“Empress?” He waits for an answer to his question, and I shake myself. “I don’t want to keep you in the Empire”—I can’t quite look at him—“if you don’t want to stay.” “Do you want me to stay?” Despite the arrogance that he wears like armor, I hear a thread of vulnerability in his voice that makes me look up into his dark eyes. “Yes,” I say to his uncertainty. “I want you to stay, Musa.” He lets out a breath. “Thank the skies,” he says. “I don’t actually like bees very much. Little bastards always sting me. And anyway, you need me around.”
