One Thousand Desires | ON HOLD

8 | OF PALACES AND UNSOUND MINDS

       WHEN THE KING came to her bed chamber that night, Zeinab's confidence had dwindled. In fact, it had nearly fizzled out completely, with only the thought of her mother and sister telling her to hold on. To keep fighting. To ensure the flicker of faith within her remained aflame.

Earlier on, she had said too much to Munir—and if he had suspected her motives to kill his brother, she was already as good as dead. The girl was aware of the nagging fact that every breath she inhaled may very well have been her last. She could trust no one in this wretched palace and reminded herself that the only way to survive would be to keep her temper controlled and her lips sewn shut—unless she was using her words to entrance.

"Sayyidi," Zeinab immediately said upon seeing the king walk through the door to her room.

He slinked across the floor so soundlessly that she could never quite hear him coming. He moved with the grace and agility of a panther.

She suddenly found herself very aware of how dry her mouth was and how cracked her lips had become. "Good evening," she muttered.

Kadar swung the door closed with one swift movement of his hand, then turned to face her. She stood by the bed, wearing an unusually bright smile that failed to reach her eyes. Once he saw her, his eyebrows raised and, for a split second, he might've looked like a regular boy.

"What, no caustic greeting for me tonight?" he asked, frowning slightly. There was an edge of uncertainty to his tone. "That's disappointing."

As Zeinab waved her hand dismissively, the bangles adorning her wrist jingled. "No," she replied, "not tonight. I'm feeling quite generous, so I thought perhaps I'd spare you my merciless wrath. Just for this one..." The last word faded out and nearly died in her throat, but she forced it out. "This one night." Her hand flew to her mouth and she began picking the dry skin on her lips—a nervous habit.

"So you've met my brother," the caliph drawled, dragging his eyes over her face, "and gotten acquainted with my palace."

       "Yes," she said. "And I can't possibly pick which I prefer."

       But Kadar appeared not to have heard her sarcastic remark. He raked a hand through his dark locks, sudden distress tugging his thick eyebrows together. "I should not have let this happen."

       She closed her mouth and blinked rapidly. "What?"

He continued on, keeping his eyes averted as though he couldn't bear to look at her. The odd thing was that there was nothing sadistic in his expression. "I shouldn't have allowed this to go on. It has been only a day, but it's still a day too long. I might've given you false hope."

She knew what he was doing before he did it. His hand went for his belt, unsheathing a dagger with a jewelled handle. Fear clutched at her like a feral beast with spindly fingers, grasping at anything it could. Her throat felt like it was about to close, her lungs like they would collapse.

Relax, she told herself. Relax and work your magic.

Still, Zeinab found herself momentarily frozen down to the very core. The chords of her vocals were unable to thrum, the fragile bones in her fingers were stiff as though carved from stone—even the muscles in her throat couldn't contract to allow her to swallow down her horror. The king was nearing her, the dagger glittering malevolently in his outstretched hand.