I walked up the greenery-filled pathway to the Kaval’s villa, different tropical plants and flora lining its edges as winged insects buzzed and fluttered from plant to plant. Early spring was wrought with life, as flowers began to open their buds and bugs arose from their eggs. Strong, earthy scents filled my lungs along with the feeling of anxiety that bubbled within them at each breath. I had to see Jamila today, or else my plans may fall through. Tomorrow, the Kingdom would open for trade. Much of the citizens listened to the letters I’d sent out, stowing precious valuables away and out of sight, wearing their least fanciful clothing. Farmers agreed to sell their smaller produce, keeping large and valuable harvests hidden for themselves. Fatiha’s father was apprehensive, but eventually went along with trading his lesser-valued items instead of lucrative goods. He was the key to getting other merchants to follow suit. Jamila and her brothers, though, seemed to protest the requests after the noblewoman saw me carry Hala through the palace courtyard. I was a fool to have made a display of it. I dreaded today’s encounter, but I knew it was necessary for us to succeed. The guards met me with their usual respectful nod as I strode towards the gates.

“Freznah krodhat.” I greeted them.

“Kazah Freznah.” They replied in unison.

The gates drew open, and I stepped foot into the wide, luscious garden. Daisies, Hyacinth, and bushes of Camellias—an ode to Al’Haya—were in full bloom, greeting me with their vibrant colors and strong scents. The skies were clear as high noon encroached. Though the air still had a slight chill when the breeze blew, my body was on fire. Hot flashes from the anticipation of confrontation breached my body like waves, rising and receding. Up, and down. I loosed a breath as I prepared to meet Jamila’s deep brown eyes, how they would fill with bitter resentment the moment they met mine.

You are Al’Namir Abyad ne Mahsul. You are a warrior. A woman is your least concern. I told myself as I walked up the steps.

Now my feet were cold, almost tingling as I raised my fist to knock on the door. Before my knuckles even grazed the cedar wood, the knob turned and the door flung open. There she was, looking straight at me, eyes lined with betrayal. My heart wrenched at the sight, even if I hated her.

“Abyad.” He voice cracked with disbelief as she uttered my name.

“Jamila, I—” My voice wouldn’t work as I willed it. I cleared my throat. “Can we talk?”

She hadn’t greeted me with her usual fervor, clinging around my neck and hanging onto me. She hadn’t offered a formal welcome, nor did she eye me with her usual desire. She was withdrawn, demure, almost painfully silent as she walked me through to the foyer in her new white dress; short, provocative, revealing. The opposite of her demeanor in that moment. Her curls bounced as she walked, turning on her heels as she fell to the lush couch in the center of the living area. I sat on the couch across from her, meeting her eyes again.

“I’ve been thinking about you, Themaz.” I quietly began slipping into my hedonist charade. God, how I felt slimy as I spoke. “You look stunning in that dress.”

Jamila’s expression softened, her harsh exterior breaking away in chips. “You’re such a liar.” She jabbed, pouting her lips.

“Don’t be like that.” I smiled. “You know how I fancy you.”

My words were so effective; this was too easy. I almost cringed at myself, at how good I was at playing this game. It was a dance I’d all but mastered by now, a woman conversing with me was choosing to converse with Fiid. My eyes narrowed on her as I brought an ankle to my knee and leaned into the back of the couch.

“How are your brothers? Kharif has been begging me to let Uthmon into the Fourth Battalion.” I drawled.

“They’re okay…Uthmon doesn’t deserve such a position. Kharif is just trying to use his own name to further brother’s name.” She said, scratching her nose with the heel of her hand.

“I’ll remember that, then.” I smirked. My hands met the back of the couch, I sat there, perched like a King as she soaked in my body. I had purposefully unbuttoned my tunic to expose my chest, and been particular about how my hair dried that morning. For someone who didn’t care about this woman, I had put far too much effort into my appearance.

“I know you didn’t come all the way here just to ask about my brothers.”

“And you’d be right, I came to lay my eyes on your figure in that dress.” I replied coolly. I could see her squirm on the cushion adjacent to me as she tugged at the hem of her dress. Smoothing each crease that she saw.

“I can’t get that image out of my mind, Jamila. How you looked at me as I carried Al’Hala. It’s flattering, how visible your upset was.” I had to really play up the persona in that moment, my words a forced melody as my hands waved; my arms still sprawled across the back of the couch.

“You say it as if you’ll ever return the sentiment.”

“It’s not like I never tried.” My words lingered in her mind, bringing back memories of our early adult years—not that she was much younger than I was.

————

We crossed paths beneath a willow on a cool summer morning, as I’d sat grieving Hala’s betrothal. I was freshly 18, and sore from training. The first year Hala missed my birthday. She’d found me wheezing and sputtering an hour after the fact, still a somewhat gangly young boy who hid from confrontation.

“You look horrible.” She snarked as she sat beside me.

“Shove it, Jamila.” I barked back in anger, my abdomen cramping with the words. She helped me sit up as I shot daggers at her.

“I’m surprised they managed to get you out of that room. You smell horrible.”

“I said shove it.”

She looked at me with the same feline amusement I now wore. Her teasing expression nearly sent me into a frenzy, and had I been unable to move more than a few inches at a time I might have gone for her throat.

“At least you look better.” She finally said after a long silence. It had been a few weeks since I’d begun training, my body following a stricter sleep schedule upon no accord of my own. The circles around my eyes were less severe, though still present. It killed me, how she’d insult me and then issue me compliments when no one was around.

“I feel like shit.” I spat.

“Do you ever smile anymore?” She asked.

I kept my mouth shut.

“You look even more like a stray dog now, Idris, than you did when Hala was around.”

This was her way of being nice, but I didn’t take kindly to it.

“You should learn to keep her name out of your mouth.” I replied, my voice low and threatening.

“Or what?” She asked, peering over at me.

I’d had it. She was too pretty to be such a brat. If she could learn how to keep her mouth shut, maybe she’d find the attention she so desperately craved. I compelled my body to do as I demanded when I pinned her against the willow, looking into her eyes with nothing but pure malice. Her eyes grew wide as she shrank back, balking at someone’s actions for once. Even I hadn’t realized that I dwarfed her.

“Or I’ll give you something else to talk about.” I threatened.

I let her go, and just like that: our game of cat and mouse began. As she watched me gain muscle, she grew more attached to me. Her eyes remained glued to me, on and off of the sparring grounds, now lingering by my side at social gatherings. No longer was she as sharp tongued—no, she was more conniving. Her words were laced with an undertone of danger, daring whatever woman who interfered with her to start something. Jamila never stopped other women from trying to woo me, even when we disappeared to different wings of villas to experiment with each others’ bodies. Each time we’d return, she’d watch me, waiting for me to do something else. As if she were waiting for me to decide to choose her. It wasn’t like I’d downright made a move on her that day under the willow—it was actually an attempt to scare her off. But just like the way she navigated the social hierarchy: she enjoyed danger. She didn’t actively seek it out, but she welcomed it should it ever find its way to her doorstep.

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————

I brought a hand to my chin, smiling at her as I remembered how she’d watch me with unbridled arousal as I situated my clothing when returning with girls. She shifted again, on the cushion; I could tell she recalled that evening as clearly as I did. She’d assumed I had pinned her to that willow tree out of desire, not revenge, and I used that to my advantage.

“Do you love her?” She finally asked me. My hand slowly fell back to the back of the couch.

“I appreciate beauty in any form, Themaz.” I replied, hiding my true feelings.

It was an answer she could deal with, but one that clearly made her uncomfortable.

No. I love you, Jamila.

That was what she wanted me to say. But she’d never receive such words from my lips. My heart had been kept under lock and key, never sworn to any woman other than the next in line for the throne. The woman I’d comfort from her nightmares. I never uttered the word ‘love’ to any woman I’d slept with, even when they were the first to say them after I’d brought them to climax.

“And while I appreciate your beauty in that dress…” I started. “I must request that you follow the orders sent to you in the letter I had sent out en mass last week.”

“I’m a woman of high-status, Abyad. I should be allowed to display that.” She retorted.

“And once this season passes, you will.” I expressed. “I don’t enjoy seeing you don common wear from this Kingdom, not when I could be looking at…” I trailed off as I raked her silhouette. A buxom figure, with little to hide it in the dress from Jagan. A dress I knew Hala would kick and scream at the idea of wearing, even in her younger years.

Jamila blushed as our eyes locked. The sunlight fell on her soft cheekbones and jawline—the only things soft about her when she wasn’t under my glamour.

“The Kingdom opens for trade tomorrow, Jamila. We need everyone to play their part. We are a grief-stricken nation, falling into a depression after the loss of Al’Hala.” I explained.

“Al’Hala lives, and this plan is something I’m strongly against. Under what circumstances was she returned to Mahsul?” She was asking questions she didn’t deserve answers to.

“Al’Hala’s presence is not to be uttered to anyone. Her sighting in the palace is to be kept between those who saw her, and no one else.” I threatened as I straightened myself from the couch. I leaned in on the ankle I’d drawn to my knee, watching her with unwavering attention as she grew smaller under my watch. “You saw her. She was in no condition fit for Royalty. She was brought home for that reason.”

“Even so…” she argued. “Lying to Otlak and claiming that she’s dead is wrong.”

“Was it not also wrong when Shahin lied; leading us to believe that Zarvan would cut its trade with us if he was not offered Al’Hala’s hand in marriage?” I questioned.

I was right, and she knew it. Her eyes widened as she brought her hands to her abdomen, wringing them.

“Lord Shahin is a man of virtue—maybe he was right.” She tried to excuse him just as everyone who was unaware of his true nature did.

“Duke Markovni is a liar.” I growled. It was a brazen display of my vexation that allured her. She enjoyed being on the receiving end of my misguided anger.

“Abyad…” She said, taking in a breath. She contemplated for a moment, wary of which route she wanted to go down. Whether she wanted to to risk burning the pathetic bridge she’d made between us, or keep it in tact and try to hammer a board onto it to try to improve it. The silence that filled the air was deafening, I could faintly hear my heartbeat in my eardrums as I waited for her answer.

“I’ll talk to Kharif and Uthmon. To tell them to stop wearing the armor they just got from Strolgia.”

Those words were music to my ears. The anger that had begun to well in me, ruminating on that bastard of a Duke, was smothered like a campfire in that moment. I composed myself, drawing in a breath and plastering on a faint smile.

“You will?” I asked quietly. Jamila nodded her head, watching me with anticipation. Her eyes were begging to please me, hoping to quell the upset that had rooted itself in me.

“Thank you, Jamila.” I said in a grateful tone, laced with a twinge of somber. Her eyes narrowed on me in appeasement as she forced a smile to her own face.

“Of course.” She replied

————

Jamila and I almost always ended our interactions with diplomatic kindness, but I was feeling especially generous that day. She asked me to walk in the garden with her as always, and I joined her—as always. We made our way to the far end of the property, under a gazebo. She watched the Monarch caterpillars as they munched on leaves hanging over the railing, their dotted bodies almost blending in with the shadows. If I looked hard enough into those shadows, they could have had eyes. I was unsure of if Bròn was still onto his usual antics, following me and listening in on even my most intimate moments. I stifled the shudder that wanted to ripple down my spine, refocusing my gaze on Jamila. That dress really was something unholy.

Jamila truly was a beautiful woman. She had been blessed with her mother’s genetics, much to her credit. She stood atop long legs, with a hips and bust that offered a perfect hourglass silhouette. If I didn’t know the kind of woman she was, I probably would have sought her out in our younger years to see what lay beneath the robes Mahsulian women traditionally wore. But I knew of her back-biting, and underhanded comments. I knew of how she’d sabotage any woman she perceived as a threat.

It’s always the most beautiful women who have something unhinged within them.

As displayed by Jamila’s fashion choices, which only grew more daring as the years passed. At first, it was alterations made to her traditional noble gowns—high slits from the hip down; low necklines; taking the hem up, up, up, until boys whistled as she walked by. In Mahsul, we’re taught to respect each woman as if they were our mother—not to sexualize them in the open, or behind closed doors. She was almost hellbent on making sure men objectified her, taking pride in the lingering eyes and whispered comments. Even when noblewomen began rumors of her being a floozy: she didn’t balk at them. She welcomed the attention, sometimes trying to raise jealousy within me by hanging off of other men—her eyes fixed on me during the process. It never worked. I’d get her back by finding the prettiest girl in the room and casting her under my spell, dancing with her until she guided me to a more secluded area.

Jagan was an interesting land, one that I’d only seen a glimpse of when on a trip with Saerie to acquire dyes for Fatiha’s father. It was hotter there than it could get here in Mahsul, leading the women to don less modest attire. There, such clothing made sense; but Jamila wasn’t a woman whose taste in clothing relied upon the weather. The dress she wore was one I’d seen on the women of that eastern land, but their figures trended lithe and flat. The woman before me under that gazebo was anything but.

“I still don’t like her.” Jamila admitted. I cocked my head to the right.

“Al’Hala. I don’t think she’s as beautiful as nobility makes her out to be. When I saw her in the courtyard, it reaffirmed my beliefs.”

“She’s ill, Jamila. Of course she won’t be the pinnacle of beauty.” I replied, trying to keep a casual demeanor. It took everything within me not to grit my jaw in insult.

“What is she ill with?” Jamila asked. I might have seen a hint of concern in her eyes, but I didn’t want to give her that grace.

“Her time in Otlak proved to be rather difficult, we’re still trying to get the the bottom of it all.”

“Well, she looks horrible.”

I bristled at her words, bringing a hand to the back of my neck. “She’s on the road to recovery, Jun Inaa.”

God-willing.

Jamila brought her arms to her chest, crossing them. I don’t think she realized how close she was to spilling from the cloth that hardly covered her chest. My eyes remained on hers as she studied me, trying to uncover my true emotions towards her, and the Princess.

“Abyad, I need to address something.” She said, squaring her shoulders. I nodded softly, encouraging her to speak. My face didn’t show it, but that statement alone sent anxiety through my entire body.

“You’ve slept with countless women, without getting to know them…without speaking to them ever again…” I knew where this was going, and I’d prepared myself for such a conversation for years. “Yet you never slept with me. And you know how I’ve made subtle gestures, all but begging you to bring me somewhere.”

I kept quiet, knowing there was more to this conversation than a request to be bedded. I could see in her eyes that she had much to say.

“I know how we met as children wasn’t…the best…” She brought a hand to her clavicle. “But we were kids, Abyad. The way I talked to you then, I’ve tried to correct it. So why? Why do you continue to flatter me without ever doing more than that?”

Desperation lined her voice, pure devastation in her eyes. This conversation was long overdue; our game of cat and mouse had been ongoing for more than six years, now. I smirked at her, mirroring her stance as I crossed my own arms.

“I’d never want a woman of such high-status to endure being bedded by a lowly-born lapdog, Jamila.” I replied, my tone even and casual. It came out as I’d always dreamed.

Her face fell, emotional turmoil lining her eyes as she recalled similar words coming from her lips all those years ago.

“Abyad, I didn’t mean those things.” She pleaded. “I was a teenager—a stupid, jealous teenager.”

“Jealous?” I drawled.

“Yes, Abyad, Jealous! I was jealous of how you always stayed beside Al’Hala. How you looked at her with such fondness. I…wanted you to look at me like that.”

The admission was one I relished in, her unspoken feelings had finally left her lips. I moved a step in towards her, hands falling to my sides.

“You should be more careful of how you treat people.” I said, closing in on her. “If you want something, you should be more outspoken. Take a lesson from Al’Hala’s books. You act as though I never thought about how you’d feel, wrapped around me. The way your lips taste.”

A hand to her cheek was all it took to make her tremble. “I never bedded you, because you never asked.” I lied. This could play one of two ways—and I had to prepare myself for both.

“Would you truly let your body be claimed by Al’Hala’s lapdog?” I asked.

She nodded, swallowing harshly. Her next words were thick with desire. “I would, and this is me asking.”

Shit. Good job, Idris.