Alara
From the moment the Hakeem mentioned my 'royalty', the unnamed guard's eyes have pierced through me over and over—multiple assassinations happening in his head.
It doesn't help that his punishment for helping me is having to guard me. But there's no point worrying about it, because I am trying to win the affection of a prince, not a guard.
But he won't stop following me.
The shuffle of my footsteps is the only sound is the grand hallways of the palace. His footsteps are silent. He must have been trained to go by unheard; unnoticed.
But I can feel him watching me. Every time I take a corner, I see his shadow shifting across the candle light.
I stop at the edge of a turn and press myself back against the smooth walls. The people in the portraits hung along the hallway seem to watch me, holding their breaths with me. The silence starts to make me feel like I have lost my hearing, like I am going crazy and there is nobody following me.
Until he steps around the corner. I jump out of the shadows. "Ah!"
He doesn't blink twice, his face stone cold and staring ahead. The set of his jaw is tightened. "Why did you leave the ma'duba?" he asks.
I walk to stand in front of him, but still, he looks past me and refuses to meet my gaze. "What?" I wave my hand in front of his face, wishing that he would look at me again with that charm that glittered in his eyes before he realised I am not a good person mmm mmm. "You think I'm going to steal something?"
"Yes, and thanks to you, you're my problem now. There's many other things I'd rather do than—"
"Follow me around like a lost puppy?" I roll my eyes. No, I don't blame him for thinking I am going to steal. But he can at least meet my eyes when he speaks to me. He's treating me the same way I've felt every day in the souks. Invisible.
He doesn't react to my words. That's not surprising.
"I'm not going to steal." I try to stand on my toes to get into his line of vision, but I'd need a ladder to get close to his line of sight. "I wanted to get away, okay? Prince Nawaz moved to the next girl so fast."
"What did you expect? Do you think that because you're beautiful you're going to win the heart of a prince?" His voice roughens. Then he notices his words—beautiful—and his eyes fall to mine for a second, his lips parting. But he quickly closes his mouth, knowing that retracting those words would be pointless.
"Just so you know, I'm not here to take anything from the palace or from the prince. I made a dea—" I shut my mouth. Why am I telling him about my deal with the Hakeem? It's not necessary to prove myself to a man who doesn't even want to look me in the eyes. I gently tug at the sleeves of my dress.
His lack of curiosity bothers me. There is not even the raising of an eyebrow at the information I nearly gave away. I want to wrap my hands around his large neck and choke him until he reacts. I'd bet he still wouldn't.
"Fine, if you won't even look at me then just keep following me from a distance." I turn and sprint as fast as my legs can take me. I didn't say I would be easy to follow.
My footsteps thud against the majalis carpets that line the polished stone floors. I can't hear his footsteps, but he is a trained guard and I am not going to slow down to check.
My breath rushes in and out of my lungs at a constant flow until all I can feel is my pulse pumping through every inch of my body.
Finally, six sets of doors come into view. I push through a random one and pull it shut, turning to press myself against the engravings set into the wooden doors. Until I realise that all six doors lead into the same place—a library. A huge library.
I step forward, finally understanding what it feels like to experience wonder. An endless amount of stories waiting to be told; information waiting to be studied. Thoughts and theories and work that was once nothing but a thought, now on papyrus. Rows upon rows, so tall that it needs huge ladders to reach the top shelves.
My fingers brush along the spines of the books, until I reach one with a hardened cover protecting the pages.
One of the doors clicks closed. "Your mom did a really bad job of raising you, if you don't understand the basic concept of not taking what is not yours." His voice makes me turn towards him, his words searing into my chest.
My mom. She gave up her life, her joy, so that I could live. "You don't know anything about me." That urge to choke him returns.
"And I'd like to keep it that way, sariq." Sariq. He is calling me a thief. He isn't wrong.
Keeping my eyes locked on his, I pull the book out of its place on the shelf and tuck it under my arm. Maybe I will keep it, just to piss him off.
"Put it back." His weapons shift as he walks closer to me, watching me like a lion hunting it's prey. Finally, he's looking at me again.
I press it tighter against my body. "What if I don't?"
He unsheathes a small dagger, the handle dusted with different gems. The silver blade is inscribed with words and letters that are hard to read from where I stand.
With each slow step he takes, the silence becomes louder and the space around us feels tighter. When he finally reaches me, the smell of his oud hugs my senses. Just like that day in the market, where he handed me the stolen bracelet and then let me go.
But this time, instead of letting me go, he presses me back into the shelves with the blade of his dagger to my neck.
"You're not going to kill me." I don't flinch away from the blade, even as he presses it harder against my skin.
"Why wouldn't I?" He has a small beauty spot beneath his left eye that softens his otherwise strong features. His hand tightens around his blade, causing the muscles in his arm to shift. "Why wouldn't I?" he repeats, his voice hardening.
"Because you know that of all the things I could have stolen in a palace, a book means nothing. Somewhere inside you, you know I'm not a bad person and that's why you haven't told anyone the truth about me."
His anger seems to grow. Maybe it is frustration because he knows I am right. "A book means nothing? Some of these books hold lifetimes of work and knowledge. Maybe you should stop stealing and start reading."
"I . . ." He likes reading. "I read." I straighten my back.
He tilts my chin up with the fuller of his blade. "What, then? What do you read?" His eyes stare into mine, so deep and assessing that I regret wanting him to look at me at all.
Warmth fills my cheeks without my permission as I think of the romance stories I've read. They're the closest I've gotten to experiencing love. I've never made physical contact with a man either—and I wouldn't say the touch of a blade counts, no matter how close he is.
As if reading my mind, he says, "Romance, huh? I'm not surprised. Don't get excited. Me wishing death upon you is the farthest thing from romance." What does he mean by 'not surprised'?
"I didn't think this was romantic." I want to push him away, but he smells nice.
"Then why is your face so red?" His eyes trail over my cheeks, to my lips, then back up to my eyes.
"What's your name?" I ask, hoping to change the topic fast.
"What's your name?" His head tilts to the side. "I'm certain it's not Malaika."
Am I that easy to read? "You're certain?" I shift back, pushing his knife away with the palm of my hand.
"It would be such a shame if your mother named you 'angel' and you ended up as a lying thief instead. So for the sake of irony, I'm hoping it's not."
"I won't tell you, because I do not want my name to be ruined by your lips." It's a bad idea to admit that Malaika isn't my real name but he has no way to prove it.
The soft curve of his lips tilts upwards into a smirk. "Trust me, my lips can do much more than ruin a name."
That's enough. I need him to get away. If I tell him that, he'll want to get closer to piss me off. So I do the opposite.
"'Aithbut dhalik." اثبت ذلك. Prove it.
~~*~~
I love books. It's like free travel.
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