OF COURSE CYRUS KNEW HE was being followed.

She possessed all the subtlety of a dragon in slumber. As if she could

draw near him without his knowledge – as if he couldn’t hear the dragging hem of his borrowed cloak on her body. It was torture enough to imagine her wearing his clothes, but it was an altogether different torment to envision her determined stride, her furrowed brow, the slight pout to her

lips that appeared only when she was thinking too much. The resolve with which she pursued him now – as if she had any idea what she was doing – was so endearing it angered him. For as long as he lived he feared he’d

know the scent of her, the sound of her walking toward him. She was a fool to think otherwise.

He was a fool to think of her at all.

Cyrus sighed and strode onward, the icy eve raising puffs of frost from his lips. Towering evergreens glinted along the path, ghostly fingers of moonlight pushing through branches as if to seize him. Night birds jeered; oblivion threatened; the clean fragrance of pine filled his head. The hour was late and unusually frigid.

If only she would leave him.

A ghastly journey lay ahead, and after all he’d endured this night, Cyrus had hoped for a single mercy: solitude. He wanted a moment to collect himself – to steady himself before entering the next phase of torture. Her clinging shadow made this small dream impossible.

Several times already he’d heard her soft oof as she tripped over the hem of her cloak, and he’d gritted his teeth to keep from turning to help.

The young king had no need of this long, glacial odyssey; Cyrus intended to reach his final destination by way of magic. He’d been leading Alizeh in an aimless wander on purpose, hoping she’d eventually tire of the cold, or at least give in to her own exhaustion and turn back toward the castle.

She could not know his dilemma: that her inexpert shadow infuriated him even as it soothed him, that he wanted to vanish even as he couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning her here, in the frigid dark. He wanted her closer than he could express in words, wanted her bare and trembling in his arms, wanted to excoriate these sensations from his skin. He wanted to lop off his own head and hurl it into the river.

He wanted to shout at her.

There was a sudden sweep of wind then, the sharp rustle of leaves. Cyrus ducked his head against the chill and heard the barely perceptible sound of a sniff, which only provoked his fury.

He knew his anger was irrational, but he was compelled nonetheless to turn around and accuse her of being senselessly stubborn; she was all but freezing to death for no reason at all, torturing him beyond the bounds of humanity. At first he’d been astonished that she’d followed him, unarmed, into an unknown darkness – and his first thought, naturally, had been to stop her. He’d nearly done as much, nearly whipped around and demanded she return to her rooms.

As if she’d listen.

He felt certain that if he indulged such a fantasy she’d only return his displeasure in full. She’d shout and stamp her foot like a child, angry to

have been discovered. She’d refuse to leave and accuse him of using magic against her – for how else might he have gleaned the presence of such a masterful spy? – and when, inevitably, he left her behind anyway, she’d hurl insults at his back, first demanding he return her book, then accusing him of being a dissolute bastard and a jackass to boot.

No, slight correction: she’d not use such vulgar language.

She’d more likely call him a scoundrel, a charlatan, a common miscreant. The thought almost made him smile before it broke him.

The dam shattered.

Pain came for him in a brutal siege, radiating from his core until his mind was forced to submit to an invasion of memory. He was bombarded by scenes of the last few hours, scenes he wished he might banish forever from his history, to no avail: Cyrus could think of nothing now but her small hand at his brow, the home of her arms as she’d held him, the

delicious agony of her skin against his face. His throat worked at the remembered feel of her, how he’d touched her in his delirium, drawn the intoxicating scent of her into his head, where it would live, forever, with the whisper of her voice as she’d cried. Her tears had fallen down his cheeks as she’d repeated his name, over and over, begging him to wake. He clenched his fists.

He couldn’t believe he’d told her the truth.

This was still inconceivable to him, that he’d confessed to dreaming of her night after night; that for eight agonizing months he’d known the taste, the heat, the silk of her in his sleep. Nothing more than an attack of

madness could’ve driven him to such a state. He’d been painfully fatigued, still under the fading influence of dark magic, his mind and body not fully recovered from the devil’s most recent assaults. It was the only excuse he had, that he’d been broken – his locks unbolted by shock, his weak body pushed over the edge by her tenderness. At any other hour in his life he’d have been stronger. He’d have walked away, sealed his mouth – he’d have died before disgracing himself with a pitiful exhibition of his own desire.

Hells, he’d known better.

Eight months ago, Iblees had planted Alizeh in his head on purpose, had built in Cyrus’s mind a narrative that left him nearly powerless before her.

No doubt the devil had hoped to use her to break him – and Cyrus had fallen into this obvious, avoidable trap.

He struggled then to breathe.

Something had irrevocably changed inside him tonight, and he feared for who he’d become in the aftermath. Gone was his mask, his veneer of indifference, his wilting ability to withstand her proximity with an acerbic wit and a wealth of contempt. From the moment of their first encounter

Cyrus had patched the myriad holes in his chest with the imagined evidence of her evil; she was, after all, the chosen bride of the devil – certainly this

was reason to believe she was corrupt and dishonorable. He assumed she’d claimed the devil as a friend, that she was complicit in the scheme to force herself upon his empire. He’d held this conviction to his heart even as his

doubts about her had been swiftly disproven, each reveal of her innocence casting devastating cracks in his armor. That her character was faultless – that she’d made no bargain with the devil – that she was just as haunted by Iblees as he was –

This was worse, infinitely worse.

Her ultimate show of compassion toward him had been his undoing, for this, layered upon all else, had proven she was every inch the angelic figure he’d cherished in his dreams. Not only had he been horribly wrong about her, he’d treated her cruelly. He knew now that she was so far above him he wasn’t even worthy of standing in her shadow. Certainly he had no right to desire anything from her.

He came to a sudden halt then, his heart pounding against his ribs.

All this time he’d been able to endure the agony of her presence only because he’d braced himself with hatred; knowing now the depth of his

error, how could he bear to be close to her again? How would he even bear to look upon her face when he no longer possessed the defenses necessary to shield his pathetic heart?

He dragged frozen hands down his face, reminding himself to remain composed – that she could still see him. He felt he might combust if he did not decompress, and yet: How was he meant to deal with his roiling mind while she watched him?

He’d hardly paid attention to his surroundings these last many minutes and realized only now, upon looking up, that he stood before an illuminated copse of trees at the edge of Tulan’s largest salt flat. It was haunting in this vast expanse, and he was more aware than ever that he and Alizeh stood

alone under this dome of darkness, their movements followed by the stars. A feverish part of him dared to imagine her there in the dark, watching him.

God, he’d wanted her.

He’d wanted her with an all-consuming thirst, with the desperation of a man waiting to die. No doubt the devil had been delighted to see him so debased. This sobering thought drove the heat from his head at once, and in its absence Cyrus felt cold and stupid.

Numb.

If only he could go back to hating her, mistrusting her – everything would be safer. If, instead, he allowed himself to carry on in this desperate manner, the Book of Arya would be the least of his troubles. He might be

driven to kill a man just to improve her view out a window. He might renege on the entire deal, just as the devil desired.

Oh, he would be sorry then.

Cyrus was in danger of losing control. Alizeh had done him a mercy by walking away, by putting an end to the dawn of what might’ve destroyed him. He could never again allow himself to get so close to her. It was

ludicrous even to entertain the idea that she felt something for him. Even now she followed him only because she didn’t trust him; she had no idea she was attempting to accompany him tonight on a trek into hell, where a dark master impatiently awaited his arrival.

No. His was a blighted soul.

Watching her address a desperate, devoted crowd of thousands – all ready and willing to die for her – had driven home this final blow.

He would always be the villain in her story.

Many months ago he’d made peace with the sacrifice his life was meant to be, for it was the only way he’d been able to fulfill the tasks set before him. For Cyrus, hoping for anything more than death was a treacherous game, one that would end only in tragedy. He had no choice but to relegate his impossible dreams to the dusty bins of childhood.

Besides, the devil was waiting.

With that final, bitter thought – he vanished.