CYRUS STRODE INTO THE ENDLESS dark, fireflies hung in the air like

ornaments all around him. Firm grass crunched under his boots, the skies heavy with the sound of crickets and the hush of distant waterfalls. He couldn’t name this storm inside his chest; there were no words to describe the tumult of feeling he struggled then to tame. He only knew that he felt feral and scorched and terrified, and every minute demanded more of a withering self-possession he fought desperately to maintain.

He hated these people. Hated that he had to show restraint before them, hated that he couldn’t simply kill the odious prince, whose every breath was an effrontery. Even then, even as he followed an old path to an old cottage to lay the foundation of his own pitiful end, he wanted to turn around and slit the idiot’s throat.

More than that, he wanted to fall to his knees.

This tremble inside him, this madness in his heart – it was all for her. All for her. He could hardly look at Alizeh without losing his mind; nearly four weeks he’d seen her only in his dreams, and he’d all but forgotten how finely wrought she was in real life, how delicate her features, how soft the

curves of her cheeks. He came to life when she smiled, drew breath when her eyes brightened, died when she left a room.

She’d smelled like roses. His roses.

And she would marry him, would become his wife in front of the world, and he would never have her. Never touch her. He would watch in silence

as another man put his hands on her, the two of them counting the days until they could kill him.

He exhaled, shakily, the crisp air biting his skin.

It caused him physical pain to remember how little it had taken to unravel his restraint. She’d all but pressed a hand to his torso and, like a man unmoored, he’d wanted to rip her dress down the middle, sink to his

knees and taste her. He wanted to feel her legs tremble around him, wanted to hear her cry out, wanted to watch her come apart – wanted things that would likely terrify her even to imagine.

A gust of wind pushed against his body, and he glanced up at the stars, his body still so dense with heat he could hardly feel the chill. Cyrus was out of his head, and she – She was a vision crafted by a generous maker.

She was everything sweet, her every instinct to be kind. Even her anger was exquisite. Knowing he was to die by her hand made the reality almost bearable.

He heard hurried footfalls as someone approached him, the movements heavy enough to indicate a certain height and mass. Cyrus turned slightly to see that Hazan had come up on his left.

“How much longer will this take?” said the Jinn impatiently. “I was unaware we’d be required to tramp through a field in the freezing cold, otherwise I would’ve brought a coat.”

“I was unaware you were so easily fatigued,” said Cyrus. “I admit I’m disappointed. I thought you were more resilient than that.”

“Alizeh,” he said angrily, “is nearly blue with frost. Her gown is made of tissue. She is frozen enough in the general course of things without this added –”

Cyrus stopped, then turned to look at her. In his haste to exit the abhorrent conversation he’d been thoughtless; Alizeh was visibly struggling, her arms tight across her chest, fighting over and over an

impulse to tremble as she moved. Kamran, he noticed, was hovering nearby

looking chagrined, leaving Cyrus to wonder whether his offers of aid had been rejected.

This mattered little.

He went to her in a few strides, removed his coat without a word, and laid it gently over her shoulders. All this he did so quickly she looked up at him just as he turned to walk away, and she caught his arm before he could go. He felt the press of her hand through his sleeve like a branding iron, his heart picking up as he halted, then watched as she gestured to Huda and Kamran to go on ahead. Only when they were alone did she release him, and he felt almost as if he’d been tricked.

“Cyrus,” she said.

He was afraid to look at her face. He would not look into her eyes. “Yes?” he said to the dark.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Your coat is so warm I fear I could fall asleep inside it.”

He swallowed, hating the way this gratified him. “You’re welcome.” “Can I ask you a question?”

“No.”

She laughed, and he wanted to dissolve.

“Here is my question,” she said. “If you cannot bear to be near me now, how will you survive what’s yet to come?”

Now he did look at her, his breath catching as he stared into her eyes, soft and gleaming in the reflected moonlight. He seemed to sink into the

grass as he gazed at her, the world blurring beyond the space she occupied. There was something so gentle about her presence, something that reminded him of magic: all curves, no edges. He wanted to press his face against her neck, wanted to breathe in the fragrance of her skin, the perfume of the flowers he’d grown himself. He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to bring her tea and walk with her through the seasons. He wanted to watch her conquer the earth. He wanted to glide his hand down her naked back, wanted to taste the salt of her, wanted to bite her bottom lip and lose himself inside her.

God, the things he wanted.

The longer he looked at her, the worse he felt, and the more unsteady she appeared. Her breaths had grown shallow, her eyes deeper; darker.

“Cyrus,” she whispered.

He shook his head, inhaling sharply as he finally tore himself away. “I won’t survive it,” he said. “It’s your job to make sure I don’t.”