Page 5 of Every Spiral of Fate (This Woven Kingdom #4)

Five

CYRUS WAS NOT IN THE mood for theatrics.

He was shirtless and restless, prowling his room like a tiger in a cage.

A sheen of sweat clung to his skin, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe.

His eyes were glassy with illness; his jaw tight, his brow pinched, his skin sallow.

He was hollowed out by exhaustion and hunger, his trousers hanging loose at his hips.

He hadn’t eaten in days, for his stomach could hold nothing down.

Over and over he stalked the length of his room, his fists clenching and unclenching, strikes shattering his bones like belts of steel, the torture relenting only by infinitesimal degrees as the hours wore on.

He could not sleep. He could not stand still.

Magic could do nothing for him now but help keep his eyes open, staving off the kind of lunacy induced by acute sleep deprivation.

Only his years of training with the Diviners had imbued him with the restraint necessary to bear this pain without tearing Hazan limb from limb.

“It’s the night before your wedding,” the Jinn was saying. “Will you not spare her feelings—”

“I warn you, Hazan, if you do not cease this diatribe I will not be held accountable for what happens to your head.”

“My head?”

“ I shall separate it from your body ,” Cyrus bellowed, even as he hissed against a fresh onslaught of brutality.

Hazan only glared at him. “You’re a raving idiot. This is going to kill you. You haven’t eaten—you haven’t slept. She wants nothing more than to offer you an inch of comfort—”

Cyrus trembled, gritting his teeth as the assault went on.

He lengthened his strides, struggling for breath as rivulets of sweat ran along his collarbones, snaking down the powerful expanse of his chest. Only his reduced state could prompt him to respond with anything close to truth.

“You have no notion of what might offer me comfort,” he managed.

“You could never understand why I might prefer this torture”—he clenched his jaw as the pain crescendoed—“to the agony of her companionship.”

Hazan stepped forward, his eyes blazing. “You know nothing of what I might understand or the hells I’ve endured,” he said, his voice rising dangerously. “I am not without compassion, you fool. I know you love her. I have eyes; I see the way you look at her. I am in possession of a working brain—”

“And still you cannot imagine—”

“ I can well imagine ,” Hazan cried, cutting him off.

“Do you think me a halfwit or a knave? Why else do you think I’ve kept her from you?

Why else would I be foolish enough—disloyal enough—to allow you your grief?

It is precisely because I can imagine how it must destroy you to be touched by her when you are to die by the very hand that might wipe your fevered brow! ”

Only then did Cyrus come to a cataclysmic halt.

He nearly collapsed as he fought for balance, swallowing hard as he lifted his head, and when he finally managed to look at Hazan, it was as if for the first time: the cold fire in the Jinn’s eyes took on fresh meaning.

The man was harboring secrets.

Cyrus wanted to say more—to argue—but his body shook dangerously with torment.

No longer in motion, he wasn’t sure he was hale enough to stand.

He fought for breath, galvanic spasms cratering his chest. He felt he might perish from the strain of it, from the days of sustained torture.

His mind seemed impaled; his very teeth ached in his mouth.

He felt drugged. Drunk. He shook his head and the effort cost him dearly.

“I can’t bear to look at her,” he breathed.

Hazan only stared at him. “I know.”

“I’m not strong enough to survive her—she doesn’t understand that I am mere flesh and blood—”

“Cyrus?”

The sound of her voice was a finishing blow. Cyrus took it to the gut, nearly doubling over, and reached blindly for a wall to brace him. “ No —”

“Cyrus,” she said, knocking, “let me in this instant, or I’ll break down the door!”

“Make her leave,” Cyrus said, searching the room in a panic. “I don’t want her to come near me—”

“Enough,” Hazan responded angrily. “I can no longer condone your actions. I will no longer make excuses for your behavior. You’re doing unconscionable harm to yourself, and in so doing you’re risking the promises you’ve made to her—”

“Cyrus,” she called for the third time, pounding harder. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m giving you one more chance to open this door.”

“No,” he said loudly, light flaring across his vision. “Please. I don’t want her to see me—not like this—”

He never should’ve stopped moving.

The room appeared to shift beneath his feet.

Days of deferred suffering seemed to amass and thrash him all at once.

He heard the rattle of the door handle, saw the thunder in Hazan’s expression.

Everything sped up and slowed down at the same time, the pounding in his head growing so loud it seemed to come from outside himself, as if it were coming from the walls—

The door fell, with a resounding crash , clear off its hinges.

“I’m sorry,” she said primly. “I tried to warn you. I’m sure someone can mend the damage, but if not I—”

Alizeh gasped.

Cyrus heard her shock before he saw her face, the mere sight of her like a fatal strike, and he bore it badly.

He could not look at her; he could not look away from her.

Her beauty was its own violence, assailing his worn defenses even as chains of pain released him at her approach.

She was like a panacea for all that ailed him, a braid of light and fury, the cause and the cure.

The spate of savagery against his body had quieted to a dull hum in her presence, and in the free fall of relief Cyrus nearly fell to his knees before Hazan caught him under the arms. It was a good thing, then, that he was too delirious to remember to be proud.

The Jinn hefted him, on watery legs, toward the bed, and Cyrus fell with a defeated sound onto the mattress.

A faint tremble continued to animate his limbs, fever thrashing in his blood, but after four days, his eyes finally closed.

Cyrus felt his world shift as she sat lightly beside him, the remaining breath leaving his body as she placed her small, cool hand against his brow. He could not decide then whether he wanted to die from the pleasure or the pain. It was all the same.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Hazan said quietly. “I shouldn’t have advised you to stay away.”

“Hazan,” he heard her whisper. There was a rare edge of fury in her voice. “ Get out. ”