The Bodyguard
The training chamber door was open and the clash of steel rang from within.
I entered, lingering in the back, and watched as two Southern men wearing leather training armor and chest guards faced a tall figure.
My husband, to be exact. An audience of Southern warriors stood watch, cheering on the two men and goading them to attack, then jeering when they shook their heads and surrendered.
“Is that all the South has to offer?” Dayyan called, pointing his shamshir around the chamber.
“You do not fight fair, Shahzadeh,” one man responded, stepping out of the group. “You wear full armor.”
He is one man against two, I argued mentally on his behalf.
“I will have no one accusing me of being unjust.”
Murmurs sprung through the onlookers as Dayyan pulled off his armor, armguards, and chest guard.
He unhooked the front of his robes and shrugged the thick material from his shoulders.
He stood before them wearing only black trousers and a thin undershirt that clung to his form with a layer of sweat that made the cream material nearly transparent.
Dayyan tossed his shamshir and it clattered to the ground.
“Will that do?”
Whispers flitted among the group. He spread his arms wide.
“Come, all of you.”
Was he insane? Eleven of the group spilled forward in a circle around him, while some wary warriors stayed behind. The men unsheathed their glittering blades, but a tension lingered as they hesitated.
“I do not plan to be here all day.”
That prodded them into action. They lunged at Dayyan, four at once and then another four right after, wave after wave of trained soldiers against the prince of death.
He evaded each stab, ducked each swing, jumped over low blades.
Every action was graceful and lethal. A power emanated from him that he carried within; he was fully aware of his skill and how much to reveal and when. He was beautiful.
Sweat trickled down his face and he flung back wet strands of hair.
The soldiers grunted, anger pouring through their movements as they grew harried and rushed.
Dayyan’s arm snaked around one man’s throat, and he used him as a shield.
Another soldier emerged from behind. A warning was seconds from bursting from my lungs, but there was no need.
Dayyan thrust his shield away, and the man crashed into the incoming soldiers.
Then he spun to face the attacker behind him, catching his forearm and twisting it to an unbearable level.
The man’s head jerked back as he screamed.
His fingers flew open, and his sword dropped—into Dayyan’s waiting hand.
As soon as the metal touched Dayyan’s fingers, it was over.
He disarmed four soldiers in moments, sending them stumbling away.
Another escaped with a thin cut to his neck.
He touched the skin there, his eyes bulging when his hand came away red.
A soldier tripped in his haste to escape Dayyan, and Dayyan slapped his rump with the blunt edge of his blade, sending him sprawling onto the hard floor.
I couldn’t contain my laughter. It spilled out with unrestrained mirth.
Blue eyes flicked to me and stopped, melting into rivers warming beneath the sun.
A tiny smile creased the edges of his lips.
A Southerner took advantage of his distraction and lunged forward.
The dull side of his blade smashed against Dayyan’s wounded arm.
A howl burst from Dayyan’s chest. I was a blur, darting between the attackers and at his side in an instant.
Even with him in this injured state, they prowled forward, bloodlust in their eyes.
They thirsted to finish him off. My hand shot out.
“Enough!”
They froze, their brows lowering. Dayyan leaned over, sweat trickling down his clenched jaw. “I’m fine.”
“You must see the healer.”
He shook his head, though his face was pale.
Several minutes and corridors later, Dayyan sat at the foot of a bed while the healer crafted a fresh ointment of herbs and beneficial plants. He glanced at Dayyan. “Remove your shirt.”
The command was a bark. Here, Dayyan wasn’t seen as a shahzadeh, but rather the brutal murderer of hundreds of Southerners. Dayyan’s fingers probed over the buttons, but with one hand, it was proving to be an arduous task. The healer sighed, exasperated, and shot me a look.
I hesitated, locking eyes with Dayyan before stepping forward.
The air stilled as I grasped the first button.
It slipped free and I moved to the next.
The heat of his skin seeped into the tips of my fingers as they brushed against his chest. I forced myself to focus on the task rather than whatever had been simmering between us since the balcony.
Breathless moments passed, each one exposing more of his golden skin. He slid the shirt off, and my eyes drifted shut. I couldn’t bear to hold his entrancing gaze.
“Waiting for a kiss, hamsaram?” The hoarse whisper brought a furious blush to life. “I believe I’m still owed one for defeating you in the arena.”
I met his burning blue eyes. “If you recall, I bested you at archery soon after. Meaning we are tied. And besides . . .” I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “You already got one.”
Dayyan’s arm slinked around my waist and tugged me against him. I gasped, grasping his bare arms to maintain the space between us.
“You seem faint. Perhaps we should have the healer check you instead?”
A loud throat cleared and I broke out of Dayyan’s hold. The healer leaned over and examined Dayyan’s arm, clicking his tongue when he spotted the pus.
“I applied ointment twice per day,” I supplied. “But we haven’t done so since we traveled here.”
“You should be grateful to your wife,” the healer grunted. “If not for the early ointment application, I may have had to amputate your hand.”
“Then I truly would have become beast-like.” He was staring at me, reminding me of the tale. The tale that was becoming our own story.
“It is not appearance that makes a beast,” I responded.
The healer handed me a small jar. “Remove the pus and apply this medicinal substance. That should heal it thoroughly.”
With that, he ducked out of the chamber in a rush to see his next patient.
I sifted through the metal tools the healer had left behind.
I probed and poked at the wound, grimacing when yellow pus seeped out.
Dayyan gritted his teeth, and the muscles in his forearm strained.
I looked at him, blinking my lashes innocently.
“You seem faint, Shahzadeh. Should I call for the healer to return?”
Though his face was pale, his lips curved up slightly, flashing a portion of his white teeth. “Amusing.”
I finished cleaning the wound and applied the ointment before wrapping it in clean linen.
“I was harsh to you,” Dayyan started. “I felt betrayed that you kept your identity from me. It was wrong, but it doesn’t change what happens now. You will remain here, and I will return to the North.”
The warmth pooling in my chest dissipated. He still wanted to leave me behind. Had I imagined his conversation with Bahir? I will not lose her.
“From this moment on, we are strangers. Strangers that will never cross paths again.” He stood.
After weeks of being forced together, he considered us strangers? Dayyan pulled on his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as he strode toward the door.
“Light,” I said, and he froze. “That is how you take your tea in the morning. Strong, bitter, and steaming in the evenings.”
The muscles in his back tensed as he remained facing the door.
“You hole yourself up when you are under duress. You retreat because you do not want to be a burden on anyone, so you contain your pain and bear it alone.” My voice broke.
“You love your siblings with all the fire of the sun. When you are fascinated by something, you draw it. You study it and then capture it in a completely unique way.”
Dayyan placed his palm against the door to hold his weight.
“You covered a girl who cowered before you. You shielded her, even though she was your enemy.” My lips trembled. “You did not dishonor her, though nothing could have stopped you. Instead, you saved her.”
Dayyan’s head turned, and I could see a wet streak dancing a path down his cheek into his beard.
“I know you, Dayyan,” I said, stepping closer. “I’ve come to know you. In fact, you, my enemy, have treated me better than I have ever been treated.”
“Stop.” He spun to face me. “I pledged to myself that I wouldn’t do this. I will not torture you further.”
“You cannot choose for me. I will decide where my heart is content.”
I brushed the tear from his skin with a trembling hand. Dayyan grabbed hold of my wrist, holding my fingers against his cheek and the rough hairs of his beard.
“You will despise me,” he whispered. “I cannot stand that. I would rather die than see myself a monster in your eyes.”
“No.”
“You will,” he insisted, his gaze wild and desperate.
“If you knew the truth—” He broke off. “I must stop this now and save you from a hell of self-torment. Stay here, where you belong, where you are safe.” He leaned closer, as though he couldn’t help it, as though he needed to be near me even as his words said otherwise.
“Help turn the South into the place it should be. I will do everything in my power to uphold the peace. The South will not see an enemy in me, Yildiz, I promise you this.”
He was concealing something, and it was this truth he believed would tear us apart forever. He was afraid to lose me because of it.
“Dayyan, I lo—”
His fingers closed over my mouth, sealing the words.
“Do not.”
Hurt pounded through my chest like a stampede of horses across shifting sands. He dropped his hold.
“It is impossible.” He retreated, not meeting my eyes. “Farewell, Yildiz.”
I forced myself to turn cold, to hold back the tears as the door closed behind him.