The Bodyguard
Eskender stumbled out of the chamber minutes after Dayyan left, a brokenness in his features that shattered my heart.
It was clear how much he revered Dayyan, and to be on the receiving end of his wrath was something I wished on no one, but especially not on those who cared for him.
I wanted to hate him, to convince myself to forget him, but I couldn’t.
He had slowly snared my heart from my chest, piece by piece.
It was so disordered now that I was afraid I could never put it together again.
Dayyan’s voice slinked through my mind like it had a thousand times on this single night.
It’s over.
I walked out of the room. My bare feet were cold against the cool stone.
I tried to find Farani’s chamber, and when I finally did, her guards that had accompanied her from the South denied me entrance, saying she didn’t want to be disturbed.
I turned back, the dancing torches leading me to Dayyan’s private office.
Eskender was within, sitting behind Dayyan’s desk, his head buried in his arms, devastation written in every line of his body.
Nothing I said would comfort him. He needed time.
And we would have plenty of that to spend conversing on our journey.
Dayyan had banished us. This was for the best, I told myself.
I had my brother back, and that was more than I could ever ask for.
I remembered the previous time I had stood in this chamber.
My fingers trailed over the desk where the sketches of me had been.
Dayyan had stood across from me, bleeding from his shoulder.
I scanned the floor, now devoid of the fallen drawings.
Whatever affection he’d held for me to have drawn them was now long gone.
Not only did he see me as a liar in the worst way, but also, he believed his closest friend and I were romantically involved.
Eskender didn’t look up as I perused the desk.
My eyes settled on a leather-bound journal at the edge.
I picked it up and moved toward an empty chair.
I settled down and cracked open the journal before hesitating.
This was wrong. I shouldn’t have been prying through his things.
But my voice of reason wasn’t strong enough to overpower my curiosity.
I leaned closer to a candle, my eyes trailing over the inscription.
To my daring nephew, may you be bold and your heart fierce.
Dayyan had an uncle? I hadn’t seen him in the palace. The dedication was worn, dulled with time. I glanced at Eskender, but he hadn’t moved, and when I tilted closer, I realized he’d fallen asleep. I sat back and opened the journal to the first entry.
I killed a man today.
Five short words, written in bold ink. A confession. I glanced at the next page.
Madar wonders why I’ve stopped visiting her, why I’ve stopped playing with Mara. I told her the shah keeps me occupied with state affairs instead of the truth. I cannot meet my family’s eyes anymore. I cannot bear to see them when I have innocent blood on my hands. I cannot.
I inhaled a shaky breath and looked at the date of the entry—twelve years back. Dayyan would have been a boy then. A child should never be forced to live with such guilt.
I thought the torment would lessen with time. It’s only grown worse. I have nightmares now. Father arranged Bahir’s standing as the heir. I no longer have any value to him, other than being his slave.
The next entry was written sloppily, and the paper was wrinkled and torn, as if he’d formed it into a ball to toss away but had ended up returning it to the journal.
I had to kill three more people. Their eyes haunt me. I’m taking tonics before sleeping now. They’ve helped a little. Shah Jihangir threatened me with Bazmara, saying he would send her to marry a commander. She’s barely eleven years old. I couldn’t allow it. I had to obey. As always.
A tear slipped from my lashes. It dropped onto the paper, blotting the ink.
I hadn’t thought I could despise Shah Jihangir more, but this changed that.
He’d been forcing Dayyan to murder for him since he was a little boy.
I continued reading. Learning more about Dayyan.
His fears, his regrets, his pain. I was in his mind for the first time, and instead of being drawn away from him because of the disturbing things he revealed, I felt inextricably connected.
I yearned to comfort the hurting child buried within the pages, to find some way to shield him.
There were fewer and fewer entries until years separated them.
There was now a hesitance in the way he wrote, as if he could no longer express himself.
Finally, I found one dated recently, two months before. The first entry after two years.
We married today.
My heart pattered a touch faster.
I nearly tore Bahir to shreds when he touched her. There’s something about her . . .
I glanced over the next entries. They were growing closer together again.
She is beautiful.
Three simple words.
I do not think she even notices the little things she does.
That tilt of her chin when she grows defensive, the way her fingers clench when I challenge her.
Her small smile that comes after we speak when she believes I am not looking.
This woman has enchanted me. I can no longer think coherently when she is in the same room.
These were not the words of a man without feeling. I closed the journal and stood. I could not allow him to be a puppet in another game. I could not allow him to be sacrificed in Farani’s plot. I had to get through to her before she took him from me. I would save my shahzadeh.
It’s over.
How could it be over when it hadn’t even begun?