leans so close that I can smell the warm spice, iron, and bergamot scent of his soap. A hand lifts to sweep the side of my jaw, the feel of his fingers velvet soft on my skin. Silenced by the unexpected caress, I drag my gaze away from his, looking anywhere but at him.

He shouldn’t be touching me like this.

Looking at me like this.

But I don’t want him to stop.

“By the maker, I didn’t expect you,”

he whispers. Breathless at the butterflies swarming my chest, I open my mouth to reply with something obnoxiously clever, but he beats me to it, the turnabout and urgency of his next words making my overheated blood turn to ice. “Before the evening is over, I’ll arrange for a portal back to Coban.”

I falter. Coban, yes. That’s what I want. Isn’t it?

I feel a sudden tension flood his body. I follow his gaze. He’s staring at the crown prince. Who is staring at us. Helena whispers something into his ear, and Prince Javed’s body goes preternaturally still. The singular focus of that unblinking, piercing gaze makes my breath fizzle.

Roshan’s jaw tightens as his brother makes a beeline toward us, directly through the dancers, leaving chaos and collisions in his wake. Conversation stalls and necks crane to see who has singled out the prince’s attention, and my heart triples its pace when he stops a foot away. His peculiar focus is indeed reminiscent of a cobra on the hunt for prey.

“Lady Suraya, you have been avoiding me all evening,”

Prince Javed says softly with a disarming smile, completely ignoring his brother. The full effect of his charm is dazzling, but that smile goes nowhere near his eyes. Instead, they remain icy and watchful, the predator behind them alive and well. And unerringly focused. On me.

I suppress a shiver and force a coy smile. “Of course I haven’t, Your Highness.”

“I trust you are enjoying my ball and that my dear brother is not boring you to death.”

He still doesn’t address Prince Roshan directly, though I feel him stiffen at my side.

“Yes, I am, thank you,”

I reply. “And the prince has been most charming.”

“Has he?”

Only then does Prince Javed glance to the man at my side, that ice-blue gaze narrowing with contempt. “There’s no accounting for taste, is there? Allow me to introduce you to my companions.”

I blink. Did he just insult me and his brother in the same breath?

I bite my tongue to keep from retorting as he introduces me to the four nobles with him, his hand sliding to cup my elbow. “And, of course, you know Lady Helena,”

he goes on, gesturing to the woman at his side, whose eyes are poisoned daggers in my direction. “She told me something rather interesting, Lady Suraya. Perhaps you can shed some light upon it. That in the arena, you were in possession of a glowing blade,”

he says, and my stomach free falls, panic flaring in every cell.

“Yes, obviously stolen,”

she scoffs. “She’s a thief. Country rats aren’t allowed to own jādū-forged weapons.”

Roshan shifts at my side, but I don’t dare look at him, considering he knows the dagger is mine. I open my mouth to refute the accusation and close it. I won’t lie, not even to save my skin. The game is up.

I’m definitely going to die.

But the crown prince doesn’t call for any guards or for my head, only stares at me in ominous silence. After an eternity, in slow motion, he takes my limp hand and lifts it to his lips, flipping it at the last moment so my palm faces his mouth. Bending slowly, he presses a kiss to the heart of my palm. My heart climbs into my throat when cool lips graze my skin, the scrape of something wet making revulsion sour my stomach.

Did he just fucking lick me?

Prince Javed throws his head back and touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth as though tasting the most decadent wine. His throat works when he swallows, and he drops that serpentine gaze to mine. For a second, his eyes flash, and bloody tendrils seem to writhe in the whites, but I blink, and they’re gone.

Fuck! I need to get my fear and deranged imagination under control.

“You taste . . . like divinity.”

I only just manage to hide my revolted shudder as Javed’s hooded stare lifts and his jaw hardens, a horrid, exultant look spreading across his face when he straightens. I feel his fingers slithering down my forearm in a deliberate caress, before they slip into my clammy palm. Eyes glittering with fanatic heat, he yanks me away from Roshan’s side. In slow motion, he raises our joined hands above our shoulders.

“I have chosen,”

he announces in a voice that makes all the chatter in the room come to an abrupt halt. “Suraya Saab shall be my bride.”

The declaration of ownership echoes in the hall like the clang of a death bell, and then the room breaks out in polite, lukewarm applause. Panic rises in me in a blinding wave. Did the prince just announce that he’s chosen me? My gaze crashes into Roshan’s furious stare, his lips a flat line and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He looks like he’s on the verge of attacking his brother.

My eyes lift to my numb fingertips entrapped in Prince Javed’s tight grip, and I push through another smothering wave of revulsion. Without thinking, I snatch my hand from his and cradle it to my chest. Something protective rears inside of me as my palms heat. Without looking down, I fist them.

“No felicitations, brother?”

the crown prince jeers. “I suppose I should thank you for finding her.”

Roshan doesn’t respond to his brother’s taunt, although a muscle hammers to life in his rigid jaw. He doesn’t look at me, but the tension in his body is a clear sign he’s hanging on to his composure by a thread.

“Of course not, brother,”

he says in a dead voice. “I wish you—”

But the words are snatched from his lips when a tremendous explosion rocks the palace, slamming us all to the ground.