Hafsah Faizal

His mother used to say that a person without hope was a body without a soul.

She no longer had a tongue, and it was because of him that she did not

“And when we find the Jawarat?” she asked.

Not if, when. There was nothing more respectable and dangerous than a woman of confidence.

I’m merely giving you a choice of involvement, and no one would be surprised if you stepped aside.” He allowed himself a smirk when he added, “Safin can be very scary.”

She unleashed a string of curses, damning him to the Wastes.

The laugh that crept up his throat terrified him.

“I could have you killed for that,” he murmured.

She looked stricken for no more than a heartbeat. “I’ve defied the odds long enough to know I won’t die for blaspheming a prince.”

Then she nocked an arrow and breathed down its shaft, utterly uncaring. It almost made him smile.

I am daama tired of you and your beloved general telling me what to do, where to go, when to move. Your threats mean nothing to me.”

She stepped closer and he pulled back, regretting it instantly.

“If you want me obedient, Prince, kill me and carry my corpse.”

Her voice echoed in the silence. Her mouth was crooked in rage, her eyes ablaze in a fire of ice. Nasir should have turned away.

He should not have given in to the sensations of how she looked. Of how, in one fell swoop, she had thrown the Prince of Death to the ground and trampled his existence with her words.

But he did. So his traitor of a chest made him laugh.

She would take one side of her lower lip into her mouth, deep in thought.

She would toy with the ring around her neck and slip it over her pale finger, once, twice, icy eyes pinched in torment.

“I see you ogling,” Altair had sung beneath his breath yesterday.

Nasir had ignored him. It was his job to notice such things.

He told himself he watched to ensure she wouldn’t escape. But even when instinct told him she wouldn’t, he still found himself looking for her, studying her. The Huntress.

The proud curve of her shoulders, daring him. The cut of her mouth, lips dark from her constant chewing on them.

Benyamin looked between Nasir and the Huntress. “Both of you met the liar who cannot lie. Neither of you received the full truth. Yet you fell prey to the allure of her words.”

The Huntress drew a sharp breath, and Nasir felt the weight of her gaze, slowly dismantling him.

“I came back only because I know you’ll follow me otherwise, and I’m tired of the two of you breathing down my neck.”

“Do you even know what it feels like to have a man breathing down your neck?” Nasir asked. What did you just say, idiot? He was spending too much time with Altair.

Even the general looked surprised. Kifah snorted, and Benyamin prayed to the skies for patience.

The Huntress paused, and Nasir saw the exact moment when she recalled a memory. How hard was life when your very thoughts played out on your face? Her fingers drifted to the ring, telling him the rest.

She saw her opportunity the moment he prepared for another strike. For she was the Demenhune Hunter. Quick. Precise. Untrained. She could rival a trained, methodical assassin.

She darted forward and ducked beneath his arms. His breath swooshed past her skin and she hooked her boot around his leg and pulled. He pitched backward, nostrils flaring. He saw her triumph and growled, locking her legs between his in one last fight before he fell on his back with a muffled thud.

And she atop him, the breath yanked from her lungs.

She threw one of her hands on his shoulder to stop her fall, but their legs were a tangle of limbs, sand sinking beneath them. Her torso brushed his, the traitorous ring settling on his heart, rising and falling with his heavy breathing. Their faces were mere breaths apart. Without the shelter of her cloak, every brush of him against her felt as if she were wholly bare. Heartbeats galloped in Zafira’s chest.

“Any closer and I’d have to close my eyes,” Altair remarked in a loud whisper.

And the prince had the nerve to grin.

“Go on, end my misery,” he said, voice soft. The cool words caressed her skin. Murderous hashashin weren’t supposed to be gentle.

Only then did she realize she had the scimitar pressed against his throat, the same way she held her jambiya to the throats of her kills when she hunted.

Zafira pressed the blade farther into the skin of his neck, watching the smooth column of his throat bob. Goose bumps skittered along his golden skin, and she had the insane urge to smooth her finger down them. To touch her mouth to them.