“Then prove it.”
I twirl away, then back to him, staying on my toes, my hips always lightly rotating. He reacts clumsily at first, but soon the awkwardness fades away and he begins matching my movements, reflecting them in reverse. We dance like this, wrist to wrist, twirl and turn, step for step, for several more minutes. He holds my gaze, our eyes connecting at every turn, anticipating one another’s movements.
His pulse is so strong against my wrist that it echoes through me, almost like a heartbeat of my own. My skin warms; my breath catches in my throat. I know how closely I dance along the line of destruction, but I cannot pull myself away. He is intoxicating, his force of life an addiction I cannot refuse. I have not felt this alive in centuries, not since you, Habiba, when you taught me the dance of Fahradan. Ours was a dance of giddy laughter, a dance of friends, sisters, a dance of life and youth and hope.
But this dance is different.
It is not I but he who entices, reversing the ancient roles of the dance. And I resist because I must, because if I don’t, because if I give in to the all-too-human desires racing through me—then it is Aladdin who will pay the terrible price.
“Stop.” I drop my wrists and step away, and he does the same, still caught up in mirroring me. Except that he is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his eyes filled with a strange, wondrous, curious look as he stares at me. He moves closer, his eyes fixed on mine, and despite myself I cannot look away.
Aladdin raises a tentative hand to my cheek. Immobile with both dread and longing, I can only stare up at him, flushing with warmth when he gently runs his hand down the side of my face. I shut my eyes, leaning into his touch just slightly, my stomach leaping. Longing. Wishing.
I feel him leaning closer, bending down, his face drawing nearer to mine.
“No,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
“Zahra—”
I pull away, averting my gaze. “You are ready for her.”
With that, I turn and run back into the palace.
Chapter Fifteen
IT IS A CUSTOM of Fahradan that for the evening, the lines between the classes are temporarily erased, and a servant may dance with a prince, and a cook may break bread with a king. And so when Aladdin enters the great throne room of King Malek, I am standing at his side, equal for this night. I wear my conjured gown of red and gold silk, a ruby perched on my brow.
I still feel Aladdin’s touch burning on my cheek, the weight of him leaning toward me. My skin courses with rippling heat, and never have I felt so out of control of my own form. I cannot shift away the tingles in my stomach or the image of his eyes locking on mine as we spun around one another.
It was a fluke, an accident, I tell myself. It won’t happen again. Still, I feel every inch of space between us as we walk, and I wonder if he feels it too. I don’t dare glance at him to find out, because I fear meeting his eyes and seeing the truth in them—that what happened wasn’t an accident.
That it might be real.
And worse, that I might want it to happen again.
This isn’t what I came here for, I remind myself. I need to focus, need to find Zhian, need to do it fast. I have two more days before I lose my chance at freedom and Nardukha unleashes his fury on Parthenia. This isn’t just about me anymore. This is about the people dancing around me, unwitting of the destruction waiting to fall on them. This is about saving Aladdin. And what I felt in our rooms minutes ago—that cannot happen again.
There is far too much to lose.
Our entrance is not grand—we slip in with the crowd, and with everyone dressed in red and gold, it’s easy to blend in. But Aladdin begins to gather looks of appreciation and of envy, of desire and of open hostility—this last from the various men whose female companions cast admiring looks my master’s way. And Aladdin does cut a breathtaking figure, moving through the crowd with the grace and carriage of a born prince. Where did he learn that? Where did he learn to hold his head so high, to carry his shoulders so squarely, to look every person he passes in the eye and to give them a small, knowing smile as if they are old friends? He has a bearing to him that no degree of my magic could impart, some deep inner strength that is entirely of his own making. Watching him makes me ache inside.
“They’re staring at me,” he whispers. “Gods, Zahra, is this thing on backward or something?” He tugs at his coat.
“Stop it,” I hiss, swatting his hand. “You look fine. You look . . . damn princely.”