Page 52 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Nimrah’s eyes flashed. She stepped closer, bending so that Malka barely had to tilt her head to meet her gaze.

“Would you prefer that I saved you out of spite? That perhaps I could not bear to think of your head on a spike unless it were I who put it there? Or would you prefer that I say I saved you because the idea of you dying before me became unbearable?”

She was not so monstrous like this, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Or perhaps, only monstrous in the way anyone was when they were wretched with desire.

Maybe Malka looked just as monstrous—drunk and desperate to know how Nimrah’s lips would feel on hers. It was a traitorous thought, wanting. But Malka did not mind the feel of it. She wanted to feel it again, and again, and again.

She grabbed the empty wine glass from Nimrah’s hand and set it with hers on a nearby ledge. She trailed her hand down Nimrah’s arm, the stone cool beneath her sleeve, until she wrapped her hand around Nimrah’s wrist.

Nimrah shivered beneath the trace of Malka’s fingers.

So rarely did Malka feel in control. From Mavetéh, Abba, and the constant tithes from the Ozmini Church to the trade she had made for Imma’s life, Malka always had to react to the situations she had been dealt.

Not now. Now, she wanted this.

Malka led Nimrah into a narrow alleyway, away from the crowding and noise of the celebration.

“What are you—”

“You admit it,” Malka said, voice coarse. “You didn’t save me out of duty or service. You saved me because you wanted to. Because you couldn’t bear it if I died.”

Nimrah’s fist curled against the wall near Malka’s ear, like she had done in the confessional. This time, vines sprouted from the stone, hissing as they unfurled. “Don’t taunt me, Malka.”

Her name spoken in Nimrah’s rasping voice shot a strike of heat through her. This close, the cloy of their connection was fierce, suffocating.

“I need to know,” Malka spoke slowly. “You must feel it, too.”

Nimrah did not speak, but Malka knew she understood.

The blaze of her eyes and the twitch of her jaw exposed her.

It was a relief to finally know that Nimrah, despite her taciturn disposition, was not exempt from the effects of the rooting spell.

It frustrated Malka, too, that she had not said a word.

“Why say nothing?”

From the square, a new dance had begun. Laughter, clapping, the echo of shoes tapping on the ground.

“I didn’t think I could stand it,” Nimrah’s voice was so threadbare, Malka could barely hear it above the music. “If the spell only plagued me like this. If its strength came from… my own feelings. I’d rather have lived in ignorance.”

The admission dissolved Malka’s last inhibition. She wanted to fight Nimrah, drag her close. She wanted to press her lips to the soft part of her throat, eclipse her jaw with the brush of her palm.

Malka reached for her, only to be hauled back by the vines crawling across her chest and trapping her against the wall.

“You don’t want this.” Nimrah’s throat bobbed. “You will hate me.”

Malka wrapped the vine in her fist. “Is that why you’ve tied me up? So I don’t do anything I’ll regret?”

“Go back out there. Dance with your friends. Eat more pirushkes. I’ll go home.” The vines around her receded, slithering out of her grasp. But the ghost of them lingered, a phantom of Nimrah’s attempt to maintain her asceticism.

“Tell me you don’t want me. Then I’ll go.”

Nimrah swallowed hard, her face scrunched in pain. Her eyebrows wavered, as if she were testing each answer before giving one. She was quiet for so long, Malka thought she had misread her. Misread her desire, her want.

Then she said, raspy, “I can’t tell you that.”

Slowly, as if not to shatter the moment of vulnerability between them, Malka traced her finger along the hollow of Nimrah’s neck. She was warm under her fingertips.

Nimrah seized her wrist, holding it away in warning. “Malka, please.”

“Take something for yourself for once. Be more than what the Maharal made you to be.”

Malka leaned in slowly, allowing Nimrah time to stop her, to cease crossing the boundary they had so laboriously mortared.

Then, she kissed her.

Nimrah’s lips were soft, plush like she had imagined them. Every word spoken in this alley had been carefully picked, every action a delicate step along a precipice. But there was no constraint now, as Malka curled her hands through Nimrah’s hair and Nimrah pushed her against the wall.

The wound between her shoulders lit with pain, but Malka didn’t care. Her hands on Nimrah’s waist, her hips, her cheeks—it was everything Malka needed, to feel Nimrah all at once and everywhere.

The desire that shaded her cheeks and riled her stomach mirrored the feeling of performing Kefesh—power flooding through her. She was beginning to learn how similar lust was to prayer.

Nimrah sucked at her bottom lip and want pulsed between Malka’s legs. A moan slipped from her, eliciting a wanton growl from Nimrah. She gripped Malka’s thigh and hoisted it around her hip.

Groaning, Malka pressed her lips to Nimrah’s throat. It was salty and damp, different from the cool stone on her cheek which Malka had traced.

“I’m a fool for wanting you,” Nimrah whispered, voice low and husky in Malka’s ear. “My death bringer.”

Malka didn’t want to think about that right now. She didn’t want to think about anything save the feel of Nimrah’s body against her.

As if acknowledging her thoughts, Nimrah dragged her thumb along the band of Malka’s apron. “Is this alright?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Malka gasped.

Nimrah’s hand disappeared beneath her skirts, tracing the fold of Malka’s undergarment.

Malka arched into her touch. She had never been this hot, like a fire had been lit inside her skin. Like she was about to set Tzvidi’s library ablaze and didn’t care if she burned.

Malka could tip over the edge just as swiftly, ruined by Nimrah’s finger work. She was so vulnerable like this—Nimrah pressing between her legs, her fingers exploring in the way that only Malka had done before.

Malka wanted to beg for more. To rock against her. Anything to be free of this built-up tension.

Before she could, a cry racketed through the air, so high-pitched the wind carried it through the small alley.

Malka froze, turning to watch as commotion rang through the square. Her heart sank.

“What was that?” Nimrah asked, voice gruff.

Malka shook her head. Awkwardness settled between them as they stared at each other, chests heaving.

Malka ran from the alley, leaving Nimrah in the darkness.

A crowd had gathered around the platform at the square’s center. The music had ceased, the people had grown quiet. A child’s cry loosened the silence, and the comforting murmurs of a mother followed. Malka bumped her way through the crowd, looking for Chaia or Amnon among the ashen faces.

Malka’s heart pounded as her anxiety grew. Finally, she managed to reach the platform where Chaia stood, her back to Malka. The skirts of her wedding dress billowed in the wind.

“Chaia?”

Chaia shifted to face her, revealing the tear marks staining her face. She was pale, so pale. So different from the Chaia who had danced with her minutes ago.

“Chaia, what’s—” As soon as she noticed the woman behind Chaia, the question died on her lips.

Her curly, golden-brown hair was in disarray. Her green eyes almost black in the lantern light.

Danya.

She was here, hunched over like she could not spare the strength to stand, her hand wrapped around her waist. Surrounding her, a handful of people from their village.

As their eyes met, Danya let out a sob of relief.

Malka closed the distance between them, wrapping her in a firm hug. Her sister was here. Malka hadn’t realized how homesick she had been. Seeing Danya brought forward the emotions she had tried so hard to keep at bay.

Her sister trembled in her arms, and Malka’s concern grew. She began to check her for injuries. “Danya, are you hurt?”

Danya sobbed again, and stared at the ground, breathing deeply until she could compose herself. “Only minorly. But Malka, there’s something you must know—”

“It can wait until I attend to you,” Malka responded, pressing her palms to Danya’s cheeks.

Danya shook them off. “No, it can’t.”

“Is something wrong at home? With Imma? Did the Paja do something to her? I’ll make it right.”

“Malka.” Danya said her name in a choke, the stoicism Malka had long associated with her sister crumbled to dust. “Eskravé has been destroyed.”