“I am a star,” she whispered, and silvery light drifted off her fingertips like frozen lace. “I am a galaxy.”
The frenetic buzzing of her magic settled, and she tilted her face toward the sky.
It was lonely in the starlight, but loneliness was better than being surrounded by another kind of prison. There was just one thing missing in the starlight.
Javan.
Tears burned her eyes and slid down her cheeks to drip like silver-white diamonds to the balcony below. She couldn’t stay here where the walls closed in and the air still smelled faintly of Maqbara. She couldn’t stay, but leaving was going to carve out a piece of her heart.
A sound cut through the stillness, and she opened her eyes to see Javan standing on his own balcony a short distance to the west. He was watching her, and the pain on his face made part of her want to go to him.
The rest of her longed for the wide-open spaces of the desert where she could be alone with nothing but the stars and her freedom for company.
She held his gaze for a long moment, and then judged the distance between the balconies, gathered her elven strength, and leaped. He raised his arms as if to catch her, but didn’t touch her as she landed in a crouch and then stood in front of him.
For a long moment, they watched each other. Tears gathered in the back of her throat, and she let the starlight slide off her fingertips. Let her magic coil and churn as she reached for his hands.
His skin was warm against hers, and he caught his breath as she stepped closer and laid her head against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
His shoulders bowed, and for a moment he was still. And then he let go of her hands so that he could wrap his arms around her. She pulled him close, memorizing the heat of his skin and the imprint of his body sheltering hers.
“When are you leaving?” he asked, and the pain in his voice sent her magic thrumming through her blood.
She wanted to take the hurt away. Promise to stay and somehow be the girl who could survive inside a palace like she’d survived inside a prison.
But she swallowed the words and simply held him instead. She wanted more than to just survive. She wanted to heal. To stop being afraid. She wanted to carve the word monster out of her and replace it with something better. Something that fit.
“Javan,” she breathed as she tipped her head back to look at him.
He smiled, though there were tears in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I’m not.” His voice was steady. “You owe no one an apology, Sajda. Including me.”
“But I’m hurting you.”
He gently touched her cheek with his lips. “Sometimes it hurts to love someone. I wouldn’t change it, though. I wouldn’t change a single thing. I love you.” He met her eyes. “Please remember that no matter how far you go, I’ll always be here if you decide to return.”
His voice shook a little, and she leaned up to kiss him. His lips were rough and a little desperate, his hands fisted in the back of her dress. She tilted his head so she could get a better angle, and her magic surged through her, a thrill of pain and pleasure.
When she stepped back, she held his gaze one last time, and tried to find words for the way he was the one place she knew she was safe. For the way his smile made her cheeks glow or the way his faith in her settled the rough edges of a wound she still hadn’t truly examined.
The words wouldn’t come. Instead, she whispered, “Thank you for freeing me and for letting me go.”
And then before more tears could spill over, before the magic that was hurling itself toward him instead of toward the open sky could tempt her to make a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep, she leaped back to her own balcony, grabbed the pack of supplies she’d assembled earlier in the evening, and left the palace behind.
FORTY-SIX
THE DAY AFTER Sajda left, Javan was crowned the new king of Akram. No one had warned him how heavy the crown would be. He stood in the tiled entrance of the palace and tried to ignore the dull ache in his temples as he greeted the royalty who were visiting Akram to pay their respects to Akram’s new king while also visiting the grave of Javan’s father.
It had been two weeks since he’d won the tournament in Maqbara, lost his father, and then gained his freedom and his throne thanks to Sajda. He hadn’t had a single peaceful night of sleep since. His dreams were filled with the blood he’d shed, and his ears echoed with the screams of those who’d died in the arena. His days hadn’t been much better. He’d spent his time working through the royal council, the palace staff, and the aristocratic families who lived in Makan Almalik, hunting for corruption, assessing his kingdom’s needs, and searching for the right people to take over both Maqbara and the magistrate’s office so that every prisoner’s case could be reviewed.
Javan wasn’t going to allow anyone who’d been sent to Maqbara without evidence to stay in that place of darkness and pain.
The impostor, however, was going to live in Maqbara until a trial could be held. Part of Javan hoped the boy would receive a death sentence for his actions. Part of him couldn’t stomach the thought of more bloodshed, even for someone who deserved it.
He adjusted the heavy crown on his head and wished that Sajda was standing next to him.
Her name sent a bone-deep ache of misery through him, and he resolutely stretched his smile wider as he reached a hand toward the next pair of royals who attended his coronation. Above him, moonlight flooded the glass dome of the palace entry, gilding the enormous diamond chandelier a dazzling white.
Somewhere, Sajda was staring at the same sky. The starlight would turn to liquid silver beneath her skin, and she would be glowing in a way that almost hurt to see.
“Are you well?” The boy whose hand Javan just realized he’d been clasping for too long stared at him intently, his dark eyes narrowed as he pulled his hand free and took a step back.
“My apologies,” Javan said, wincing as the ache in his head redoubled.
“No apology necessary.” A beautiful girl with golden skin and a wide smile elbowed the boy and then leaned toward Javan as if she wanted to tell him a secret. “The key to surviving these interminable meet-and-greet ceremonies is a healthy supply of snacks.”
Javan’s eyebrow rose. “Snacks?”
She grinned. “Works every time. Chocolate is especially good if you’ve got a headache. Of course you don’t have a handbag to smuggle food in, but you’re the king! People have to obey you. You can send a page to the kitchen at any time.”
“Chocolate.” Javan smiled what felt like his first real smile since he’d watched Sajda leave as the girl tapped a finger against the beaded exterior of her handbag. “You’re carrying snacks right now, aren’t you?”
“You never know when you’re going to need one.” She extended her hand for him to lift to his lips. “I’m Ari.”
The boy sighed, though he seemed just as bemused by Ari as Javan was. “She means she’s the Honorable Princess Arianna Glavan of Súndraille.”
The girl looked pained. “I’d prefer just Ari.”
Javan nodded solemnly. “I’ll think of you as Ari, the girl with the snacks.”
She beamed, and then they moved on, beckoned by a page to a hall set with refreshments. Javan greeted several others, and then ducked out a side door to the courtyard, its fountains frozen solid.
His breath fogged the air as he removed his crown, nearly groaning in relief as its weight lifted.
If only it was that easy to lift the other weight he carried.
The nightmares. The corruption in his government. The wounds that needed to be healed across his kingdom.
And the way he missed Sajda with every breath he took.
“Your Highness, all the visitors have arrived.” A page spoke from the doorway behind him. “Are you ready to give your welcome speech?”
Javan let the ache of missing Sajda settle into his bones, and then squared his shoulders. Pl
acing the crown back on his head, he took one last breath of the peaceful night air and then prepared himself to fulfill his duty.
To make his parents proud. To lead his people with honor and compassion. And to be the kind of king who understood what sacrifice and love truly meant.
“Your Highness?”
He rose to his feet, turned to face the page, and said, “I’m ready.”
EPILOGUE
JAVAN STOOD ON the balcony that overlooked his courtyard at the palace and watched the stars flicker to life in the velvet sky above. The chill of night was quickly chasing away the thick, lazy heat of another summer day in Akram, and nightingales sang in the lemon grove that rose on the hill behind his courtyard. Malik sat at his feet, his golden leopard eyes blinking sleepily.
Tonight, nearly eight months after leaving Maqbara behind, he would host Akram’s first kingdom-wide ball. Everyone was invited, from peasant to aristocrat. When a member of Javan’s royal council had protested the inclusion of peasants, Javan had removed him from his post and appointed someone else in his place.
Ballrooms across the city were open tonight. Every aristocrat was hosting an event. Every kitchen was busy assembling buffets fit for the finest tables in the land. And the palace itself had three halls converted into small ballrooms, five rooms hosting buffets, and of course the main ballroom.
It was a small step toward unifying his people, but it was an important one. He’d personally addressed invitations to the former Maqbara prisoners he’d released when an audit of the magistrate’s office revealed that nearly half the prison’s inmates had no evidence to support their convictions. He wouldn’t blame them if they refused to set foot in Makan Almalik again, but he hoped they would. He’d given them justice. Now he wanted to give them a sense of community. Of belonging.
He would dance tonight with the daughters of aristocrats, butchers, goat farmers, and guards. Many of the aristocratic young ladies had already been paraded in front of him while their fathers offered a list of ways their family would make a good alliance with the crown and their mothers mentioned that of course he would need a queen, and her daughter was very accomplished.
He’d brushed them off with as much dignity as he could, giving the girls themselves a quick, sympathetic look. He understood all too well the pressure of living up to your parents’ expectations, sometimes at the expense of what you really wanted.
The person he really wanted was wandering the wide-open spaces of the world, far away from Akram.
It had been eight months, and his heart still wandered with her.
He’d have given anything she asked for, anything she needed to keep her by his side, but in the end, he hadn’t made the offer. She’d told him from the beginning that she could never stay in Akram. He’d loved her too much to beg her to change her mind.
She hadn’t promised she’d come back, and as he’d watched her leave, he’d known there was a good chance she wouldn’t. She’d find freedom somewhere far from him, and she’d stay. She’d think of returning, but no matter how many open skies she slept under, no matter how many stars she counted, Akram would still be the shackle she couldn’t bear to touch again.
Now, as he stood on his balcony adjusting a purple sash against his silk tunic, he breathed in the night air, full of citrus and jasmine, and promised himself that one day he’d search for her.
One day, when his kingdom was settled. When no one was questioning his rule. When there were no more pockets of corruption to root out and destroy. He’d put a regent in charge, and he’d search the world until he found her.
And if she was happy—if she was truly free—he wouldn’t approach. He’d watch from afar, satisfied that the girl he loved was thriving, and he’d return to Akram, leaving his heart behind with her.
A gong sounded from the palace’s main courtyard. A call to enter the ballrooms and begin the festivities.
It was time.
He whispered a prayer that wherever Sajda was, she was safe and happy and at peace. Then he took one last breath of the citrus-tinged air and nodded respectfully in the direction of his parents’ graves.
Fear out.
Courage in.
It was time to bring his kingdom together.
“Do you have a dance partner yet?”
The eerily quiet voice came from behind him, and his breath caught in his chest. For one awful second, he thought he was dreaming. That he’d conjured her out of need and want, and when he turned, his room would be empty. Slowly, heart pounding, he turned, and there she was. Standing in his doorway, her skin glowing like starlight against the brilliant blue of her silk gown, her black hair hanging loose and free down her back.
He crossed the distance between them in five steps, scooped her into his arms, and held on tight.
“You came back.” His voice shook as he buried his face against her hair.
“I did.” She sounded shy.
He closed his eyes as his hands lay against the bare skin of her back. “I thought you might not want to see Akram ever again.”
“I didn’t come back for Akram.”
He pulled away, and she smiled. The shadows that had haunted her eyes in Maqbara still lingered, but stronger than her ghosts was the light of tender hope that glowed on her face.
“I want to show you something,” she said as she pulled one of his hands from her back and placed it on her heart instead. “Can you feel that?”
He waited, and then nearly jumped away from her as the strange, prickling heat of her magic gathered beneath his palm, stinging and buzzing.
“You don’t need words and promises,” she said.
He smiled. “I said that to you once.”
“And you were right. But I haven’t said nearly enough to you. Will you let me show you?” she asked.
He nodded, and then her magic pierced him, moving through his blood like a thunderstorm. He staggered, and she caught him. Steadied him as her truth was revealed.
“Tell me,” she said softly.
He met her eyes. “You’re hurting still, and you aren’t sure you’ll ever be whole.”
Her eyes darkened. “What else?”
“You found the stars and the wide-open spaces you crave, but . . .” He frowned and then his heart began pounding, his stomach tingling.
“But?” she asked, and he started smiling.
“But something was missing.”
She raised a brow, and his smile felt too big for his face.
“What was missing?” she asked.
“Me.” Wonder filled him at the truth that glowed like a jewel in the midst of her magic.
She leaned close, her lips a breath away from his. “Why did I come back, Javan?”
Everything inside him fell into place—the grief of what he’d lost, the burden of ruling his people, the longing he felt for the girl who’d sacrificed herself to give him his kingdom—as he said, “Because you love me.”
She kissed him, wild and pure and sweet as her magic swirled between them.
“I love you,” he breathed.
She grinned. “I said it first this time. You’re getting slow living in all this luxury.”
He laughed. “Do you still remember how to dance?”
She gave him a look that sent his pulse thundering. “I remember that I’m already better at it than you are.”
“Want to prove it?” he asked as faint strands of music from the orchestra floated in through his open window.
“Fine. But it’s not my fault if your people take one look at my skills and decide to give me the crown instead.”
He laughed as he led her through the tiled hallways of the palace, her hand tucked in his arm, her eyes lit with the joy of challenging him.
For the first time since he’d entered the palace as its ruler, he felt at peace.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Jesus, who gives me strength and is my hope.
Writing books is a mostly solitary endeavor, but none of my stories would
ever hit the shelves if it wasn’t for the incredible support I have from family, friends, and my publishing team. A big thank-you to my husband, Clint, for being my biggest fan, for taking on extra duties when deadlines approach, and for always being invested in me. Another thank-you to my kids—Tyler, Jordan, Zach, Johanna, and Isabella—for helping me get my work done and for being proud of me. Also a huge thanks to my parents for jumping in to assist in household projects, grandkid wrangling, or assisting me with my job, and to my sister, Heather, who is always one of my first readers, and my brother-in-law, Dave, whose support makes it possible for me to step out of my busy life to do book travel or to hide away in my office and hit my deadlines. Nobody cooks noodles like you, Dave.
I’m also grateful to Melinda Doolittle for being my beta reader and biggest cheerleader; to Jodi Meadows, KB Wagers, and Shannon Messenger for writing sprints, great advice, and even greater friendship; and to Kayla King and Beth Edwards, who shoulder extra weight to keep YABooksCentral.com running for me when I’m traveling or on deadline.
I’d also like to express my undying appreciation for the incredible publishing team at Balzer + Bray. Seven published works in, and I am still constantly impressed by your talent, dedication, and skill. From my rock star editor, Kristin Rens, who always pushes me to create the best version of the story that I possibly can, to Kelsey Murphy, Kristin’s always awesome assistant, to the amazingly gifted Sarah Kaufman and Alison Donalty, who design my covers, to my publicist, Caroline Sun, and the rest of the publicity and sales team, you are simply stellar, and I owe you at least nine hundred cookies delivered by Tom Hiddleston himself. I’m also grateful to Martha Schwartz for doing such a thorough copy edit on a book that needed a lot of double- and triple-checking, and to my sensitivity reader for loving Javan and Sajda and for helping me finesse the culture of Akram so I could tell the story as it needed to be told.
More gratitude goes out to Holly Root for being the agent in my corner. You remain one of the best life choices I’ve ever made.