Page 11 of Hair, She Bears
“That’s where you belong.” Malik’s head turned toward the sound of engines revving in the distance; the territory bosses approached.
“As do you, my boy, or have you forgotten your role in our organization?” Mother clapped Malik in the center of the back.
“Your organization,” Malik replied, his tone harsh.
“Don’t you forget that little detail.” Shoving Malik forward, Mother glanced back at the tower, his eyes locking with Zenna. He held up two fingers, indicating the time he would return.
Zenna nodded. She waited until they entered the main building in the center of the compound before retiring from the window and dragged to the shelves. No one was going to rescue her, not her parents, not Malik, not a knight in shining armor. She drew a finger across a row of empty vials, staring unseeingly at the shelves. She shook her head and glanced right, seeking the worktable, which remained shoved against the wall, testimony of her inability to resist Malik’s charisma. A blush ripped through her skin at the memory of his mouth on her lips, his body pressed against her.
Engaged.
Mother’s gruff voice swirled around her, and pain slash sliced through her chest. Crying out, she dropped to her knees. What had she expected from one kiss… true love? Malik was Mother’s son, a byproduct of his cruel nature.
Her first memory of Malik—witnessed from her tower window—was of a boy, barely fourteen, kneeling silently before his father in the courtyard, flinching each time the whip crossed his bare back. Mother’s ire rolled across the compound as he swung his arm in a relentless rhythm, beating Malik until he collapsed. Malik never made a sound and emerged from the encounter strong, violent, and pitiless. The rumors that followed, the whispered shock at the things he was capable of… Zenna shivered. The only man more dangerous than Malik was his father.
She wrestled the worktable back to its original position, then spun around, searching for the missing stool. It appeared beside the sofa, one leg wedged underneath the low frame. She tugged the stool free with a grunt, and set it upright, her gaze sliding to the window.
Mother had to let her go, he gave his word. Today’s batch would be worth more than enough to clear her parents’ obligation.And if he refuses?Malik’s deep baritone echoed in her mind. She wanted to argue with him, but she feared he was correct. What would she do if Mother denied her?
She rose and lifted a shabby half-apron from a small hook beside the shelves. After wrapping the apron strings around her waist twice, she tied them in a square knot, collected ten bottles from the top row, and tucked them into the apron pocket. Retrieving the knife, she slipped the blade back into the sheath and sank onto the stool, her feet wrapping automatically around the table’s stem. Rummaging in the apron, she retrieved a bottle and held it over the mortar, scooping a spoonful of the powder, and tapped it into the vial. Capping the vial, she shoved it back into the pocket, and repeated the process with the other nine bottles, rising only to exchange full vials for empty ones.
The day stretched on behind her. Her focus remained on the mound of powder, which slowly decreased until the spoon scraped across the bottom of the stone bowl with every scoop. She shoved the stopper in the final bottle and stood, her muscles throbbing, stiff from her crouched position. She deposited the vials onto the bottom shelf but paused on the final vial, which felt unusually heavy.
“Zenna!”
She glanced toward the window. Mother never called her name, and only one other person knew she was here—Malik. Dropping the bottle into her apron, Zenna inched toward the window, her heart sputtering. She inhaled, placed her hand on the frame, then leaned out.
“What do you want?”
“I’d rather not yell it.” Malik stared up at her from the base of the tower. “May I come up?”
“The stairs are broken.”
If she were closer, she would have sworn he rolled his eyes.
“I’d like to try something.”
“You already tried something.” She arched an eyebrow.
“I didn’t hear any complaints.” Malik crossed his arms over his chest.
“That’s because your fiancée wasn’t here to witness your indiscretion.”
“I am not engaged!” The snarl flew into the window and smacked her in the face, but she refused to step back from his anger.
“Your father says otherwise.” She pulled the vial from her pocket, set it on the windowsill, and spun it. Violet sparkles flew over the frame.
“My father is a liar.” Malik punched his fist into the side of the tower, then glanced over his shoulder. Lowering his voice, he hissed, “Dammit, Zenna, you’re going to get me killed.”
“Why does your father think you’re engaged?” She slapped her hand on the bottle, stopping it mid-spin.
“If I promise to answer that question first, will you help me climb into the tower?” He lowered his voice and checked behind himself again.
“What do you mean climb?”
“I need you to trust me.”
“I’m not certain I should.” She tucked the vial back into her apron.
