“Do you know,” Djar said as they turned onto the main road that would take them to the Sehzade’s home, “that Amara was supposed to wed the Sehzade?”
“Noooo,” Nesrin breathed, looking up at him wide-eyed.
He grinned at her. “She eventually canceled the arrangement.”
“Were they in love?” Nesrin asked. Perhaps he was brusque and rude because he loved another?
Djar cast a look at her. “No. Broken men cannot love. Nor broken women, for that matter.”
Nesrin had already surmised that whatever traumas lay in the Sehzade’s past lingered with him still. “Is Amara broken?” She seemed the most confident, capable woman.
“Not anymore. We all carry ghosts within us. One must face them, or be ruled by them.”
“That is very poetic.” Nesrin smiled.
“Yes. You did not expect such beautiful words from someone with no hair, hmm?” He smoothed a hand over his bare head.
Reyhan snorted, then covered her mouth, glancing at them both as her cheeks colored.
“It was the sword, actually. Is hair required for poetry?” Nesrin teased.
Djar grinned again. “It is a burden to be so handsome and so gifted with word and sword,” he said, “so I tried to be fair by cutting away my hair but, alas.” He shrugged. Nesrin liked the music in his accent and Amara’s. She liked this moment of feeling ordinary again, her words just words. Inconsequential. She missed the comfort of that. Of being unextraordinary. pg.243-244