ALIZEH REMEMBERED HERSELF A MOMENT too late, jerking away from Cyrus’s hand with the shock that she’d allowed him to touch her at all. She studied him warily in the intervening silence, his eyes as startling as her own, her heart pounding in her chest with a delayed fear. Alizeh had been wrong; she could not manage him. She had been wrong, too, to underestimate him.
Always Cyrus seemed to be one step ahead of her, and somehow she knew it would not do to lie to him now, for he seemed preternaturally attuned to deception.
It made her wonder whether he owned a nosta, too.
“What did my mother convince you to do?” he said quietly, tilting his head as he took her in. “Did she ask you to kill me?”
Alizeh could hardly mask her astonishment.
The fact that he might guess at Sarra’s dark, decidedly unnatural intentions was alarming, and crowded her head with only more confusion. How twisted was the tale of his family, and what was this trap she’d walked into? How many players were in this game?
“Or did you think,” he said, impatience edging into his voice, “that I was unaware of my mother’s barely concealed hatred for me?”
Oh, she’d been so sure of herself only moments ago, so certain she was not afraid of him.
She felt terrified now. “Alizeh.”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I agreed to kill you in exchange for my freedom.”
Something flashed in and out of his eyes at her admission, and she could’ve sworn it was something like pain. But then he took a sharp breath and straightened, his sardonic smile firmly back in place as he looked over her head, stared into the distance.
Alizeh took that opportunity to bolt.
She shot up from her chair and dashed down the path with supernatural speed, trying to form a plan as she went. She wasn’t sure what purpose it might serve to flee, but she couldn’t imagine he’d take kindly to her confession, and while she wasn’t sure what he planned to do about it, she could only imagine his mind would resolve to do something bloody. If his mother was right about him—and it appeared that she was—and Alizeh would certainly lose to him in a fight of force—which she suspected she might—then she had no choice but to run.
“Alizeh,” he cried.
She barreled through the double doors that opened onto her bedroom, but only after slamming them shut did she discover they didn’t lock, and in the moments she spent trying to bolt the blasted doors, she saw him fast closing the distance between them, his long legs carrying him along the grassy path at an impressive clip. She abandoned the door just as he tore it open; he was right behind her now, following as she darted uselessly through the serpentine space, preternatural swiftness proving useless to her as she turned in circles, realizing too late that she still didn’t know the layout of this room well enough to locate the exit with efficiency.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he called out, frustrated. “How many times do I have to tell you that I can’t kill you before you actually believe me?”
She halted at that, her crazed mind devouring the reminder as the nosta burned against her skin. It was no wonder she couldn’t decide whether to fear him; it was obvious now why she wavered so much on the subject, why she struggled to feel danger in his presence. Her instincts were not addled; it was only that he’d been ordered by the devil not to harm her.
She had some kind of immunity.
Alizeh spun around, the movement so fast that Cyrus, who’d been chasing after her, didn’t have time to process the change. He abruptly crashed into her, sending them both hurtling before they finally slammed together, him pinning her to the wall so hard she gasped, air leaving her lungs in a rush.
Alizeh froze.
She was trapped under the unexpected weight of him, the crush of his hard body, the column of his throat a mere inch from her mouth. His closeness was so overpowering it dulled her senses, slowed her mind. He was a heavy wall of heat, his dark, masculine scent overwhelming her, activating some ancient response that made her heart race. At least he, too, appeared stunned, and in the milliseconds during which their minds caught up to their bodies he’d lowered his eyes, nailing her in place with a look that liquefied her bones. She didn’t know if what she felt in his presence was fear or anticipation, but either one seemed cause for concern. She only knew that the anger he conjured a moment later belied the hitch in his breath, the tremble in his body. She watched him swallow as he slowly drew away, his hands sliding off the wall where he’d planted them.
He moved back, but not nearly enough.
“I hate you,” he whispered.
Alizeh blinked, her heart pounding too hard in her chest. “I know.”
He leaned in then, his throat working, his gaze fixed entirely on her mouth. “I hate everything about you. Your eyes. Your lips. Your smile.” His words grazed her skin when he said, softly, “I find your presence insufferable.”
The nosta flared hot against her sternum.
“Okay,” she said again, her pulse skyrocketing. “That’s okay.”
He was still breathing hard, his chest heaving between them. “But I’m not going to hurt you.”
Again the nosta verified his words, and Alizeh felt some of the pressure ease in her lungs.
“Do you believe me?” he asked. Alizeh nodded.
He was so close, his eyes so firmly fixed on her face that she wasn’t sure she’d have noticed the surprise flit in and out of his features otherwise. It was clear he hadn’t expected her to agree, to trust him. He couldn’t have known that he’d been right to doubt her, for what she trusted was not him, but the nosta.
Still, a degree of tension seemed to leave his body, relief prompting him to finally step back. He looked shaken as he turned away, staring at the wall, the ceiling, the floor—anywhere but at her face.
When he met her eyes again, his were bright with unvarnished feeling. “I need you,” he said roughly. “Don’t run away from me.”
“How can you expect me not to run from you,” said Alizeh, still trying to shake off her apprehension, “when you threatened just hours ago to have my eyes sewn shut?”
He looked sharply away from her then, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“And then you threw me off a cliff,” she said, her voice a bit breathless even to her own ears.
“You wouldn’t stop threatening to kill me,” he said angrily, turning back to face her. “I was merely trying to change the subject.”
“By having me devoured by dragons?” she nearly cried.
Cyrus scoffed at that, arching a brow. “You were never devoured by dragons.”
“I was, too,” she shot back. “Your little joke resulted in some nasty bites all along my left side. Your mother was kind enough to mix me a medicinal bath.”
Cyrus studied her then with an inscrutable expression. She thought he might demand to see proof of her injuries, but he said only, “Dragons are gentle creatures. They don’t bite unless provoked.”
“Well,” said Alizeh, averting her eyes. She was feeling petulant, and there was only so much eye contact with Cyrus she could handle. “I don’t think the animal meant to bite me. But I was rolled onto its back teeth with rather gruesome results.”
She felt, rather than saw Cyrus go suddenly still, and for the length of a wild, charged moment she thought he might do something unhinged, like apologize.
Instead, he said, “You seem well enough now.” “I’m fine,” she said, irritated.
“Good.”
“And I’m not sorry,” she added bitterly, turning to face him. “I’m not sorry I made a deal with your mother to murder you.”
His lips twitched, his eyes flashing. “I’m not sorry I threw you off a cliff.”
“Excellent,” she said, matching his anger. He only smiled in response.
Alizeh tried to steady herself, to calm her chaotic heart. She didn’t know what was happening here, between them, but whatever it was, it was making her wary. She and Cyrus were no longer speaking to each other like mortal enemies; instead, they were tolerating each other with an ounce of civility. It was almost as if they’d—inadvertently—initiated a reluctant truce.
She didn’t trust it.
Still, she was beginning to believe there had to be more to Cyrus than the stories she’d heard—than even the horrors his mother had described— for it was becoming clearer by the minute that he was a character more complicated than she’d expected. She studied him as he began to pace, as he dragged a hand through his hair, mussing the copper locks in a show of agitation, and was forced to wonder why someone so young and intelligent and capable—someone who, by his mother’s own admission, had grown up
beloved by his parents, and had the beauty of Tulan and its people at his disposal—
“Cyrus,” she said suddenly.
He halted at once, meeting her eyes.
“Why, exactly, did you make a deal with the devil?”
Cyrus blinked slowly, visibly thrown by her question. “I thought you didn’t care,” he said. “I thought you said I was no doubt suffering the consequences of my own sins.”
“And are you not?”
This, he didn’t answer, not at first. He seemed to be assessing her, deciding whether she was worth an honest response before he said, quietly, “I was desperate. And stupid.”
The nosta agreed with this, and Alizeh took a tentative step closer. “Why were you desperate?”
Cyrus laughed, but there was an ache in it, a tension in his smile, in the lines of his body. He locked eyes with her, holding her entirely in his thrall before he said, in a softly lilting voice—
“Should you choose to tell her why, you’ll only ruin all my fun. Soon thereafter you shall die, bit by bit and both are done.”
Alizeh felt the grip of a familiar terror. “Iblees,” she breathed. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“What does he mean—bit by bit and both are done?” Cyrus only shook his head.
“Right,” Alizeh said, wringing her hands. “You can’t say.”
She searched the room then with a vague panic, as if it might offer her answers. Alizeh understood too well how awful it was to be trapped by the devil, and her intimate knowledge of such a situation inspired in her a begrudging commiseration. Cyrus’s actions were being choreographed by a master planner; he was but a useful puppet in a larger scheme. The difference was, Cyrus had summoned the beast into his life, while Alizeh had only ever been a luckless victim. No doubt some weakness of the flesh had prompted Cyrus to bring these tortures upon himself; she could only imagine what he’d wanted in exchange.
His pains, she reminded herself, were not her problem. His mess was not hers to manage.
“I realize,” she said calmly, “that you’re in a terrible predicament. I think I can understand why you need me. And while I empathize—more
than I’d like—with your situation, I cannot and will not wittingly become a pawn in the plans of the devil. He is the most abhorrent of living beings, and personally responsible for the ruination of my people—for the pain they continue to endure today. I’ve spent my entire life trying to outrun his abiding interest in me, and I don’t intend to stop now.
“And while, yes, you might need me,” she went on, “I feel it necessary to point out here that I require nothing from you. I derive no benefit from helping you; only harm.”
“What if”—he took a deep, measured breath—“what if I made it worth your while?”
“What? How?”
“My mother offered you a deal, which you accepted,” he said. “I’ll offer you a better one.”
She gaped at him. “You’re asking me to double-cross your mother?
Heavens, but you’re a very strange family.”
“Marry me,” Cyrus said, a spark of heat in his eyes. “Become my queen just long enough to sate the devil’s demands. Once he’s satisfied, he’ll discharge me of a tremendous debt, and I’ll be that much closer to my freedom. When I’m finally free, I give you leave to kill me at your leisure and take Tulan for yourself.”
Alizeh stiffened, disbelief roaring through her, even as the nosta burned hot against her chest.
“You can’t be serious,” she breathed.
“My kingdom,” he said softly. “For your hand.”
