Chapter 23
Somadina paused at the edge of the sun-dappled pavilion. It was the calm before the storm, a day of preparations before Borji left to enquire about negotiations. The boy, of course, was busy, as was the Great Khan, and so Azul would be left unguarded for once.
His gaze softened at the woman sleeping. Azul was curled on her side on a pile of cushions, a heavy book—The Apothecary’s Arts of the Eastern Reaches—slipping from her slack fingers.
He had to acknowledge he had never seen her in muted colours. A few strands of small white beads were woven through the braids crowning her head, and delicate tangele lines accentuated the sweep of her closed eyelids and the full curve of her lips.
Drawn by impulse, Somadina moved closer, sinking into a crouch beside her. He leaned in, taking a few strands of her hair, closing his eyes, and inhaling deeply, the fragrance filling his senses.
That was his mistake.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, a hand clamped around his wrist. A searing pain pricked the soft flesh beneath his jaw.
His eyes flickered open.
Azul was awake and chillingly alert. Her golden eyes were inches from his and he wondered how long he had stared, transfixed. The silver hairpin in her hand was pressed firmly to his throat; any slight movement, and he would bleed to death.
"Okpalaeze, reading over a woman’s shoulder is considered rude. Sniffing her hair is a good way to lose a nostril. What, pray tell, did you hope to find?" she questioned, the silver pin unyielding.
Something cold and thrilling strode into his heart and settled there. A smile played on his lips, widening as he felt the sharp sting and the warm trickle of blood down his neck.
She wouldn’t kill him.
Killing the Crowned Prince in this moment would mean death for her and for her wretched family. Azul tolerated her father’s neglect, but she loved him enough to protect his legacy. Somadina knew her weaknesses—family, duty, a frustratingly logical mind—and he was more than willing to use them.
So he leaned forward. He pressed into the pin until the skin broke further, his lips coming dangerously close to hers.
She had no choice but to recoil, to pull the weapon back a fraction to avoid driving it too deep.
It was all the space he needed. He moved with the speed of a serpent, seizing her wrist and twisting until the pin clattered to the mat.
In a heartbeat, he had her pinned beneath him, her white robes a stark contrast to his blood dripping on her chest.
"Still playing with sharp things, Obim?" he asked, his breath fanning her face.
"Get off me," she spat, her golden eyes blazing with a hatred so unadulterated it was almost refreshing. It was the hatred of a woman who remembered him. It meant he’d left a mark large enough for her to notice for once.
"I came to make sure you were actually alive," he said, ignoring her struggle. "My mother overstepped her boundaries this time."
She stopped struggling, her gaze turning icy. "Why bother yourself? As you and that man have requested, I have the warlord in the palm of my hands."
That man, the man that was not her father.
The answer displeased him. It lacked the bitterness he wanted to cultivate. "I hope you understand, no matter what grand deeds he does, he won’t be able to save you. Inevitably, he will die, no matter what you scheme."
Azul scoffed, a dry, disdainful sound. "I have done as you both asked; my actions after this are mine and mine alone. Plan as you wish. But I hope you understand this. You, Somadina, will regret ever crossing me."
"Is that so?" He shifted his weight, enjoying the press of her beneath him.
"Let me guess your grand plan. You hope for my bastard Djinn brother, to sit on the throne and save you," he leaned closer, volume dropping to a sweet whisper.
"If that is your feeble idea of scheming, I will kill him myself.
You have no path to victory, Akwaugo, understand, by the end of this, you will have to submit to me. "
To seal his point, he took her left hand. It was trembling slightly, a satisfying betrayal of her fear. He brought her wrist to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the frantic pulse there, his eyes watching her over the delicate bones of her hand.
When he looked up, her face was calm. The disparity between that serene mask and the fury he knew simmered beneath was so intoxicating he felt a jolt of desire so strong it was a struggle to keep his composure.
He wanted to shatter that calm. He ached for it.
For her rage to bathe him, to drown him, to suffocate him.
A desperate, mad part of him begged in the silence of his own mind: Hit me. Spit at me. Kill me.
She withdrew her hand from his grasp sharply. Then, with a sharp crack, she struck.
Not him.
Her own cheek.
The sound was horrifically loud in the quiet pavilion. A mark bloomed instantly on her dark skin.
She didn’t even flinch. Her eyes remained locked on his, colder than death. "Are you done?"
The refusal to give him the reaction he craved doused his arousal like icy water. He stared at her, smile fading, eyes dimming. Eventually, he released her, standing to adjust his robes.
It seemed he had yet to be worth her ire.
It was only a matter of time.
The bowl of herbal soup shattered against the floor. Porcelain shards skittered across the stone, the bitter liquid blooming across the pristine white of her mourning dress, a stain as dark as her rage.
She looked at her hands, her expression darkening.
"Why are you shaking?" she whispered to the empty air, the words a seething indictment.
The fury broke its dam.
A guttural sound tore from her throat as her own hand lashed out, cracking against her cheek. The pain was a bright, clarifying sting.
Stupid.
Little.
Fucking.
Bitch!
Another slap, from the other side, harder.
You dare love that man!
She wailed in her head, the betrayal searing her heart. The physical punishment wasn't enough. It couldn't scour out the disappointment she felt so deeply. Her own body once loved that man.
She struggled to breathe, opening her mouth to scream only to heave and gasp for breath.
Azul hadn’t been trying to protect her father, not at all; she was trying to protect him.
So she hid herself, she hid their past, and she hid their love from herself. From the traveller, the stranger in her body.
Her body seemed to move of its own volition, thrown back, her spine connecting with the wall with a sickening thud. The air left her lungs in a pained gasp.
She slid down but didn't stay. Pushing herself up on trembling limbs, she stumbled toward the low table. Her hair was now a wild mane, framing her reddening face with wild strands. Shaking hands closed around the familiar weight of her silver hairpin.
Spirits should not remain—
She pressed her left palm flat against the polished wood of the table, fingers splayed. The hand was shaking violently, rebelliously, as if it knew what was to come and fought its own master.
She wrestled with it, her body twisting, a ghastly dance of self-conflict as she fought to hold it still. Her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth ached.
In the land of the living!
She raised the pin and stabbed.
The sharp point punched through skin and muscle.
Pain nearly blinded her. Her eyes watered and flooded as light flashed in her field of view. She didn't cry out. As much as her body's reaction was not her fault, it was still her oversight. Ultimately, she must also discipline herself. She pulled the pin out, slick with red, and stabbed again.
For the cowardice.
Again.
For the arrogance.
Again.
For letting him win.
Again.
Each puncture brought forth a silent, furious scream. Each was a desperate attempt to etch the lesson into her very flesh. Blood welled and dripped, spattering the white of her dress, joining the stain of the soup, a chaotic map of her failure.
The physical pain began to calm her tumultuous mind. Her breathing slowed, and the tremors in her hand subsided, replaced by a throbbing, bloody ache.
She stood there, leaning over the table, pin poised for another strike, but the frantic energy had bled out with her blood.
The lesson was learned.
She pulled the pin free one last time and dropped it on the table.
The rules were clearer now.
It was her mistake.
She would not be caught unaware twice.
Her memories were complicated and sticky, as though they had been pulled out and stuffed back into her head more than once.
Her relationship with Somadina. Why she had gone to his room that night.
Why she had been so willing to enter the palace.
The story of a village girl who stole the heart of a prince she met once.
A prince she had fallen in love with. The charming, dashing, perfect Okpalaeze and the foolish girl who thought his glances showed concern and that his flattery came from his heart.
That his hands on her skin and his lips on hers were a blessing from the gods.
Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes, exorcising herself of such feelings, unwilling to give in.
Azul of the Borjigin did not lose.
Not to men.
Not to the gods.
Not to anyone.
Borji would sit on that throne, whether they liked it or not.
His underestimating her, till the very end, would be his greatest mistake.
Her ears perked up.
Hesitant footsteps outside her door. Nkiru’s voice, thin with worry, called through the wood. "Akwaugo? Are you… is everything alright?"
Azul closed her eyes, forcing a breath down her raw throat. The voice that emerged was stripped of all emotion. "I am fine, Nkiru."
"The… the Great Khan is here to see you."
Azul said nothing. Silence was permission enough.
Ragnar stepped inside, and for a moment he found himself stunned by the scene before him. The shattered bowl, the bloodstained robes, the wild cascade of her hair, the soul of his Khatun in violent disarray.