The gem was mesmerizing, catching the candlelight and making it dance as if it had a life of its own. Pulling the cover back, she ran her index finger across the smooth stone edged all in gold. Heat gathered beneath her skin, the sensation so startling it cut off her humming mid-song.
Where had he gotten it? Why did the guards allow him to keep something of such value? She knew the highborns all wanted it, had heard whispers in the harem that if a highborn’s sahad killed him, the gem would then belong to them. But so far that hadn’t happened. He’d destroyed every opponent they’d tossed at him.
Another image of him arcing out again and again with his swords in the arena flashed in front of her eyes, the stone as much a part of him as he fought as his hair or eyes or teeth. Was that how he stayed alive? Did the gemstone give him some kind of power?
“Who are you?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. She didn’t expect him to. He was lost in some fever-induced haze, but that was okay. Probably better, actually. Because, based on the way she was now feeling toward him, if he turned that dark and dangerous gaze on her again so soon, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
Hinges creaked, and metal groaned. Kavin looked up sharply just as the door was pulled open and a guard stepped in, a square box in his hand. “This will have to do.” He dropped it at his feet, then moved back. “See to it he does not die.”
He was gone before she could answer, the lock clanking loudly in his wake. Slowly, Kavin moved away from the sahad and crossed the floor, then lifted the box and opened the lid.
Bandages, medicine, ointment for the wound. Relief was a welcome yet disturbing feeling.
He wasn’t going to die. Not tonight, anyway.
Chapter Six
Someone was humming.
Nasir wrestled from a deep and clouded sleep and slowly opened his eyes to blink up at a stone ceiling.
Awareness seeped in. Candlelight illuminated the ceiling above, the rock walls around him, and the dirt floor below. A shiver ran down his back as realization came crashing in. He was in his cell in the pits of Jahannam, lying on the uncomfortable mattress with a blanket pulled up to his chest, darkness surrounding him as always. Except…
Somewhere close, the sweet, gentle notes of a song he didn’t recognize met his ears. The melody pushed the darkness to the wayside, dragged his thoughts from despair and pulled them toward the light. Tipping his head, he looked toward the candle’s flickering flame…and the redheaded female sitting in his corner, wrapping what looked like strips of fabric into a ball.
Something warm rolled through his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Something that nearly stopped his breath.
Her head came up. The humming stopped. She stared at him a long beat but didn’t speak. And in her hypnotizing eyes, he couldn’t read her expression.
“You’re awake,” she finally said.
Weird images passed before him. Her arms around his torso. Her lush, tempting body pressing into his. Her leaning over him, the soft curtain of her hair tickling his cheeks. And concern across her mesmerizing face when she’d swiped a cool cloth over his forehead and whispered, “The worst is over. Rest now.”
She pushed to her feet, smoothed out the black skirt of her dress, looking nervous and unsure and way too damn gorgeous as she took a hesitant step his way. “How do you feel?”
Nasir’s pulse picked up speed, and his skin tingled. How did he feel? Hot. Achy. And oddly…aroused. Especially with the way she was looking at him. But why was she asking? Why would she care?
She moved to the foot of the bed, the candlelight flickering over her cleavage, drawing his gaze, making his skin that much tighter. “You’ve been asleep almost a full day. Your mu’allim was here. He brought herbs to break the fever. It looks like they helped.”
He’d been out a full day? And Malik had been to see him? Confusion swept through Nasir’s hazy mind as he tried to look away from her tantalizing breasts.
He pushed up on his hands, worked to sit upright. The female rushed over. “Here, let me help.”
His adrenaline surged, and he sucked in a breath, knowing he should say no, yet not able to get the words out of his mouth. She set the ball of fabric—no, bandages—on the foot of the bed and gripped his arm in her dainty hands, her skin silky soft against his, her heat and floral scent making him light-headed. Sweat beaded his brow as she helped move him back so his spine was against the walls. And wicked heat flared all through his body at her touch. A touch he wanted to go on feeling. Even knowing he shouldn’t.
Talk, dammit. Get your brain back online.
“What—” His voice was thick, raspy, not his own. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “What happened?”
“Infection,” she said, finally letting go and moving back. Relief and disappointment swept through him all at the same time, confusing him even more. “From the wound in your side. I stitched it closed and bandaged it with what they gave me. But it was really the herbs your mu’allim brought that made the difference.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Fine lines formed between her brows. Sexy lines. Lines he suddenly wanted to kiss from her forehead. “Because you needed them.”
He shook his head. No, she wasn’t following him. And he couldn’t believe where his fucked-up thoughts were heading. “No, why you? I didn’t ask…for a highborn’s help.”
Her mouth snapped closed. And her pretty green eyes went flat. The way they had when he’d told her he wasn’t going to be a pawn in her game.
Except…as he stared at her and his mind turned over images of her tending his wounds, humming to help him relax, brushing the hair back from his face…he had a strange feeling it might not be her game either.
Which…didn’t make any more sense than the reason she was still here now.
“I didn’t want to be responsible for the great champion’s death,” she said in a tone that matched her lackluster eyes.
Yeah, but she wouldn’t have been. She hadn’t cut him. He’d gotten that injury in the training ring.
He rubbed his suddenly throbbing forehead. Man, his mind was still in a fucking fog, and everything seemed off.
“There’s water if you want it,” she said in a softer tone. “On the table next to the bed.”
The bed he’d given her. He looked down at his legs, covered by the blanket he’d tossed over her the night before—hell, he wasn’t sure which night now—then to the table where a tin cup sat.
A strange buzz started in his ears, seemed to spread to his chest. Why did she care if he was thirsty or not? Why did she care if he lived or died? He’d all but tried to kill her, then belittled her when he’d found her in his cell again, making it more than clear what he thought of her. What could have possibly compelled her to stitch his wound and tend him in illness?
Because that was what she’d done, he realized as memories of her whispered reassurances and silky fingers skimming his skin spiraled in and clamped on tight. She’d not only treated him, she’d sat beside him, kept him warm…comforted him with her touch and voice and presence.
A Ghul.
A highborn Ghul.
A really sexy, way-more-enticing-than-she-should-be highborn Ghul.
Nerves kicked up in his chest, sent his heart rate pounding. He tried to make sense of her actions. Couldn’t. Tried to think logically. Came up empty.
Nothing seemed right. Everything was wrong. And yet…somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice whispered, Yes. Remember who you are, Nasir.
His gaze slowly swung back to her, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Why—why did you stay?”
She bit into her bottom lip, a move that was so damn sexy, blood rushed to his groin. But she didn’t immediately answer as her gaze drifted to his feet, covered by the blanket. And reflexively, his toes tingled as if she were seeing them. Touching them. Caressing them with those fingers he remembered sliding across his skin last night.
“I—”
The door cre
aked open before she could answer. Her head turned that way, soft curls falling over her shoulder as she moved, drawing his attention to the creamy skin of her collarbone, then lower to the soft swell of her breasts. His cock grew hard beneath the blanket, and disappointment whipped through his veins when the guard entered, interrupting them, because he’d sensed she was about to tell him something important. Something he needed to hear. Something that would change things between them forever.
The guard moved to the side. Nasir looked over as his mu’allim stepped into the room.
Malik wore his traditional leather breastplate that fit his sculpted muscles, his hands clasped behind his back, his shaved head reflecting the dim candlelight. “You look better.”
Nasir ground his teeth against the dull pain in his side and pushed up higher in the bed, trying not to look like such a pussy. Trying to get the raging libido that seemed to come out of nowhere under control. “How long was I out?”
“About thirty-six hours. You should have alerted the guards that the wound was deeper than originally thought. It won’t serve you to die in here.” Before Nasir could ask what he meant by that, Malik nodded toward the highborn and added, “You have the jarriah’s quick thinking to thank for your speedy recovery. By the time I came for you yesterday and realized the severity of your wound, it would have been too late.”
Jarriah. Nasir looked back toward the female, standing at the foot of his bed, suddenly studying the floor with great interest while twisting her hands together in front of her. The male who’d brought her to see him that first day had called her jarriah. The word was foreign to him—of Ghul origin—but something in his gut told him to find out what it meant. That it mattered. That it was the key to what seemed so off about her.
Her…
He didn’t even know her name. In all the time they’d been locked up together, he hadn’t asked. Hadn’t thought to ask, because he hadn’t wanted to see her as anything other than his enemy. Now he couldn’t stop wondering if that was true. Now he wanted to know everything about her—who she was, where she came from, and most of all, why she’d saved his life.
Not all Ghuls are evil.
“Get up,” Malik said, reaching for the cover and pulling it back. “Rest is over. You need food, then we have work to do.” He wrapped his hand around Nasir’s bicep and helped haul him to his feet.
Malik handed him off to the guards, who, thankfully, were more gentle than normal. His head swam, but he was able to stand without crumbling to the floor. At his back, Malik said, “The servant is waiting outside to check you, jarriah.”
“There’s no reason for that, mu’allim,” she replied in a quiet voice. “Nothing has…changed.”
“Nevertheless, she must do as she’s been instructed.” His voice softened. “I’ll be back to speak with you later.”
“Thank you, mu’allim,” she replied.
Check her? More questions swirled in Nasir’s mind as the guards herded him toward the door. Light burned his eyes as he stepped out into the corridor, but he caught sight of the slim brunette wearing the traditional gray servant garb with the slave band tattooed across her right bicep.
The girl didn’t make eye contact with Nasir, just nodded once to Malik, then disappeared into the cell, but whatever was said inside that room was too quiet to be heard. And as the guards ushered him down the hall, Nasir couldn’t stop wondering what was really happening.
He was bathed, his wound tended and re-bandaged, then he was taken to the dining hall, which was empty, as always. From the courtyard beyond the high windows that let in only light and the blue of the sky, the crack of training swords slapping against each other echoed, telling him the rest of the sahads were being put through a grueling workout in the baking heat of the sun.
A ripple of contempt washed through him. As champion, he never trained with the others—a luxury, he was told. But he knew the truth. His isolation was just one more way the Ghuls could punish him for being Marid. One more way they tried to break him. They were smarter than he’d given them credit. Torture was one thing, but loneliness…
“Being left alone isn’t safe. It’s the greatest form of torture there is.”
His pulse picked up speed. The fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He wasn’t sure when the female in his cell had said those words, but he knew they’d come from her. He could hear them now, in her sweet, tempting voice, as surely as he could suddenly hear the pounding of his own heart.
“Rise, sahad.”
Nasir looked toward the doorway where Malik stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his mouth set in a grim line. Behind him, two guards waited.
“I want you in the training ring in five minutes.”
Malik stepped out; the guards moved in. As Nasir lowered his fork and rose from the empty table, his mind spun with images, words, questions he couldn’t answer. If the female in his cell was highborn, she wouldn’t know about torture. She wouldn’t know loneliness. She wouldn’t have cared for him in any illness. And she definitely wouldn’t be lingering in his dank, depressing cell right this moment.
“He’s not my mate…” “I was sent to you…” “Let me help you…”
His pulse picked up speed. His heart raced beneath his ribs as he walked his tray across the room and set it on the high counter that adjoined the kitchen, then turned back toward the guards. There was only one answer that made sense.
She wasn’t highborn.
The guards led him to the indoor training ring, smaller than the arena but with enough room to spar. His legs ached, and he was weak from the infection, but as he stepped into the center of the arena and the guard to the left handed him a wooden sword, he didn’t care. All he cared about was learning the truth.
“Leave us,” Malik said to the guards. They exchanged confused glances—they were always on hand to watch Nasir, even during training, because a Marid could never be trusted—but when Malik shot them a try-to-defy-me look, they both shrugged and exited, the heavy door clanging closed behind them.
Malik clasped his hands behind his back, the fingers of his right hand closed tightly around the hilt of his sword. “Do you feel rested, sahad?”
“Yes,” Nasir lied, knowing not to show weakness. In the arena, weakness meant death. In the training ring, it translated to punishment. He grasped his sword tighter as Malik circled around behind him. His mu’allim was legendary for attacking when least expected, and, considering how scattered Nasir felt right now, he needed to stay on his toes.
“Honesty between teacher and pupil is the only bond we have, sahad.”
Shit, Malik knew he was lying. Nasir tensed.
“However,” Malik went on, moving around Nasir’s right and coming back to stand before him, “considering the circumstances, I’m willing to overlook it. Just this once. I sense your question. Ask it.”
Nasir looked up sharply. A sahad was never supposed to question his mu’allim, in anything. But he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity, because he might not get it again. “The female in my cell. You called her jarriah. It’s not a word I know.”
“No,” Malik said, circling once again behind Nasir. “Nor should you. It is not of our language. It is a Ghul word.”
Our language? Nasir’s brow dropped low, and more questions swam in his mind, but before he could ask them, a shot of understanding rippled through him, allowing him to see clearly, as if a veil had just been lifted. When Malik moved in front of him once more, Nasir’s eyes opened wide. “Holy Allah… You’re—”
The curtain dropped swiftly, blocking Nasir’s senses. Malik stared hard into his eyes. “I am your mu’allim.”
No, he was more. The air left Nasir’s lungs on a whoosh. Malik was Marid, just like him.
“Not all your djinn powers are blocked, sahad,” Malik said in a low voice. “Only the ones they fear you will use against them. You’ve been so focused on death and killing that you’ve overlooked what is at your fingertips.”
What did that
mean? “But how did you—”
Malik resumed his circle. “I was once a sahad like you. I developed the powers I was left with. And I learned to block certain things from those around me.”
His heritage. He’d blocked who he was so the Ghuls he served didn’t know he was Marid. Nasir remembered stories when he’d first arrived, about the mu’allim who trained the sahads. He’d been here for ages—no one knew quite how long—had started as a fighter but had eventually worked up to his elevated status of mu’allim. Was it possible the current highborns controlling the city didn’t know Malik was Marid?
“To answer your question,” Malik went on, “jarriah is a Ghul word which means concubine.”
All his questions about Malik came to a screeching halt. The female in his cell was a pleasure slave? He knew Ghuls kept them—hell, his brother Tariq had been imprisoned as one—but the thought the redhead was one made even less sense than the idea Malik was Marid. “How…? Why...?” He shook his head to try to clear it. Didn’t work. “But…she doesn’t bear the slave band.”
“No.” Malik said. “Because she’s yet to complete her test.”
“What test?”
Malik stopped in front of him. “Females newly turned of age come into the harem untouched. Before being granted full access to their masters’ luxuries, they have to prove their worth. Each is sent to the pits for a night. If she survives, she goes back to the harem remembering there are much worse things in this life than serving the pleasures of one or many highborns. If she does not survive the encounter…well, then she’s deemed unworthy, and her body is disposed of without the ritual burial.”
Bile rushed up Nasir’s throat. Even Ghuls had very finite burial ceremonies to ensure a djinn soul crossed to the afterlife. To be denied that rite—in any tribe—was a punishment reserved only for the worst of society. But the knowledge her life had so little value was quickly blanketed when he realized just what his part was in this whole sick scenario.
He swallowed hard. “She was sent to me to…”
“Yes. For her test. But you’ve yet to cooperate. Which is why she still remains.”
Slave To Passion (Firebrand Series) Page 6
