The Bodyguard
The maid closed the door behind her, sealing me in with the jawahar, who were spearing me with their eyes.
The malikeh madars were nowhere in sight.
Mahnaz tilted forward, appearing at ease against the cushion beneath her arm, but the tightness of her jaw and thinning of her red lips gave her away.
She didn’t care for me—not in the slightest.
“I entered by mistake. I have been summoned to the breakfast room.” I turned, heading to the door. My fingers had just brushed against the handle when I heard a heinous chuckle.
“The Southern wench arrives and is granted a seat at the table with the shah. What have you done to earn such a position—other than being one with the enemy?”
My fingers fisted and I inhaled a calming breath.
“Tell me, Shahdokht, do you deem yourself worthy of this status? You had eyes for my prince, and then you snared your claws into your last resort.”
Gasps rang out at Mahnaz’s bold words. Calling Shahzadeh Dayyan a last resort wasn’t the best way to insult me. I took my time to turn around, letting the silence linger and giving Mahnaz a chance to swallow her words. I met her gleaming unregretful gaze.
“You did not deserve to step a foot on our land. Yet you are here now, and there is nothing we can do to reverse your presence. No one cares for you. They only wish for the location of the golden roots. Though I doubt you are the answer to the prophecy, just as the jadugar said. You are a sham. And there is only one way for you to survive here. You will obey your betters, Southerner.”
It suddenly made sense. The maid had led me here on Mahnaz’s order. Mahnaz wanted my submission. She was Bahir’s jawahar and maintained control. She would not relinquish her hard-earned power without a fight.
“I have no wish to rule over your harem,” I said in a low voice, stepping closer to her. “I am here for my people. I would not waste a moment otherwise.”
Her smirk wavered. “You will not survive this palace. Unless you give in. If not, you will be devoured.”
“I do not know what you expect from me.” I delved for a reply Farani would say.
“But we are not on the same level in this palace. I am a Southern princess who married a Northern prince. I have no desire to approach your master, Shahzadeh Bahir, if that is what you fear. You are not my equal to be deemed my rival.”
I pinned her down with my stare as I watched her smirk fade entirely.
She pushed to her feet, chai set aside and skirts flung wide.
The green of her dress emphasized her pale skin, highlighting the veins in her long neck.
I held her gaze, unperturbed when insults spewed from her lips, targeting my appearance and family.
But even after she had called me every name she could think of, her rage was not quelled.
She raised her hand, her fingers shaking, and swung at me.
The strike connected with my cheek, propelling me to the side with the force of it.
I winced, pressing my fingers to the heated skin.
“Hold her.”
At Mahnaz’s command, the other jawahar rushed from their seats and grabbed my arms to keep me in place. Foreboding raced up my spine as I scanned the room. There were no allies here.
“You are correct,” Mahnaz hissed. “We are not equals. You have no power here.”
She reached over the low table covered with sugared jellies and golden-flaked desserts, retrieving the knife settled beside the plates. Mahnaz played with the knife, switching it between her hands as she scanned me up and down with contempt.
“You cannot move an inch in these halls without my knowledge. If you even breathe in the same room as Bahir, I will skin you.”
I couldn’t keep my laughter at bay. It clutched my chest before emerging from my clamped lips. The other jawahar, including Mahnaz, stared at me in bemusement. Mahnaz’s fingers clenched around the knife hilt as she pointed it toward me.
“Is there something humorous here? Have I not conveyed the threat to your life clearly enough?”
My humor faded, and anger sprung to life.
She closed the distance between us, and I took action.
I stomped on the toes of the woman to my right before jabbing an elbow into another woman’s belly.
They groaned in pain and released their hold on me.
I ducked under hands reaching from behind and swiped a leg back, sweeping a woman off her feet.
She landed on her back with a screech. I spared no time to examine the spectacle, lunging forward and grabbing Mahnaz’s wrists.
She was disarmed in moments. I flicked the knife between my fingers before shoving her to the wall and settling the sharp blade against her neck.
Her dark eyes met mine, shock pooling in hers.
“Never threaten me again,” I whispered.
Her pupils dilated, and her nostrils flared. I recognized the terror and fury burning from her. The door swung open. I retracted the knife with haste and slid it up my sleeve. A thin red trail cut across Mahnaz’s elegant neck, satisfying me to no end.
“Shahdokht?”
I pivoted. Esana stood in the doorway. She glanced around with furtive concern. The other jawahar had returned to their feet, though one was balancing on one leg, and another was holding her side while wheezing. All their eyes slid to me, frozen spectators watching me with a new look—a wary look.
“Is everything all right?”
I nodded. “The ladies were welcoming me to the harem.”
Esana frowned, her lips pursing.
“Isn’t that right?” I asked the others.
Mahnaz stiffened before nodding with great reluctance.
“Very well,” Esana said. “Follow me, Shahdokht. They are expecting you for the breakfast.”
I swept from the chamber without a backward glance. Esana peered at me as we walked.
“Are you entirely certain you are fine?”
I smiled, recalling Mahnaz’s startled look. “More than fine. I’m wonderful.”
She stared at me quizzically but didn’t comment further. My delight faded as I spotted the large doors looming ahead.
“Who will be there?”
“You will dine with the shah and his family. His commanders and advisers will be present at the other tables.”
I nodded. It would be similar to my uncle’s seating arrangements.
“I will stand behind you should you need anything,” Esana reassured me.
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded and held my gaze. She wasn’t as meek as she’d been when I first arrived. Perhaps she was beginning to trust me.
A tall form cut into the hall across from us, stopping before the doors.
Shahzadeh Dayyan had changed from his morning robes.
He was wearing black again, from head to toe.
A turban nestled over his waves, and the fabric wound over his shoulder.
His robes settled on his form as if they’d been made for him, which surely they had been.
A precise eye had worked on his attire, ensuring all the measurements were perfect.
During my quick appraisal, I counted at least three weapons on him: the shamshir at his waist and the hilts of the knives peeking from his robe.
Esana slipped back, taking her place behind me as I reached the shahzadeh’s side.
He stared ahead, either not noticing my arrival or not caring. His nostrils flared, and his mouth thinned. So, he did notice.
I crossed my arms. Well, I wasn’t delighted to be in his presence either.
I took on his attitude but only managed to stare ahead with a murderous expression for a few moments before my eyes slid to him again.
From this angle, I got a good look at his mouth.
His bottom lip looked worse than it had this morning.
A bloody crack ran through it, a memory of my punch the night before.
“The artist doesn’t appreciate the art?”
I jumped at his deep voice and tore my attention from his wound to meet his gaze, which was rooted on me.
“It isn’t as vivid as I wanted it to be. I suppose my hand needs a bit more practice.”
Was it just my imagination, or did his busted mouth tilt upward the slightest bit?
“Practice,” he repeated. “Every artist needs a mentor.”
Shahzadeh Dayyan turned, enclosing me in his overwhelming presence.
I exhaled, stiffening, unsure what to expect.
He reached down, his large fingers settling over mine as he lifted my hand.
His brows drew together as he examined my palm.
He brushed over the henna, tracing my calluses in slow motions with a curious look on his face.
I shivered at his touch, unsure if it was from nerves, fear, or something else entirely.
Then I remembered: I was Yildiz, not Shahdokht Farani.
Not the doted-upon princess of the South with soft, baby-smooth skin.
I was her bodyguard, who had trained until my skin broke open.
Again and again and again. Until my hands learned not to fight back and accepted their scars.
My fingers tensed as I tried to retract my arm. But Shahzadeh Dayyan prevented my escape, tightening his grip.
“You will form a fist,” he said, his voice soft and serious as he concentrated on my hand.
I looked down, watching his fingers manipulate mine into a fist.
“Then you will swing it with purpose.”
His eyes locked with mine and I stiffened.
“I believe my purpose was there. It made its mark on your face.”
He shook his head. “You will not swing to startle and buy time. You will swing to effectively demolish your opponent.” He pulled my fist toward his neck.
“Right here, at the windpipe.” Then he continued lifting my hand, positioning it at his temple.
“A solid blow here will be enough to knock them down.”
His words and touch confused me. Why was he doing this? Trying to help me? But the warmth blooming over my skin prevented me from forming the words in the correct order.
“I know how to punch,” I finally said, my voice a whisper of its normal tone.
He lowered my hand, stepped closer, and tilted his chin down. “I have no doubt, Shahdokht. But next time, you will not hesitate. You will hit to kill. To save yourself. You will not hold back.”
He released me and I slipped my hand behind my back, concealing it and the strange emotions bursting through me.
A throat cleared, and I startled, stepping back from Shahzadeh Dayyan and his intrusive stare. I had forgotten Esana’s presence entirely.
“Shahzadeh, Shahdokht, Shah Jihangir awaits your presence,” she said with her head lowered and gaze on the floor.
The sight of her abashed flooded me with mortification.
I wondered how we looked to her. Certainly not like enemies.
I inhaled, despising myself for my moment of weakness.
I had to remain strong in this wicked palace.
As strange as Shahzadeh Dayyan was, he couldn’t be trusted any more than Bahir or Mahnaz.
He was a cold-blooded killer who could build a mountain from the corpses of my people he’d slain.
“After you,” he said.
I nodded and we stepped forward. The doors swung open, allowing us into the chamber. I couldn’t help but smile grimly at my fate. I was a facade wearing my enemies’ colors, and beside me was my husband, the North’s executioner, who would meet his end by my hand.