These Infinite Threads (This Woven Kingdom, #2)

by Tahereh Mafi

“Enough,” he said sharply. “I don’t welcome your analysis. Cease studying me.” Something bitter prompted her to say, “You are not my master.” Cyrus turned at once to look at her, staring into her eyes with an intensity that bordered on alarming. “Do you aspire to be mine?” This question was so shocking, Alizeh drew back in response. Cyrus leaned in. “Relinquish the dream,” he said softly. “You have no hope of mastering me.”

“As I thought,” he whispered. “You’re too soft even to bear the weight of my attentions.” Alizeh laughed quietly as she pressed a finger to the wind, felt the current curl under her touch. “The sky, too, is soft,” she said. “Yet all who fall into its arms will perish.”

“I hate you,” he whispered. Alizeh blinked, her heart pounding too hard in her chest. “I know.” He leaned in then, his throat working, his gaze fixed entirely on her mouth. “I hate everything about you. Your eyes. Your lips. Your smile.” His words grazed her skin when he said, softly, “I find your presence insufferable.”

“And I’m not sorry,” she added bitterly, turning to face him. “I’m not sorry I made a deal with your mother to murder you.” His lips twitched, his eyes flashing. “I’m not sorry I threw you off a cliff.”

“I didn’t know your name for so long, angel. I love the way it feels in my mouth.”

“And instead of being angry,” he went on, “instead of driving you away—instead of wishing we’d never met—I keep staring at that fucking cut on your neck, Alizeh, and I want to die.” “Cyrus—”

“It’s my own fault,” he said, and dragged both hands down his face. “I have only myself to blame. I knew better; I knew you were dangerous. You’ve had the upper hand from the moment I laid eyes on you. I saw you and saw right away that I was in hell, and I hated you for it, because I realized even then that you would be the end of me.”

“You act as if I’m intentionally cruel. As if I’m indifferent to you.” “Aren’t you?” “No,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Of course not.” Cyrus stared at her from where he stood, his chest heaving with barely leashed intensity. He devastated her with that look, even as he seemed planted in the ground, immovable. “Then be with me,” he said softly. “Let me worship you.”

“I am well aware,” he said, lowering his eyes, “of how I did this to myself. You need not bury the blade any deeper.” His voice quieted then to something less than a whisper. “But will you promise me something, angel? When you do decide to kill me, will you tell me how you intend to do it?”