The Assassin Bride: (The King and The Assassin Book 1)
The Assassin Bride: Chapter 23

WHEN I RETURN TO our room, Eshe clucks over me like a hen over her brood of chicks. She washes and binds up my shoulder, scolding me soundly while I say nothing. Eventually, she stops, studying me.

I return her gaze. “What?”

“Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I woke up and realized you were gone? Or when I found the note on the breakfast tray threatening . . . one of us? I can’t say I’m certain which of us it was for.”

“It was for me.”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“I’m not.”

Eshe huffs. “Well, I’m not concerned about you either.”

I shoot her a look. “Gaya left that note, and unless I’m grossly mistaken, she’s more bark than bite.”

Eshe makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. We eat together when another tray comes for us, and I try to keep my heart from leaping when there’s another note for me. I tuck it into my sleeve and wait until Eshe leaves to get ready for the dance tonight. Once she’s gone, I retrieve it.

She’s recovered. I returned her home with no memory of what happened here.

The tension in my shoulders eases. I continue reading, and every line makes my heart beat faster and faster.

Do not presume to know what I do or don’t care about. Have you considered that me bringing you here and making you undergo these competitions doesn’t mean I want you to die or to suffer? Have you considered that there might be more at stake here, to force me to such drastic measures? You’re smart, after all. You’ve figured some things out. Ask me your questions. Bargain with me, if that is the only way you will trust me. But do not accuse me of not caring. Every drop you bleed is a stain on my soul.

One might even remind you that I’ve given you a choice. Say you’ll be my wife, and I will call this competition off. Say the word, and I will put an end to this.

I stare at those last words, written in that elegant, precise hand. I let it fall into my lap as I continue staring, my gaze now unseeing out the window.

Say you’ll be my wife.

Say the word.

But those aren’t the words that resound like a chord through my soul. It’s what he said before them that hits me like a perfectly aimed arrow, past all my defenses, my distrust, my doubt.

Every drop you bleed is a stain on my soul.

He knows. He knows what it is to treasure guilt so deeply it becomes your new identity. He knows the agony of remorse, of regret. He knows the burden I bear. He knows, because he bears it too.

And in this moment, alone in my room with the sun shining on my face, I know for the first time what it is to see a soul as broken as mine . . . and replace kinship there.

The tears come slowly at first. They well up until I can see nothing but light. Then they fall, and they keep falling, until the sobs shake my soul and I press the back of my hand to my mouth, biting my own skin so hard it leaves marks.

Every drop . . . a stain. Every drop . . .

I rock back and forth, then scoot off the settee onto the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees as I keep rocking and crying.

I’m sorry, I say in my mind to him. I’m sorry for hating you. I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry—but also I still hate you. I still can’t trust you. Then the words come out between sobs, shuddering and breathless: “I just want to know that I’m safe with you.”

I want to know your name.

Paper flutters.

I swallow my tears, blink open my eyes. There, drifting through the air and landing beside my feet, is a parchment. I pick it up, looking for those words that pierced me so deeply.

Instead, when I read it, my eyes widen. It’s a new note.

I can lavish you with jewels until you drown. I can serve you only the finest of feasts until you’re lazy with satisfaction. I can shower you with gifts—whatever your heart desires. I will provide my protection from armies of enemies who may hunt you.

But safety is a promise I cannot give. You will never be safe with me.

My tears have stopped by the time I finish reading, and this time, they don’t start again. After glancing around the room and not replaceing him, I set my jaw, gritting my teeth. Right. The Neverseen King has been clear with me that he wants an alliance, not a true marriage.

Well, I’m not ready to commit to anything yet.

I take both of the notes he left me, flip them over, and begin writing.

How many wives have you had? What happened to them? Why do you need another one? Why are there portals in this palace? Why am I not safe with you? What do I risk by allying with you? Is there anything I can do besides marry you that will make you let Eshe go? Why is there so much magic here? What is a fae? How long have you been sultan over my people? Why is the House alive?

I stop, catch myself breathing too hard. Quickly, I straighten my shoulders, lest I get too carried away. Glancing at the portrait of the blue-eyed woman on the wall, I force myself to write slower.

You said my people need me. Why? How? If I agree to be your wife, what would I be agreeing to? What would my life look like? Why don’t you let us open our doors at night? What happened to Hulla? What situation is so dire that you will risk the lives of twelve women you claim to care about? Why didn’t you tell us all of this before we started? What other questions should I be asking?

One question burns on the tip of my quill. One question that I can’t bring myself to write. How do you live with yourself? With the stains on your soul? I move past that question to another that I haven’t been able to let go.

Why was I one of the ones you chose to kidnap? And why do you act like you want me to be your bride? Do you give the same attention to the others? Do you tell them that their people need them? In other words: am I special, or do you merely pretend I am? What is your relationship with Safya? How was your meal with her?

And then, my last question: What is your real name?

I know I’m forgetting important things, and it makes me rake my nails through my hair. But the longer I stare at the scraps of paper with my frantically scrawled questions, the more my vision blurs. My eyes ache after the tears, the sleepless night.

How are we supposed to get ready for this evening? It’s not like I have a gown somewhere. There’s khol, rouge, lip paint, and jewels in the drawers of the vanity, but it wouldn’t take me hours to apply a little of this and that. Besides, I’m tempted just to go like I am—in my bloodstained, ripped garments with Eshe’s sloppy bandage around my shoulder. I can’t dance anyway, and food remains unappealing. What point would there be for me to make myself pretty? I’d only make worse enemies of the women who care.

My feet take me to the wardrobe anyway. Despite me telling myself it’s stupid, my hands open the door. There, hanging right in front of my face, is a magnificent silk and brocade gown of a deep, rich magenta.

I shouldn’t be this surprised, but I am. I gape at the shimmering, sparkling layers of fabric that are somehow both stunningly beautiful and yet subdued and subtle. It’s a gown that wouldn’t turn heads among a sea of gemstones, but if one stopped and peered closer, they would realize how it surpassed them all.

It’s basically pink.

I’m definitely not wearing this.

But it takes more effort than it should to pull my hand away from the fabric and close the wardrobe door. I spin away from it, and replace myself facing my bed.

Sands and stars, I’m exhausted. The dance isn’t for hours. I could close my eyes for just a moment, and maybe—just maybe—sleep will replace me.

WHEN IT’S TIME FOR the dance, I forgo the beautiful gown. I barely take the time to comb through my long hair and cover it with a veil. With a rueful glance in my polished copper mirror at the bandage on my shoulder, I shrug, then regret the movement as I wince.

The Neverseen King wants an alliance, not a true wife. Beauty can’t be a concern for him. So I won’t bother.

If it was a concern, would you wear the gown? a voice inside me asks.

No, I reply immediately.

You’re not sure, replies the voice. You want him to think you’re beautiful. You want him to want you. Isn’t that what you desire, deep down? Someone to want you? Have you ever thought that maybe the reason you couldn’t escape Jabir isn’t because he was so good at keeping you captive, but because you didn’t truly want to escape? Because he wanted you, and a deep part of you was afraid that if you escaped him, you’d be alone in the world . . . and unwanted by anyone.

I don’t respond to that nonsense. But when I reach for my doorknob to pull it open, to head toward the dance, my hand is shaking.

That’s why you cannot stop thinking about last night, under the moon, when the Neverseen King held you. When he was so warm, and you wondered if he would kiss you. It isn’t because you want him. It’s because you want to believe that, despite what he says about only wanting an alliance . . . you want him to be unable to resist you. You want him to see you.

You want him to love you.

And that is why you’re going against every rational instinct to run away from him. You want to believe that, despite the blood on your hands and the wickedness staining your soul, you are still loveable. Still desirable.

You think he will prove to you that—

I don’t know where this voice is coming from, where these thoughts have been hiding, but this is enough. I’m going to this dance. I’ll talk to Eshe. That will get my mind off the guilt clawing up my throat, the unshed tears that have me in a chokehold.

I yank the door open.

And walk right into the Neverseen King’s chest.

I gasp, try to scramble back just as his hands close like irons around my elbows.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, his voice threaded with something urgent.

“Release me. I’m going to your stupid dance.” I can’t look up at him, because then he might see something in my expression—something that reveals the thoughts that were just in my mind. But I already know he can hear the frantic pulse of my blood, the way my heart beats faster and faster, the way my lungs begin squeezing—

“What are you talking about? Nadira, something’s wrong. Why are you here? How did you even get here?”

“You brought me here,” I growl, but it comes out more like a gasp. I feel so strange. So unbelievably cold. It makes panic flare hotter, brighter until I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t—

Suddenly, he scoops me up into his arms. I fight, but I’m blind and weak. What is wrong with me? Why is he carrying me? What is happening?

With one hand he grabs my flailing wrists, pinning them to my knee as he holds me. Then he shifts me, presses a thumb to my throat, and commands, “Breathe, Nadira.”

My airways open. I sag in his arms, panic flowing out of my limbs like blood from a gaping wound. He lets go of my wrists, and one of my hands catches hold of his tunic and clenches the fabric in a death grip. Then he’s walking, holding me tightly to his chest.

“What is your name?” I whisper. “Why do you hide your face from me?”

“You’re having a nightmare, Nadira. You need to wake up. I don’t know how you’re here—perhaps I was too close to you when you fell asleep. Whatever the case, you need to get out of here before you’re hurt.”

I am awake. A bit woozy, like I’m drunk, but I’m awake. I scowl against his chest, keeping my eyes closed as I breathe deeply the smell of worn leather and rich spice, and something that tingles in my nostrils.

Magic.

“You’re my nightmare,” I say drowsily.

His voice rumbles against my cheek. “I believe I told you that once, and you disagreed.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Right here.”

I land on a soft bed—my bed. My eyes open, and I see him. He wears all black, with a heavy cloak. Gold embroiders the edges of his robes, with gold buttons down his double-breasted jacket. It’s an unusual style; I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s tall, his broad torso bending over me. But when I go to look up, he covers my face with one of his large hands so I see nothing but darkness.

“Wake up.”

I SHOOT UP IN bed, drenched in sweat from head to toe. My mind spins so hard I might vomit. Stumbling out of bed, I trip over myself to the door, and yank it open.

There’s nothing but empty hallway and the late afternoon shadow of my silhouette cast on the wall.

What just happened?

I close the door, lean against it, and slide to the floor. My clothes stick to my skin, and I reek of body odor and blood. My vision spins.

He was here. I felt him—heard him. I know he was here. But I was . . . asleep? I had to have been asleep; I just woke up. Hours have passed, judging by the angle of the sun.

A nightmare. It was only a nightmare. One that felt too real.

The wardrobe door is cracked open. Didn’t I close it? Perhaps not all the way. Through that slit, silk shimmers. Soft, lovely, inviting.

With a growl, I lurch to my feet, grab the gown—careful not to muss it—and head to the washroom.