All This Twisted Glory (This Woven Kingdom, #3)

by Tahereh Mafi

God, he’d wanted her. He’d wanted her with an all-consuming thirst, with the desperation of a man waiting to die.

“Oh, Kamran,” she said. “How could you think that?” Then, more quietly: “How tortured you must’ve been to think that.”

“If I challenged you now—you’d be willing to die for him?” “For her,” Hazan corrected. “Without hesitation. Though you flatter yourself if you think you could best me in a fight.

“I want it all, angel. Not just your joy but your sorrow. Not just your hope but your fear. I want your anger and disdain, your frustration and contempt—”

He loved all of her: the shape of her lips, her hips, her slender hands and the freckle at the base of her throat. He’d kissed that freckle a thousand times, had spent countless hours learning her, loving her, discovering the desires of her body.

“Have you never seen the way he looks at her?”

Her heart pounded dangerously as she looked around the room at the infinite blooms; the endless, devastating beauty. Her words were a breath when she said, “Cyrus did this?”

He’s enchanted every inch of the city with the same pink roses, and he refuses to say a word about it—he hasn’t even accepted responsibility! The citizens, of course, think they’re all elaborate displays for the Wintrose Festival, but I know better. I caught him once, saw him growing roses in his hands—”

“Forgive me, did I say Cyrus? I meant to say Kamran.”

“Hazan—” “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He cut her off, his fists clenching as he avoided her eyes. “I’m too angry right now to speak to you in the manner you deserve.”

Everything was covered in roses. They’d grown nearly everywhere, pink blooms on roofs and doorways gleaming gold in the evening light; massive, blossoming vines reached up the sides of buildings, snaked along sidewalks, circled lampposts and trash bins, beautifying everything. The more she saw, the more her heart hurt.

“You don’t want me,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “You want Tulan.” “I want both.”

“Do you think I’ve been lying to you?” “Yes,” she said, and paused. “Except that I have the strangest feeling you might be lying about how horrible you are.” Cyrus almost smiled, though the action was weighed down by an unspoken grief.

He could hardly look at Alizeh without losing his mind; nearly four weeks he’d seen her only in his dreams, and he’d all but forgotten how finely wrought she was in real life, how delicate her features, how soft the curves of her cheeks. He came to life when she smiled, drew breath when her eyes brightened, died when she left a room.

She was everything sweet, her every instinct to be kind. Even her anger was exquisite. Knowing he was to die by her hand made the reality almost bearable.

“Alizeh,” he said angrily, “is nearly blue with frost. Her gown is made of tissue. She is frozen enough in the general course of things without this added—” Cyrus stopped, then turned to look at her. In his haste to exit the abhorrent conversation he’d been thoughtless; Alizeh was visibly struggling, her arms tight across her chest, fighting over and over an impulse to tremble as she moved. Kamran, he noticed, was hovering nearby looking chagrined, leaving Cyrus to wonder whether his offers of aid had been rejected. This mattered little. He went to her in a few strides, removed his coat without a word, and laid it gently over her shoulders.

And I vow never to touch you unless you should desire that I do.

“Angel,” he breathed. “My angel.”

It occurred to him then, with a vague panic, that he’d follow her off a cliff if she were the one to lead him there.

“Why are you afraid?” He shook his head, his eyes closing against his will. “Because,” he said, and sighed. “You’re never here when I wake up.”

“You can’t lie to me forever, Cyrus. I’m going to find out the truth about you, and when I do, I promise you this: I’ll ruin him. I’ll make the devil regret the day he was born.”