They weren’t. Sitting at one of her worktables, looking as harassed and handsome as always, was Dara.
Her breath caught in her throat. Dara was bent low in conversation with Nisreen, but he abruptly straightened up when he caught sight of Nahri. His bright eyes met hers, filled with the same swirl of emotions she suspected was on her face. Her heart felt ready to leap out of her chest.
By the Most High, get hold of yourself. Nahri shut her mouth, realizing it was hanging open as Ali entered the room behind her.
Nisreen shot to her feet, pressing her palms together. She bowed. “My prince.”
Dara stayed seated. “Little Zaydi . . . salaam alaykum!” he greeted in atrociously accented Arabic. He grinned. “How is your wrist?”
Ali drew up, looking indignant. “You should not be here, Afshin. The Banu Nahida’s time is precious. Only those who are ill or injured—”
Dara abruptly raised a fist and then smashed it through the heavy, sandblasted glass table. The top shattered, sparkling shards of hazy glass cascading over the Afshin and the floor. He didn’t even flinch; instead, he raised his hand and looked at the jagged pieces of glass embedded in his skin with mock surprise. “There,” he deadpanned. “I’m injured.”
Ali stepped forward with an angry expression, and Nahri sprang into action, Dara’s lunatic act snapping her into focus. Likely breaking at least a dozen rules of protocol, she grabbed the prince by the shoulders and spun him around toward the door. “I think Nisreen and I can handle this,” she said with forced cheer as she pushed him out. “You wouldn’t want to miss prayer!” The astonished djinn was opening his mouth to protest when she smiled and shut the door in his face.
She took a deep breath to steady herself before turning back.
“Leave us, Nisreen.”
“Banu Nahida, that is not appropriate . . .”
Nahri didn’t even look at the other woman, her gaze directed at Dara alone. “Go!”
Nisreen sighed, but before she could leave, Dara reached out to touch her wrist. “Thank you,” he said with such sincerity that Nisreen blushed. “My heart is greatly lightened by knowing someone like you serves my Banu Nahida.”
“It is my honor,” Nisreen replied, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. Nahri couldn’t blame her; she’d felt that way often enough in Dara’s presence.
But she definitely was not feeling that way right now. She knew Dara could sense it; the moment Nisreen left, some of the bravado vanished from his face.
He gave her a weak smile. “You’ve taken very quickly to ordering people around.”
Nahri picked her way through the remains of her destroyed table. “Have you completely lost your mind?” she demanded as she reached for his hand.
He stepped back. “I might ask you the same. Alizayd al Qahtani? Really, Nahri? Could you not find an ifrit to befriend?”
“He’s not my friend, you fool,” she said, grabbing again for his hand. “He’s a mark. One I was having luck with until you sauntered into the palace and broke his wrist . . . stop wiggling away!”
Dara held his arm above her head. “Did I really break it?” he asked with an impish grin. “I thought so. His bones made the most pleasant sound . . .” He broke away from his reverie to glance down at her. “Does he know he’s a mark?”
Nahri thought back to Ali’s comment on her lock picking. “Probably,” she admitted. “He’s not as much of a fool as I hoped.” She didn’t dare mention the fact that their “friendship” had started when she learned Ali was reading up on Dara. That was not news she expected to be well received.
“You do know he’s doing the same, yes?” There was a flicker of apprehension in Dara’s face. “You can’t trust him. I bet every other word out of his mouth is a lie meant to turn you toward their side.”
“Are you suggesting my ancestral enemy has an ulterior motive? But I’ve spilled all my deepest secrets . . . what will I do?” Nahri touched her heart in mock horror and then narrowed her eyes. “Have you forgotten who I am, Dara? I can handle Ali just fine.”
“Ali?” He scowled. “You’ve nicknamed the sand fly?”
“I call you by a nickname.”
She could not have replicated Dara’s reaction if she tried; his face twisted into a stormy mix of indignant hurt and pure outrage. “Wait.” Nahri felt herself starting to grin. “Are you jealous?” When his cheeks flushed, she laughed and clapped her hands together in delight. “By the Most High, you are!” She took in his beautiful eyes and muscular frame, awed as usual by his presence. “How does that even work for you? Have you looked in a mirror this century?”
“I’m not jealous of the brat,” Dara snapped. He rubbed his brow, and Nahri winced at the sight of the glass sticking out of his hand. “He’s not the one they want you to marry,” Dara added.
“Excuse me?” Her humor vanished.
“Did your new best friend not tell you? They want you to marry Emir Muntadhir.” Dara’s eyes flashed. “A thing which will not be happening.”
“Muntadhir?” Nahri remembered very little about Ali’s older brother except thinking that he looked like the type of man she’d easily fleece. “Where did you hear such an absurd rumor?”
“From Ali’s own mouth,” he replied, exaggerating the nickname. “Why do you think I broke his wrist?” Dara let out an annoyed huff and crossed his arms over his chest. He was dressed like a proper Daeva nobleman now, in a fitted dark gray coat that ended at his knees, wide embroidered belt, and baggy black pants. He cut a dashing figure, and as he shifted again, she caught a waft of the smoky cedar smell that always seemed to cling to his skin.
A low heat sparked in her chest even as he pressed his mouth in an irritated line. She remembered all too well the sensation of that mouth against hers and it was making her mind spin in reckless directions.
“What, nothing to say?” he challenged. “No thoughts on your impending nuptials?”
She had plenty of thoughts. Just not about Muntadhir. “You seem to object,” she said mildly.
“Of course I object! They have no right to interfere in your bloodline. Your heritage is already suspect. You should be marrying the most high-caste Daeva nobleman they can find.”
She gave him an even look. “Like you?”
“No,” he said, flustered. “I didn’t say that. I . . . it has nothing to do with me.”
She crossed her arms. “Perhaps if you felt so concerned about my future in Daevabad, you might have stayed in Daevabad instead of running after ifrit.” She threw up her hands. “So? What happened? You didn’t ride in triumphantly with their heads in a bloody bag, so I’m guessing you didn’t have much luck.”