But it did not matter.
Even the heaviness of the tonic did not dull the fire racing through her blood. She pulled him toward her, slanting her lips to his.
He tasted of water and mint and everything she ever hungered for in all her moments of remembrance. He smelled like the desert in the sun and the faintest trace of sandalwood. The palace at Rey and the billowing Badawi sands, coming together in perfect concert.
His touch was silk over steel. It made her hot and cold all at once. His kisses were the perfect mix of hard and soft. Practiced and unrestrained.
When she tried to tug him closer, Khalid was careful. Too careful.
As always, Shahrzad wanted more. She wound her fingers in the front of his borrowed qamis, wordlessly telling him so. He stilled her, capturing her face between his palms.
Shahrzad sighed, silently cursing her injuries. “I hate that I’m not going with you.”
“And I hate that I’m leaving you behind. Leaving you amongst all this—chaos.” Khalid’s features tightened at the edges.
The reminder brought back another equally pressing matter she’d nearly lost sight of.
Her eyes drifted about the room. “Where is it, Khalid?”
Her father’s book. The reason for so much death and chaos.
Khalid reached beneath the bed pallet, then lifted the small bundle her sister had been clutching by the well. “Irsa left it with me last night,” he said quietly. “I kept it within arm’s reach, along with my sword and your dagger.”
“Irsa?” Shahrzad almost smiled at the familiarity. “She gave you permission to call her that?”
“In a fashion,” he murmured, tucking her hair behind an ear.
“You once said you had no intention of being beloved by your people, Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. Yet you’ve managed to win over several of your harshest critics in a single evening.” Shahrzad grinned without reserve.
“Irsa was one of my harshest critics?” He arched a brow.
“She’s my sister. Of course she was.”
The hint of a smile touched his lips. Shahrzad’s heart warmed at the sight.
From beyond the tent, the loud bleating of a goat brought them back to the present.
“I should go.” Khalid pushed aside the bloodied bandages on the floor to reach beneath the bed pallet a second time. He collected his sword and her dagger, placing them with her father’s book, still wrapped in a length of coarse brown linen.
“And the key?” Shahrzad whispered.
Khalid tugged the silver chain from around his neck. The black key hung over his heart, alongside the jade talisman. The very sight of both sent a shiver down Shahrzad’s spine.
She brought her hand to Khalid’s chest to cover the cold metal. “Destroy it as soon as you can. Tonight, if possible. Waste no time.”
He nodded once. “I’ll ride through the day and destroy it as soon as the sun sets.” Khalid rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll return for you as soon as I can.”
“No. I’ll come to you.”
Khalid smiled before pressing another heart-stopping kiss to her throat. Then he tucked the dagger into his tikka sash and disappeared beneath the tent flap.
An unexpected chill fell over the tent.
And Shahrzad realized how very dark it still was.
It was the cold that woke Jahandar.
He could not recall the last time he’d felt so cold.
His mind was battered and waterlogged, as though he’d been tossed about at sea. His throat felt as though it had been stuffed with silk thread. Dry-mouthed and disoriented, Jahandar reached for the book atop his chest, seeking its reassuring warmth.
But it was not there.
In a sudden panic, his eyes flew open.
He sat up in his bedroll, his useless blankets peeling away like an onion’s skin. His tent was still shaded in the cloak of night. Dawn had barely broken through the tent seams, trickling down in fractured beams of light.
Jahandar passed his palms across the bedroll. Then across the floor beside him. Then farther into the darkness.
Still he could not find the book.
His panic mounting, he reached for the key around his neck.
It, too, was gone.
Realization came crashing down on him in a flash of light.
Someone had stolen the book and key from him. His sluggish head and his swollen tongue were proof positive that someone had drugged him with a mind to pilfer his most prized possessions.
Someone had fooled him and fleeced him.
In a fit of rage, Jahandar bolted to his feet, kicking aside the brass lamp positioned next to his bedroll. The oil dripped from its innards in a slow dribble, filling the air with its pungent aroma.
Reminding him of the power lying dormant in the most innocuous of things.
Indeed, with a mere snap of his fingers, Jahandar possessed the power to set fire to the whole of this camp.
Or, rather, had possessed the power.
For he did not yet know the toll the storm had taken on his abilities. Nor did Jahandar know the full price he’d been forced to pay to wield such awesome ability.
He needed the book to restore himself back to his former graces.