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

by Tahereh Mafi

“Are you implying that I’m vain?” “I’m not implying it, Kamran. I’m delivering the statement to you directly.”

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

He would always be the villain in her story.

Fate, he thought bitterly, was only romantic when one was destined to be the hero.

He longed for her warmth, for her radiance. She’d been, from the first moment she’d wandered into his dreams, an enduring flame in the endless night, his only haven in the madness that inhaled him. This was his real weakness, and the devil had marked him easily.

The devil had not exaggerated: Cyrus had not slept since first laying eyes on Alizeh. He hadn’t dared.

“It’s never been done,” he whispered. “No man has ever wagered against the devil and won.”

She could acknowledge that her reasons for keeping Cyrus alive were entirely selfish. It made no difference. She didn’t want him to die.

He’d been afraid to go near her; he hadn’t been ready to hear her voice, to look into her eyes. He was terrified she’d go and do something brutal, like smile at him.

which was why he didn’t notice, not right away, that she was running toward him. When he did, he nearly lost his mind.

Her eyes were glazed, flickering silver and brown in the rising light. She studied him like he might’ve been a dream. “Why? Because you’re terribly handsome?” “Don’t be funny,” he said, breathing hard. “This isn’t funny.”

I love them oh my GOD

He only closed his eyes against her hair and fought the desperate crush of his chest, the violence of his affection for her. How she managed to disarm him even now, on the brink of death, he could not understand. She’d wept for his pain, wiped the blood from his eyes, taken an arrow in the back for him. She’d shown him more loyalty and tenderness in two days than he’d ever felt in his life, and he knew then, with a force that drove the air from his lungs, that he would never survive her.

“Oh.” A little line formed between her brows. “You have a dragon?” “I— Yes.” “Just like you did before.” She stifled a yawn, her eyes closing. “Do I get one, too?” Cyrus frowned. “Would that . . . please you?” “Yes, I think so.” “All right.” He blinked slowly. “You can have a dragon.”

“We died and we’re together—and we’re not in hell,” she murmured. She nearly tipped over, but the magic yanked her upright. “And you got a dragon. Maybe I’ll get a dragon.” He swallowed. She patted his arm blindly. “That must mean you’re not so bad.”

“For her,” Hazan corrected. “Without hesitation. Though you flatter yourself if you think you could best me in a fight. You’ve never truly known me, Kamran, and I’d hate for you to make my acquaintance only as you draw your final breath.”

“Angel,” he breathed. “My angel.”

“But I know, too, that you’ll always do what is just. You’d never deliver me your scorn unless I deserved it, and should I be foolish enough to inspire your anger, I should also be honored to receive it.”

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.

Somehow it didn’t matter that Alizeh had been but a conjuring of his imagination. It didn’t matter that they’d never known each other outside of the delusions of his mind. It didn’t matter that she owed him nothing. He’d loved her.

And yet, it was the only reason he hadn’t killed Kamran that night. Because he suspected she cared for him.

“You must not resist life when it becomes inconvenient to live. You cannot outrun fear. You should not ignore pain. You will not outlive death.”

But life cannot be experienced one emotion at a time. It is a tapestry of sensation, a braided rope of feeling. We must allow for reflection even when we suffer. We must reach for compassion even when we triumph. If you spend your days waiting for your sorrows to end so that you might finally live”—he shook his head—“you will die an impatient man.”

“Master yourself so that you will never be mastered. Know yourself so that you might live with conviction. Live with conviction so that your steps never falter.” He paused. “The mastery of self means never fearing the consequences of doing what is right.”

“When you suffer,” Rostam went on, “you can choose to endure, or you can choose to overcome.” He gestured around them, to the vast expanse of the meadow. “Here, even in the midst of your discomfort, there existed elements of relief, if only you had bothered to search.”

“You love her, don’t you?” Cyrus was not quick enough to parry this and too stunned to sneer at the insinuation. Worse: he knew not how he appeared then, as if he’d been run through with a scimitar. Hazan, to his credit, was dumbfounded. “It’s true, then?” he breathed. “You really do love her?” Cyrus said nothing. He didn’t need to. The severity of his feeling for her could not be contained, and they both watched, in horror, as the nosta turned red in his hand. Cyrus closed his fist, but too late.

“Of course I am afraid!” Alizeh said, laughing even as her eyes teared. “But don’t you see? If I let fear keep me from doing what is right, I will always be wrong.”

It was Deen who said, quietly, “Let us hope for the day when we might all remove our masks, and live in the light without fear.” Alizeh stiffened, turning to face him. Deen had recited aloud something she’d once said to him. She hardly knew what to say. “Those words are emblazoned upon my cold, shriveled heart,” he said, smiling faintly. “I’d quite like to live in a world where you are queen.”

“Shuk pazir ke manam, manam,” said Alizeh. Thank you for receiving me as I am. Omid’s eyes widened, then he laughed out loud. “I haven’t heard that since before my parents died.” “Ooh, I know this one!” said Huda. “Shuk nosti ke tanam, tanam.” Thank you for trusting me with who you are.

“By the angels,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know you were a Diviner.”

Alizeh fell back a step, she was so astonished. “No—that is—you misunderstand. I’m not a Diviner,” she said emphatically. “I’ve never even touched magic. They were only being polite—” Omid was shaking his head. “When I lived with the Diviners, miss, they didn’t bow their heads at anyone except each other.” “That can’t be true—” “It is true,” said Deen, watching her closely. “Diviners don’t show that kind of deference to anyone outside the priesthood. They don’t even bow their heads before the king.”

Hazan stood before her, tall and looming. “All due respect, Your Majesty, you don’t need him. You have me.” She looked up into his eyes and smiled. “If only you had an empire.” Hazan sighed heavily, then turned away. “If only.”

Cyrus had left a mark everywhere. Remnants of him lived in eternal bloom in the outside world and inside her veins. At the thought of him she experienced a relentless ache she didn’t understand, and it scared her.

His golden skin and startling blue eyes, the sheen of his coppery hair, his luminous features juxtaposing harshly against his black attire. She’d forgotten how tall he was, how arresting. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever stared at him straight on like this, free to map the cut of his cheekbones, the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked better rested than she remembered; more radiant as a result. Heavens, he was breathtaking.

“Cyrus—” “No,” he said sharply. “Don’t.” She stopped in place, just inches separating them now. “Don’t what?” “Alizeh,” he said. His chest was heaving, his body rigid with tension. “Be merciful.” These words lit a dangerous fire within her.

“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.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, his voice so rough it was unrecognizable. “You don’t know what I want from you, angel. You can’t even imagine.” “What do you mean?” She stared up at him, her heart hammering in her chest. “What is it you want?” His eyes seemed to glaze over at that, the blue of his irises blown out by black, and he dipped his head, nearly touching her lips as he exhaled, his body shaking. “Everything,” he whispered, releasing her suddenly, backing away as if she’d run him through with a blade. “I want everything.”

He came to life when she smiled, drew breath when her eyes brightened, died when she left a room. She’d smelled like roses. His roses.

She was a vision crafted by a generous maker. 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.

“Can I ask you a question?” “No.” She laughed, and he wanted to dissolve.

“Here is my question,” she said. “If you cannot bear to be near me now, how will you survive what’s yet to come?”

He shook his head, inhaling sharply as he finally tore himself away. “I won’t survive it,” he said. “It’s your job to make sure I don’t.”

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.

He wondered if she had any idea what he’d do for her, the worlds he’d destroy for her.

“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.”