Page 71 of The Wishless Ones
Rohan looked past the sea of people and tables to the double doors as the king stepped through, as sour and dour as at their prior meeting, even dressed in finery.
But the princess—Rohan’s breath latched tight in his chest. Once, he had strongly believed there was nothing in existence more beautiful than the full moon. Until her.
Her skin was like amber, her hair like the depths of the forests he’d only read about in stories, the brown so dark it could almost be black, threaded with silver chains that shimmered like stars in the night. Her lips were lush, the same vermillion as Iago’s feathers.
Rohan was, to put it simply, infatuated.
But the princess of Hulum did not seem happy to see him. And not because she didn’t like how he looked. No, she seemed…sad.
She barely looked at him, her gaze downcast as she walked beside King Qadir.
The doors opened again, this time without an announcement attached. Several servants and attendants stepped through, amongst them a familiar figure.
Jafar. He paused, taking in the beauty of the space, the parade of people, and then his shrewd gaze reached Rohan and the Sultana, then King Qadir and the princess, who was looking at him, lips parted in breathless anguish.
And Rohan watched as the color bled from Jafar’s face.
Jafar remembered, acutely, the pain he’d felt when Mama died. He had thought his heart would split in two, that his soul would separate from his body. That pain did not compare to what he felt now.
It couldn’t be true. The princess of Hulum could not be his moon girl, his boisterous girl. It couldn’t be Yara, the woman he had fallen in love with. How could this be? How could she have allowed that?
Jafar had stomached his brother taking credit for his work. He had stomached his brother being crowned prince of a kingdom unlike any other. He would not be able to handle this.
She lowered her chin. She had been expecting him and had worn her best for him, a wondrous, sweeping dress in a shade of scarlet as wicked as her grins and lightning-fast raillery. She was a work of art, her gown an illustrious frame worthy of holding her.
Jafar’s heart ached.
Say no,he begged of her.Refuse him.He wanted her to throw out her hands and proclaim her love for him, a boy who was nothing and no one with barely a handful of dinars and a pair of rubies to his name. But he knew that she wouldn’t.
She was here for her kingdom, for marriage. She had love for her father, even if she’d said she was falling in love with Jafar. He remembered, then, the sorrow that had crossed her features, the regret, the reluctance to get close.
He watched, heart sinking, falling, breaking, as she did and said nothing.
I’ve been known to give in too easily.
Royal weddings to fulfill treaties happened regularly. Love didn’t need to exist between the two parties. If her father wanted her wed to an imposter prince who wasn’t Jafar, his moon girl would accept. He was sure of it.
There were scores of people in the room, yet in that moment, it was only the three of them: clueless Rohan; obedient Yara; and then Jafar, numb and cold and hurting.
A burst of red rushed through the doors and landed on his shoulder.
“There you are,” Iago panted. “I thought I couldn’t come in here, but some of these bozos have pets, and I was coming to tell you that—oh. You already know.”
Yara had arrived days before Jafar and Rohan had set foot in Maghriz. She had known all along that nothing between them could work out. She’dtoldhim as much:There’s something thrilling about meeting a person wholly unaware of who you are, no?
He didn’t know why he hadn’t made the connection sooner. She moved with practiced grace and a sense of innate pride. She exuded riches and splendor. Every inch of her had screamed royalty, and he had ignored every hint.
And so, Jafar came to a horrifying conclusion: she had used him.
Their tryst was as catastrophic as she’d promised it would be.
Jafar could not stand to see her, or his brother, or the Sultana and her dinner party. He fled the room, slamming into more than one servant in his rush. Iago said nothing, just hopped off his shoulder and kept pace beside him.
Jafar sat on the edge of his bed, the night nipping chilled teeth along his skin. The room was dark, but he didn’t bother with the lanterns, and the moon didn’t offer anything more than the thinnest of smiles.
The rubies looked sinister in his palm.
“Whatever you’re thinking, slow it down,” Iago warned. “Don’t be hasty.”
