Durkhanai reached down to bite the mango nub, giving it to him to finish it off.
“Like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing the skin. She nodded, and he gently peeled an opening, eyes on hers. She held her hands atop his once more to push the fruit into his mouth. His eyes widened in surprise. Then, he laughed.
“Delicious,” he said. “What a hidden wonder.”
A bead of juice trailed down his throat, disappearing down his kurta. She wanted to lick his skin clean. Her cheeks burned.
“Give me some,” she said instead. He brought the sweet fruit to her mouth, feeding her, and the skin was still warm from where his mouth had been.
After they’d eaten, he held her face in his palm, ran his mango wet thumb across her cheekbone, his caress as loving as the summer’s breeze. She leaned into his hand and searched his eyes. He was studying her, memorizing the shape of her face, noticing all the details she was sure no one would ever see.
She wanted to kiss him again.
Durkhanai wished she could vocalize this feeling, this great swelling in her heart, like the rivers after the rain, like the wells surging with water, like the earth absorbing sunlight. But she said nothing, and neither did he, too afraid to tarnish the purity of the emotion by inaccurate words.
Instead, they went back to his room and exchanged stories. She told him about the valley; he told her about the ocean. He was surprisingly just as soft and gentle as he was sharp and harsh. Just as she was.
Though duties of her role had made her sharper, just as his best friend’s death had made him darker.
Durkhanai mused over a long-forgotten dream of hers, where she returned to the valley and lived a simple life with the women who raised her. They would lie under a thousand and one stars, listening to the leaves rustling, and there would be nothing more than the beauty of a simple life.
Asfandyar mused about a similar long-forgotten dream of his, where he returned to the ocean and lived a simple life with his mother’s tribe. They would lie under a thousand and one stars, listening to waves rising and falling, and there would be nothing more than the beauty of a simple life.
The hours passed, and not once did Asfandyar ask her when she was leaving. He had gotten comfortable too, discarding his waistcoat and stiff day shalwar kameez for a plain black sleeping suit. The buttons at the top of the kurta remained undone, showing off the long column of his throat, the bend of his collarbone.
Durkhanai had no plans to leave, not even when sleep began weighing down her limbs.
“Rest,” he told her, seeing her yawn. He stood from his seat, and she reached for him. He bent over to pick her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her to bed. She settled in.
“Come, lie with me,” she responded, lying on her side. He had gone back to sit on the chair across from her, self-control filling the distance between them. But it was getting late; she could see he was tired, too.
“Alright,” he said, voice low. He came and laid down beside her. They lay facing each other. Candlelight filled his face with shadows; she wanted to reach out and touch the fan of his eyelashes. She touched his cheek. His skin was like velvet: she couldn't stop running her hands across his face, his arms, his neck.
“Tell me another story,” she said, half awake. She would never tire of his voice.
“Once, when I was six . . .” He began another story from his childhood, and Durkhanai let the solid sound of his deep voice carry her toward sleep.
“Durre?” his voice was soft sometime later, tentative. “Are you asleep?”
She shook her head lightly but didn’t open her eyes.
“I’ll blow out the candles,” he said. The bed shifted as his weight was lifted and the soft glow of the candlelight disappeared from the room.
Durkhanai opened her eyes, adjusting to the dark, as Asfandyar came back to bed. The room felt colder without the flames, and she reached a wandering hand toward him. He caught it and held it to his chest. She unfurled her fingers, stretching them to the bare skin at the open collar of his kurta. His heart beat beneath her fingertips.
“Come close,” she coaxed.
He did, and she reached for his arm, laying it across her waist. He was so warm.
He caught her hands and held them against his heart. She counted each beat in tandem with her own. He pulled a hand up to his lips, kissing her palm.
“I want to suck on the sunlight of your skin,” he whispered, his teeth grazing against her wrist. She was liquified. “Everywhere, everywhere.”
“What’s stopping you?” she asked, breathless.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered. “Or I’ll forget my chivalry.”
“Who’s asking you to be chivalrous?”
“Dewaani.” He shook his head at her. “Crazy.”
Insatiable, she put her hands around his neck, pulling him closer.
“You’d make a sinner out of the noblest man, Durre,” he sighed, kissing her neck. “And I am not noble by far.”
Durkhanai grinned, holding him close. She liked this power she had over him, for she knew the power he had over her. It was fire and fire, equally burning, equally passionate. He ran his hands up his arms, tracing the curve of her hip.
“Your skin is soft as rose petals,” he said, half asleep. “But I know the truth of your thorns.”
“Do they prick you?” she asked.
“Mhm,” he murmured with a nod against her. “But I don’t mind. I’ve never beheld anything so sweet.”
They laid together, his head buried in her chest, and she ran her hand through his curls, cradling his head.
“If this is a dream, do not wake me,” he sighed.
And soon, he was sound asleep, perfectly at ease as though she was always meant to be there, his personal pillow.
Something she couldn’t place surged through her to see this man vulnerable in her arms. He was a large man, tall and solid, but with his arms wrapped tightly around her torso, his lips and cheek against her breast, he was hers entirely.
As he slept, Durkhanai was still half-awake, and she used what little cognizance she had left to dream and imagine a world where his dreams came true and so did hers and they were both happy and they were together, forever. She dreamt that this night was not an anomaly, but a truth that would last for the rest of their lives.
Durkhanai wished she could stay there, in his arms, forever.
Maybe she could, her heart hoped, as she drifted toward sleep. Perhaps everything would work out, in the end. Perhaps her grandparents truly loved her enough to accept Asfandyar. Sure, things would be a little bumpy, a little difficult, but it would all work out, in the end. Then, she would have the rest of her life with him, the rest of eternity.
Yes, everything would be okay.
But the words tasted acidic, like a lie.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
What tasted more of grief than broken dreams?
What more of sorrow than a ruined tomorrow?
When she awoke, Asfandyar’s arms still around her, Durkhanai was thrust back to reality. She felt a hand around her heart, squeezing and squeezing, until all the blood burst out, leaving a limp muscle, once alive, now dead.
Only then did she rise, unraveling herself from him. She allowed herself one last glance to memorize his countenance: the curled eyelashes framing his closed eyes, the soft pout of his sleeping mouth.
She would pay her weight in gold to kiss him again, but some things were too precious to be bought so easily. It would only make things harder, besides. What she felt for him was mohabbat, in which case there was no hope, for mohabbat was a love that penetrated every bone in the body, every breath and every heartbeat.
She knew how this story ended. Her grandparents would never accept him. They had no future together.
So, dragging her protesting heart along with her, she slipped away.
Durkhanai locked herself in her chambers, barring all visitors, feigning acute illness. She could not even muster the s
trength to say goodbye to Gulalai, who would be leaving, too. Durkhanai did not want to risk speaking for fear of what she would say if she did.
She gave the guards strict instructions not to open her doors for anybody, not even her grandparents, who would be too busy with preparing the ambassadors’ departures to quarrel with her.
Everyone knew once she had made up her mind, Durkhanai was impossible to persuade.
So she was left alone.
She sat in silence, watching the world revolve on its axis, the slow crawl of time as the sun trod across the sky, until finally sunset approached and even passed and brought the cool veil of night across the sky.
Only a little longer, then.
She need only wait through the night. Come dawn, he would be gone. No longer a threat, and never having confessed whatever secret her instincts told her she did not want to hear.
Things had gone successfully, she reminded herself. War had been avoided. Marghazar was still in power. They had negotiated things from all the ambassadors. Durkhanai should have been happy.
But all she could think about was Asfandyar, how she would never see him again.
Out on her balcony, alone and still, looking out into the inky night sky, Durkhanai told herself in the grand scheme of the universe, this was a minor inconvenience. It would pass, as all things did.
How could the stars be so bright tonight? She felt she could see every star in the universe, but her heart had ceased glowing in tandem with them.
Just a few more hours. Her grip on the marble railing tightened.
She desperately hoped Asfandyar wouldn’t come, lying to herself.
You cruel, insatiable girl, she seethed to herself. You’re never satisfied, you’re never happy. What am I to do with you?
Why was love a punishment? Why had Allah given her a heart if not to use it? Durkhanai wished she could shake herself from this trance, but even as she thought it, her heart cried in protest. She never wanted to lose this feeling, however wretched, however beautiful. Perhaps the memories alone would be enough to sustain her.
Durkhanai was frozen, numb.
Until she heard a noise from within her wardrobe.
Somebody had entered through the passageways. Perhaps she had left the door unlocked on purpose.
I hope it’s Zarmina, she told herself, even though her wretched heart was singing, I hope it’s Asfandyar, I hope it’s Asfandyar.
It was him.
She felt his body slide into the space behind her even though they did not touch. Durkhanai did not turn, either. She did not want to see him. Did not want him to see her. It would only make it more difficult.
She had let her heart flow but all it had done was drench her in blood. She could not afford any more blood loss.
He came to her side, and she turned her cheek, not letting him see.
“Safe travels,” she said, voice blank. “May Allah bless you with a long and healthy life.”
“Durkhanai, please,” he pleaded. “I’m not here to say goodbye.”
It took all her strength not to turn.
“You are leaving,” she said. “Farewells are in order. So khudafiz. Goodbye, ambassador.”
Durkhanai leveled her voice as much as she could. She was still as ice, thrice as cold.
He was still there.
“Go,” she said, trying to keep her voice cruel. But she knew he heard it waver.
“Durkhanai—” he began.
Oh, his voice. It sent a crack through her ice-cold heart, a shiver down her stone-still spine.
“Leave!” she snapped.
Her voice was angry, but it wasn’t directed at him; all the fury was directed toward herself. She held her breath, trying to contain herself. She was an arrow pulled too taut, a whisper away from being released.
She wanted so badly to yell at him.
How could you do this to me? she would say. Don’t you know how much it hurts? Do you understand what you’ve done?
But all she could manage was, “Please. It hurts.”
“I know,” he replied, miserable. “Durre, I know. But please, can’t we talk?”
“I have nothing to say,” she told him. She knew she was being unfair, but she didn’t trust herself. “Please go before I do something I regret.”
“Durre, please—” he began. Tears filled her eyes.
“Please leave,” she pleaded. “I can’t bear any more.”
“How can I let you go?” he asked. “I taste you in my lungs every time I try to breathe.”
“Please,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“But you would hurt yourself?” he countered, reaching for her.
She pushed him away from her. “That’s enough.”
“You promised you would listen to me come morning,” he said, voice frantic. “But you left me; I haven’t seen you since.” He paused; she saw how difficult this was for him. “Please, Durkhanai, let me tell you everything, if only for you to understand, if only for you to be safe. There are dangers here . . .”
“Dangers? The only danger here is you.” She took a staggering breath. “You’ve infected me with something terrible, and now you are leaving. You are leaving to never return.”
“Leave with me,” he suddenly said, grabbing her arms. His eyes were crazed. He didn’t look like himself, so replete with desperation. But she felt it, too, coursing through her.
“Run away with me,” he said, breathless. “We’ll never be accepted by court. Let’s run. I know I haven’t been completely straightforward, but—just hear me out. I’ll tell you everything, anything . . .”
He was rambling, but she wasn’t listening anymore.
All she knew was how despicable she was. She was considering it, considering betraying everyone she loved. She pushed him away from her.
“You want me to leave my people? My family? For you?” she repeated.
“I know it’s unfair of me to ask, dishonorable, even,” he replied. “But I’m too selfish to let you go. Stay with me.” He dropped to his knees, taking her hands. “Be with me for eternity, in this life and the next.”
While the proposition seemed genuine, there was true fear in his voice. What dangers did he think she would be vulnerable to if she stayed in her home?
She could not contemplate it. She was too furious was herself because she knew there existed a part of her heart that would do it, that would leave everything for him.
She had no honor, no loyalty.
“We can start anew,” he told her, eyes full of hope. He held her hands tight.
She pulled her hands from his grasp.
“If you loved me, you would never ask for such a thing,” she snapped. “You think I would leave my family, my crown, and my kingdom—for what?” She laughed a mirthless laugh. “To run away, with you? Don’t forget your place, ambassador.
“You were an illicit thrill, a reckless little phase, but nothing more,” she said, voice entirely indifferent. “You can’t imagine it has been more, can you? Oh, then you are as much a fool as anyone else. And here I had higher hopes for you.”
“You’re being cruel,” he told her, clenching his jaw. He stood, drawing near. “Don’t lie, not to me, not to yourself.”
He saw right through her.
“I am cruel,” she snapped. “I am cruel and wretched and awful. Haven’t you realized it by now?”
She pushed him back, but he stayed in place, an immovable wall.
“How else would you describe a princess willing to leave her people and her crown for her own selfish reasons?” Durkhanai’s voice cut off in a sob.
She wanted to run with him. She wanted to stay.
She couldn’t do both.
“I am cruel,” she whispered, turning away from him. The wind whipped through her hair. Asfandyar slipped into the space behind her, his arms wrapping around her torso. He kissed her neck so softly she thought she would melt.
“You aren’t,” he whispered back. “You are kind and qui
ck and clever and genuine. You are the night sky full of infinite stars. You are wonder and beauty, and I am in eternal awe of you.”
Oh, why did he have to say such things?
She felt him pause against her skin, waiting for a response. She wanted to tell him the same, that he was kind and honorable and noble, that to her, he was as glorious as the mountains she called home and thrice as comforting.
But she couldn’t.
He needed to leave, or she would never let him go.
The words choked her, waiting to be released, but she couldn’t.
He needed to leave.
Before she did something unholy.
Before she did something horrible.
“Leave,” she said, voice calm. “Or I will call my guards and inform them you’ve made an attempt on my life, in my court. You will be executed come morning.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice clouded with disbelief.
“I would,” she said, walking toward her doors.
He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away and instead reached for her door.
“Don’t do this,” he pleaded, but he began to back away, toward the wardrobe and the passageways.
“Goodbye, Asfandyar,” she said. The tears fell.
She pulled open her doors.
Before the guards could look, Asfandyar was gone.
Chapter Thirty
Durkhanai woke in a cold sweat as the adhan for fajr rang through the air.
Asfandyar was leaving soon. She had been too cruel. He hadn’t deserved it. He was leaving. She would never see him again.
She would never see him again.
Durkhanai couldn’t stand to let him go in such a manner. Breathless, she took out a pen and paper and began to write. There wasn’t enough time.
She told him the truth: uninhibited, raw, messy, beautiful. She loved him. She could admit it, now. Perhaps he already knew, but she needed to tell him; she couldn’t bear the burden of a truth untethered. Even if she never saw him again afterward.
Feeling light, Durkhanai slipped into the passageways, navigating to find his room. She needed to give it to him herself, too afraid of it falling into anybody else’s hands. This letter was evidence of her sin. It was damning. She shouldn’t have taken the chance, shouldn’t have written it, but she didn’t care.
The Lady or the Lion Page 23
