Page 22 of Wings of Cruelty and Flame

Varidian’s whole body jumped, like the truth hit him with the impact of a punch. His arm tightened around me, pulling me into his warmth. His chest was vibrating, his growl inaudible. The feel of it shivering through my back and along my ribs to my heart made everything soften inside me—all my self-consciousness, my loathing, my fear of rejection. For a moment, it all went quiet.

“I will kill him,” Varidian whispered, as soft and honed as an arrow cutting the air. “I swear to you, Ameirah. Call it a wedding gift.”

I snorted. “My father’s head on a spike as a wedding gift. I understand why you like me now. You’re every bit as sharp as I am.”

“Sharper.”

I didn’t know about sharper but he was certainly harder. I felt his cock against my backside, as hard as iron. I pretended not to notice because I was too tired for another bickering argument. Although would it really kill him to take me here, with my ass in the perfect position?

“But I’ll never be sharp with you,” he promised, startling me with a kiss to my shoulder. I was still wearing my takchita. I would have changed for prayer but I had no idea where to find clean clothes in this riad. I was too tired right now to change. “Never with my wife.”

“Do you expect me to be soft with you in return?” I asked, my eyelids heavy. The strangeness of being in bed beside another person was overwhelmed by how good it felt to be held. Sleep reached out to embrace me.

“Fuck no,” he laughed, another kiss finding my shoulder. The cotton had slipped down; this time he kissed bare skin and lingered. “I love it when you threaten me, menace. Don’t ever stop.”

“I like the name,” I murmured on the cusp of sleep.

“Then I’ll call you menace every day for the rest of our lives.”

I was asleep before I could reply, falling into the cloudlike embrace of unconsciousness, not knowing nightmares of my past waited for me there.

CHAPTER TEN

AMEIRAH

The sunset sky was as red as saffron, staining the desert around Strava a rich vermillion that outlined the blocky buildings of my home town in a highlight I thought looked magical, but Shahzia immediately interpreted it as ominous and burst into tears. She was always crying; she was only three. When she got to my lofty age of seven, she’d stop crying about blood-red skies and threatening shadows and the silence of midnight. I liked the middle of the night; it was peaceful, and no one saw the single candle I very carefully lit so I could read the adventures of Fatima the Wise and Nura the Brave.

Although, if you asked me the author should have called her Nura the Troublemaker, because she was always getting her sensible older sister into trouble. I eyed Shahzia as she raced down the golden corridors of our home and wondered if she’d get me into adventures when she was older. As much as I loved adventures, I knew we couldn’t get away with as much as ourbrothers. They were much older, andboys.They didn’t earn their father's scowl of disapproval when they jumped into the garden’s pool at the heart of the house.

“Slow down, Shahzia,” I wheezed, running after my little sister, a hand pressed to the stitch in my side. If adventures could come without the prerequisite of running, that would have been ideal.

There should have been plenty of adventures for the daughter of a gentry to get into, even if we did live in Strava, where nothing exciting or fun ever happened. All the good stuff happened in Morysen, the capital. That’s where all the fae warriors lived, where a hundred wyverns flew overhead. Here, the only wyvern we had was Hajar, father’s grumpy grey who lived in one of the candle factories on the edge of Strava and spent all her time curled up like a cat, snoring and occasionally engulfing the wax in flames until all the candles melted.

It was no great loss; there was no shortage of wax or candles in Strava.

“Come on, Ameirah,” Shahzia whined, giving me a haughty look over her shoulder as she ran, black hair streaming behind her like a long ribbon. I saw the shadow fall across the floor before she did, and we both winced when our father rounded the corner and she slammed directly into his legs.

I froze for a moment, then burst into a run. “Baba,” I breathed, catching up to Shahzia. “We were afraid we’d be late to dinner, that’s why we were running.”

He looked down at us, his weathered brown face as unreadable as ever. My heart resumed beating when his mouth split in a smile, not a scowl, gentle hands ruffling my sister’s hair, then mine. I saw why a moment later: two men were visible through the door to his office, one a gentry like us—noble fae who served the king by guarding and managing towns and cities, a job that was even more important now the war grew worse—and one man a clergy in simple wool clothing with small eyes and a smile I didn’t know if I could trust. It reminded me too much of our father’s. But the men’s presence explained why he was masking his anger.

“Woah,” Shahzia said, staring at the gentry man. “I like your kaftan.”

His smile was wide and easy, as sparkling as the embroidery and beading on his clothes. He wore more jewellery than Khadija, father’s new wife, and she had a wholechestfull of jewels. “I like yours too, little one,” he said, kneeling before Shahzia, missing the muscle that ticked in father’s jaw.

“It’s new,” my sister replied with great pleasure, spinning so he could see all the details.

“Very beautiful,” he agreed, his eyes drifting to me as I hovered there, my hands knitted together, my shoulders as stiff as wood. “You must be Ameirah. Your father says your magic is expected any day now.”

I nodded, swallowing my nerves. A fae’s magic manifested between the ages of five and eight, and since I was seven turning eight in three months, every day father called me to his office and tested me for any glimmer of it.

“You come from a very powerful line,” the stranger told me. No, not quite a stranger—I’d seen him before. I had a distant sense he was part of the king’s court, a man even more important than our father. I didn’t know what his magic was. I didn’t know what wyvern belonged to him, but every gentry had one. I’d have a wyvern some day, and so would my brothers. So would Shahzia.

It wasn’t the first time someone had said something about my powerful family line, and it made me uncomfortable every time. I didn’t know my mother, but I knew she wasn’t from this continent. My features were more like Xiu’s, the handmaiden father had assigned to me years ago, who brushed my hair toohard and called me stupid when I struggled to braid my hair. I thought she was my mother the first summer she arrived, but she made it very clear she didn’t share blood with me and was relieved about it. But every time someone said I came from a powerful line, it was a reminder I didn’t come from here, not entirely.

My face burned. I nodded to the gentry, my eyes averted as he stood. Embarrassment scalded my chest, pooling in my belly. Everyone could take one look at me and see I was different, not entirely Ithanysian, not even Kalder, the kingdom of our enemies. We’d once been one harmonious continent, so it was common for people in Strava to have Kaldic blood. But blood from a land so far you needed to sail for thirty days? Only two people I knew had that—Xiu, who hated me, and me.

My eyes burned now, and my hands tingled as they shook at my sides. For a moment, I hated my face, my skin, my hair—not ink black or chocolate brown but a deep purple shade that made me stand out. I just wanted to look like my sister, like my father, like my friends.

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