The Jasad Heir (The Scorched Throne #1)

by Sara Hashem

Panic was a plague. Its sole purpose was to spread until it tore through every thought, every instinct.

“I am not killing my fig plant.” I pushed to my feet. “I’m cultivating its fighter’s spirit.”

Because it is the nature of humanity to celebrate the things that want to kill them.

“There is no such thing as a worthy sacrifice. There are only those who die, and those willing to let them.”

She had the temperament of a deranged goose. Every interaction he’d shared with her had thoroughly convinced him he was not dealing with a stable woman.

“Fascinating,” he said. “That was a learned instinct. Who would teach an orphan girl to catch knives?”

I flipped the dagger and hurled it. He caught it single-handed. I beamed. “Now you’ve learned an orphan can throw knives, too. Isn’t it fascinating

Shame is a dangerous feeling to manipulate. Pull at the string too many times, and it will eventually snap into apathy.

“You think your mind is a blank slate, where you can build your own networks of information from scratch, through pure logic and reason. You ignore that each child enters a completely unique world, founded on different truths. We build our reality on the foundation our world sets for us. You entered a world where magic is corrosive and Jasadis are inherently evil. I entered one where turning a shoe into a dove made my mother laugh. Have you considered, in that infinite mind of yours, that the truly brilliant people are the ones who understand the realities we build were already built for us?”

“Wes, what does suraira mean?” His thick brows met in a U-shaped wrinkle. It seemed to surprise him any time I displayed evidence of intelligent thought. Whether this was a byproduct of my constant complaining or his own preconceived bias was unclear. “Suraira is said to be a demon of mishap protecting Sirauk,” he said. “Some Nizahlans believe Suraira dwells beneath the bridge and emerges during a crossing to compel humans to their death.”

“I almost believed you, Suraira. Almost. But you forgot one thing.” He moved a curl from my cheek. There it was again—the flash of curiosity. “You gave me your name without asking anything in return.”

“Essiya,” he breathed, “what did you do?” It flashed through my mind in an instant. A dagger slicing across a throat that never spoke a kind word. The slowing of a heart as broken and ugly as mine. A body shoved into a hole—a grave—painstakingly dug into the frozen ground. How deep can you dig, Essiya? Brushing crushed lavender from my cuffs, I smiled. “I found you, Rory.”

“Are you aware you have five freckles under your jaw?” He offered this information to me with complete seriousness, as though it had escaped from a vault of secrets.

I wanted to cut him open and compare our bones to understand why his gave him grace and mine gave me back pain.

“The way most men love is so boring. It is frequent and fickle and altogether unextraordinary. Arin would love to obsession. To madness. But do you want to know the real reason he would never allow himself to love another?” Vaida stepped close, her floral scent tickling my nose. “Arin is consumed by what he loves. If asked, he would get on his knees and let it kill him. He withholds his heart out of self-preservation.”

Arin glanced up and froze. A myriad of emotions flashed over his features, too many and too complicated to name. He straightened, gaze roaming over my gown. “Sefa did wonderful work on your dress.” He sounded dazed. I had watched him bleed half to death without sounding anything but composed. “Although you are certainly not endearing yourself to Vaida.”

“It’s customary for the hostess to outshine her guests.” Arin’s eyes swirled with humor and something quieter, more intimate. Just for me. “You’ve made that impossible.”

“You are right. You are not your father. Rawain is cruel by nature, but you?” I lifted my chin, spearing him with the full force of my wrath. “You are cruel by choice.”

“A painful past is no excuse. I would never defend the Nizahl Heir to you. But I wanted you to know, because… the way he looks at you sometimes. Like you are a cliff with a fatal fall, and each day you move him closer to its edge.”

“Who did this to you?” I moved to face him. A glove to my shoulder kept me turned. “That’s none of your concern.” “These are old,” he murmured. “Layered.” When his hand ghosted over my skin, I couldn’t stop a shiver. He traced the gnarled path of flesh along my back. Assessing the defective condition of his Champion. I dropped my forehead against the wardrobe, forcing my ragged breathing to stabilize. I was not in a sane enough state to handle the Heir. “These are from a jalda whip,” he guessed. The pressure moved to my right side. “A switch.” I eased the towel’s knot enough to reveal my lower back, morbidly curious. Could he put a name to every instrument Hanim had used against me? I couldn’t. “Is this an arakin?” he gasped, sprawling his palm against the base of my spine. I jumped. “A what?” “These were banned decades ago. Your scars—they can’t be more than six or seven years old.” He sounded furious. “Those crops do real damage. You might have died.”

The most articulate man in the kingdoms rendered speechless by Hanim’s handiwork. “What happened to you, Sylvia?” I laughed. It was alarmingly choked. “You are not the first to use me for your own ends. I have a legacy of disappointing people, you see.”

“I am still waiting,” Arin said. “Waiting?” I had learned to defend myself against every version of Arin. Devised strategies to safeguard against his ever-twisting mind and sharp tongue. But no one taught me how to protect myself from the Nizahl Heir when he looked at me like this—gentle, human, with his steadfast gaze pinning my own. Grounding me. “To be disappointed.”

The same vicious hunger I had struggled against at the Ivory Palace bloomed in my veins. Baying for action. A hunger that demanded I take, forge a claim to him in flesh and blood and power. Etch my name into his bones for the world to see.

But where Marek could be dying from six stab wounds and still find the energy to charm the nearest living creature, I had nearly broken my ankle trying to avoid Arin this morning. I didn’t understand the reactions I was experiencing, so I did what I do best in times of inner turmoil: I ignored it.

“You little liar,” he whispered. Choked and low. “You maddening Jasadi girl, I cherish your tongue too much to see it cut out of your head. Never speak those words to me or anyone else again. Do you understand?”

When he saw me looking, a red tinge brightened the top of his cheeks. I blinked, and it was gone—a trick of the light, maybe.

After a lifetime of running, he was my homecoming.

I wanted to stay there. I wanted to tell him that I had not easily embraced anyone since Soraya bid me farewell the morning of the Blood Summit. That with him, every aversion was a craving. That even though one day I would kneel before Jasad’s judges in the afterlife to account for it, I would not renounce a single moment of loving the Nizahl Heir.

“Do you feel elevated yet?” Diya asked. “It’s hard to tell, since I’m already so much taller than you.”

Arin’s mouth slanted over mine, arms weaving steel bands around my waist to pull me tight against his chest. I buried my hands in his soft hair, dislodging his circlet.

Arin tasted like nothing I could name. I had made a vow against intoxication, but I would recant immediately for the chance to savor the decadence of him. I barely registered my back hitting the wardrobe. My legs wrapped around his waist, and I tore one of Rory’s gloves in my hurry to take them off. I traced Arin’s scar, the shadows under his eyes, yanked at his collar. Ravenous to touch him, to spell my name in his skin, leave him as thoroughly and irrevocably marked as he would leave me.

“Do you have the faintest clue how you frustrate me?” His mouth found the pulse jumping at my throat. The solid contours of his body pressed me to the wardrobe, pinning me in place. “How you fascinate me?”

“I despise you.” I brushed my fingers over his hair, relishing the weight of his body against mine. He was holding himself carefully, as though he might crush me if he lost focus. Silly man. I kicked his ankle out and huffed a laugh as he caught himself, rolling me on top. I followed the sharp line of his nose. “I dream of killing you.” Arin pulled my fingers away. Worry lashed me. Had I gone too far? Eyes dark with amusement searched mine. He smoothed the furrow forming in my brow with his thumb. “My demented Suraira, we have much to discuss about seduction.”

“Arin.” I laid my cheek on his hair. “Am I hurting you?” He dropped a feather-light kiss to my chin. “Constantly.” But it was wistful, content.

When I tried to reach for the door, Arin grabbed my wrist. “I can handle one more.” He reeled me back for a hard kiss. He tangled a hand in my freed curls, tilting my head with his thumb on my chin to keep me still. I’d seen him hold lethal weapons similarly, wielding them just so. If Arin was as fastidious with his lovers as he was with everything else, I didn’t see how anyone could survive him. He had barely touched me, and already I felt wholly charred.