The City of Brass

I really liked it until 2/3.

Nahri abruptly stood, as angry with herself as she was with Dara. She was done showing weakness before this man. “Well, if that's all that matters, surely Muntadhir will do,” she declared, a savage edge creeping into her voice. “The Qahtanis seem fertile enough, and the dowry will probably make me the richest woman in Daevabad.”

She might as well have struck him. Dara recoiled, and she turned on her heel. “I'm going back to the palace.”

“Nahri . . . Nahri, wait.” He was between her and the exit in a heartbeat; she'd forgotten how fast he could move. “Please. Don't leave like this. Just let me explain . . .”

“To hell with your explanations,” she snapped. “That's what you always say. That's what today was supposed to be, remember? You promising to tell me about your past, not parading me in front of a bunch of priests and trying to convince me to marry another man.” Nahri pushed past him. “Just leave me alone.”

He grabbed her wrist. “You want to know about my past?” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. His fingers scalded her skin and he jerked back, letting her go. “Fine, Nahri, here's my story: I was banished from Daevabad when I was barely older than your Ali, exiled from my home for following orders your family gave me. That's why I survived the war. That's why I wasn't in Daevabad to save my family from being slaughtered when the djinn broke through the gates.”

His eyes blazed. “I spent the rest of my life—my short life, I assure you—fighting the very family you're so eager to join, the people who would have seen our entire tribe wiped out. And then the ifrit found me.” He held up his hand, the slave ring sparkling in the sunlight. “I never had anything like this . . . anything like you.” His voice cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I enjoy imagining your life with another?”

His rushed confession—the horror behind his words—dulled her anger, the utter misery in his face moving her despite her own hurt. But . . . it still didn't excuse his actions.

“You . . . you could have told me all this, Dara.” Her voice shook slightly as she said his name. “We could have tried to fix things together, instead of you plotting out my life with strangers!”

Dara shook his head. Grief still shadowed his eyes, but he spoke firmly. “There's nothing to fix, Nahri. This is what I am. It's a conclusion I suspect you'd have come to soon enough anyway. I wanted you to have another choice in hand when you did.” Something bitter stole into his expression. “Don't worry. I'm sure the Pramukhs will provide you with dowry enough.”

The words were her own, but they cut deep when turned back on her. “And that's what you think of me, isn't it? Regardless of your feelings, I'm still the dirt-blood-raised thief. The con artist after the biggest score.” She gathered the edges of her chador, her hands shaking with anger and something else, something deeper than anger that she didn't want to admit to. She'd be damned if she was going to cry in front of him. “Never mind that I might have done those things to survive . . . and that I might have fought for you just as hard.” She drew herself up, and he dropped his gaze under her glare. “I don't need you to plan my future here, Dara. I don't need anyone to.”

This time when she left, he didn't try to stop her.