The words hung between them like smoke.
The last Nile Bride.
She had never thought of that. She had wanted to run — to survive — to defy the king's orders for once in her life. But she had never thought about the next woman who would be thrown into the river in her place.
A sour ache twisted in her chest.
Was she selfish?
"And how are you planning to do that? And why?" she asked, raising a brow as if doubting every syllable he spoke. Could he really stand against the Pharaoh? Go against a prophecy whispered across generations?
"The king worships gods he knows nothing of." Annoyance sharpened his tone. "He follows orders like a stubborn old man. He understands nothing of what he's doing or who he's serving."
"And you do?" she challenged.
His gaze didn't waver.
"More than you could imagine."
She still doubted him — wondered, truly, if he might be insane.
"Anyway," he said, rising to his feet after a short rest, "we have to go."
"Again?" Her feet already ached from walking half the dawn.
"I only came here to grab something," he said, shrugging a leather strap over his shoulder. "We have to leave the city. Your uncle won't leave a single grain of sand unturned to find you. If you want to survive — and I know you do — we start moving now."
He was right. Her uncle was surely tearing through the city already.
"Don't do that," he muttered.
She blinked. "Do what?"
"Pout like that." He gave her an almost irritated glance. "You knew what you were getting yourself into. And I know those feet were made to walk on marble and wear anklets of pure gold, but this—" he gestured around the small room "—is what you have to do now."
"Contrary to what you believe, I am not a spoiled brat," she protested, pouting again without meaning to.
He chuckled. A warm, irritating sound.
She pushed herself upright, adjusting the crimson cloak around her still-shaking body. She didn't know whether following this man was wise at all — but she told herself she would use him until she crossed the city's borders.
At least he seemed to know his way around the shadows.
"Osairin."
"What now—?"
She turned — and nearly collided with him.
He was standing too close. Far too close. She could swear she felt his breath brush her cheek, warm and quick, as if the nearness affected him too.
"My name," he said softly, eyes catching the dim light.
"You never asked."
So that was his name.
Osairin
She was certain she had heard this name before. She could not remember where exactly. And he was standing right before her, and she found it hard to focus with such proximity.
Her pulse quickened. Her chest felt tight, and a warmth crept up her neck. He didn't move away. Instead, his gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a heartbeat, then back to her eyes, lingering just long enough to make her aware of every breath, every small movement.
"You're trembling," he murmured, his voice low, teasing, almost intimate.
She looked away, trying to mask it, but the brush of his sleeve against hers made her shiver.
His closeness was overwhelming, and for the first time, she realized it wasn't fear alone that twisted her stomach—it was something far more complicated. Something that made her want to lean closer and yet recoil at the same moment.
Osairin's hand, almost imperceptibly, brushed against hers as he reached for the strap of her cloak. The contact was brief, but it set her nerves alight.
She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint leather and smoke of the city streets clinging to him, and suddenly, the danger of their flight seemed distant.
All that mattered was the charged space between them—and the dangerous, magnetic pull that neither of them spoke of aloud.