The sky grew darker by the minute; an unhealthy tinge of green lined the clouds. Nahri climbed out of the water, wrung out her hair, and shivered. The air was humid and smelled of lightning. Dara was right about the storm.
She was shoving her wet feet into her boots when she felt it. The touch of the wind, so firm it was like a hand upon her shoulder. She immediately straightened up and spun around, ready to hurl her boot at whatever it was.
There was no one. Nahri scanned the rocky shore, but it was empty and still save for the dead leaves blowing in the breeze. She sniffed and caught the oddly strong scent of peppercorns and mace. Maybe Dara was attempting to conjure up a new dish.
She followed the small trail of smoke drifting in the sky behind her until she found Dara sitting at the mouth of a dark cave. A pot of stew bubbled over the flames.
He glanced up and smiled. “Finally. I was starting to fear you drowned.”
The wind whipped through her wet hair, and she trembled. “Never,” she declared, cozying up to the fire. “I swim like a fish.”
He shook his head. “All your swimming reminds me of the Ayaanle. I ought to check your neck for crocodile scales.”
“Crocodile scales?” She snatched up his goblet in hopes the wine would warm her. “Truly?”
“Ay, it’s just something we say about them.” He pushed the pot in her direction. “Crocodiles are one of the preferred forms of the marid. Supposedly the ancient Ayaanle used to worship them. Their descendants don’t like talking about it, but I’ve heard bizarre stories about their old rituals.” He took the goblet back from her; the goblet refilled with wine the instant his fingers touched the stem.
Nahri shook her head. “What is it tonight?” she asked, looking at the stew with a knowing smile. The question had turned into a game: try as he might, Dara had never been able to conjure up anything other than his mother’s lentil dish.
He grinned. “Pigeons stuffed with fried onions and saffron.”
“How forbidden.” She helped herself to the food. “The Ayaanle live near Egypt, yes?”
“Far to the south; your land is too fat with humans for the tastes of our people.”
The rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Dara made a face as he wiped water from his brow. “Tonight is not a night for stories,” he declared. “Come.” He picked up the pot, indifferent to the hot metal. “We should get out of the rain and get some sleep.” He fixed his gaze on the hidden city beyond the river, and his expression turned unreadable. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
Nahri slept fitfully, her dreams bizarre and full of thunder. It was still dark when she woke, their fire reduced to glowing embers. Rain battered the mouth of the cave, and she could hear the wind howling past the cliffs.
Dara was stretched out beside her on one of the blankets, but they’d grown familiar enough that she could tell from the cadence of his breathing that he was also awake. She rolled over to face him, realizing that he’d spread his robe over her as she slept. He lay flat on his back, his hands crossed over his stomach like a corpse.
“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.
He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the rocky ceiling. “Something like that.”
A flash of lightning lit up the cave, followed shortly by a rumble of thunder. She studied his profile in the dim light. Her gaze trailed his long-lashed eyes down his neck and across his bare arms. Her stomach fluttered; she was suddenly aware of how little space separated them.
Not that it mattered—Dara’s mind was clearly worlds away. “I wish it were not raining,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically wistful. “I would have liked to look upon the stars in case . . .”
“In case?” she prompted when he trailed off.
He glanced at her, looking almost embarrassed. “In case it’s my last night as a free man.”
Nahri flinched. Too busy searching the sky for more rukh and trying to survive the last leg of their grueling journey, Nahri had barely given further thought to their reception in Daevabad. “Do you really think you’re going to be arrested?”
“It’s likely.”
There was a hint of fear in his voice, but having learned how prone to exaggeration Dara could be—especially when it came to the djinn—Nahri tried to reassure him. “You’re probably just ancient history to them, Dara. Not everyone is capable of holding a grudge for fourteen centuries.” He scowled and looked away, and she laughed. “Oh, come now, I’m just teasing you.” She pushed up on one elbow, and without thinking much of it, reached for his cheek to turn him back to face her.
Dara startled at her touch, his eyes bright with surprise. No, not at her touch, Nahri realized with some embarrassment, rather at the position she’d inadvertently put them in, her body half-draped over his chest.
She flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He touched her cheek.
Dara looked nearly as astonished as she did at the act, as if his fingers were lightly tracing her jaw of their own accord. There was so much longing in his face—as well as a good bit of indecision—that Nahri’s heart began to race, heat pooling in her stomach. Don’t, she told herself. He’s the literal enemy of the people you’re about to ask for sanctuary, and you want to add this to the ties already binding you? Only a fool would do such a thing.
She kissed him.
Dara made a halfhearted sound of protest against her mouth and then promptly tangled his hands in her hair. His lips were warm and urgent, and every part of her seemed to cheer as he kissed her back, her body filled with a hunger her mind was screaming warnings against.
He broke away. “We can’t,” he gasped, his warm breath tickling her ear, sending a thrill down her spine. “This—this is completely inappropriate . . .”
He was right, of course. Not about being inappropriate—Nahri had never much cared about that. But it was stupid. This was how lovesick idiots ruined their lives, and Nahri had delivered enough bastards and nursed enough broken wives through the last stages of syphilis to know. But she’d just spent a month with this arrogant, infuriating man, every night and day at his side, a month of his smoldering eyes and his scalding hands that lingered both a little too long and yet never long enough.
She rolled on top of him, and the look of stunned disbelief on his face was worth it alone. “Shut up, Dara.” And then she kissed him again.
There was no sound of protest now. There was a gasp—half exasperation, half desire—then he pulled her down against him, and Nahri’s thoughts stopped being coherent.
She was fumbling with the maddeningly complicated knot on his belt, his hands slipping under her tunic, when the cave shook with the loudest boom of thunder Nahri had yet heard.
She stilled. She didn’t want to—Dara’s mouth had just found a delightful spot at the base of her throat and the press of his hips against hers was doing things to her blood she’d never thought possible. But then a flash of lightning—brighter than the rest—lit up the cave. Another breeze swept in, extinguishing the small fire and sending Dara’s bow and quiver clattering to the floor.
At the sound of his precious weapon hitting the ground, he looked up, and then froze, noticing the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”