Free My Beautiful Enemy by Sherry Thomas Page B

this man who guaranteed their safety and happiness—Ying-ying had wanted nothing more than that he should be her father.
    But he was a stern man, not given to displays of affection. So instead of his love, she began to long for his esteem.
    But would that still be possible, if she were to bring back a foreigner with no one to vouch for his parentage? An insignificant merchant who plied his wares along the caravan road?
    And as terrifying and potentially humiliating as
that
scenario was, it was the very best she could conjure, one in which the Persian, full of honorable intentions, bravely faced Da-ren’s wrath while she quaked in her boots.
    When the Persian was probably just waiting for her to give in and sleep with him.
    With time she could find out. But she had no time: This detour toward Kashgar had put her behind schedule. Her route was her own to manage, but she must always report back on the appointed day. Da-ren did not like her to be late, and any thought of Da-ren’s displeasure made her lungs feel completely airless.
    Was it any wonder that every mile west set her further on edge?
    “Would you like some chocolate?” asked the Persian.
    His offer vexed her. Everything about him vexed her. If he tried something untoward, then she could leave him a few choice bruises and gallop off, back to the life she knew. But he only ever pampered her, and lured her farther and farther away from where she needed to go.
    “Chocolate is bitter,” she said, half angrily. “And sticks to the roof of the mouth.”
    “You must not have had the newer chocolates—the Swiss have wrought marvels. Try it,” he coaxed her. “If you don’t like it, you can spit it out.”
    She snatched the small rectangle of confection from his hand, only remembering, as she was already putting the chocolate into her mouth, that she had not witnessed its making.
    But she did not spit out the chocolate for that reason. Nor did she spit it out for any other reason. For this chocolate was smooth, decadent, with the perfect depth and darkness to complement a milky sweetness.
    She ate it too fast—and almost could not look at him as she licked the back of her teeth, desperate to extract every last bit of flavor that still remained inside her mouth.
    He promptly offered her a bigger piece. “Some more?”
    She wanted to eat this piece slowly, to savor the utter deliciousness of it, but she didn’t—she wolfed it down as she had the other morsel. What was the point? It would be over soon anyway. And even if his entire saddlebag turned out to be filled with the same chocolate, it would still not be enough.
    Kashgar was no more than a few hours away. And then he would be but a memory, like the all-too-brief pleasure of milk chocolate, a sweetness after which everything else would only ever taste bitter and vinegary.
    “Do you have an address?” he asked quietly. “I can send you chocolate, if I have your address.”
    The only address she had was the governor’s residence in Kulja, which of course she could not give him.
    “And we can write each other,” he added.
    She stared at him. She spoke Turkic just fine, but she was almost completely illiterate in that language. “I can’t write.”
    “Neither can I—not in Turkic, in any case,” he said. “But I’m sure I can find someone to read your letters for me—and write my replies.”
    Implying she could do the same. But she simply could not have his letters arrive at the governor’s residence. How would she explain them to Da-ren? “Letters are stupid. It would take me less time to walk to India.”
    He smiled. “You could do that also.”
    Could she? The idea struck hard. Of course she could not go with the Persian anywhere now, but someday, perhaps someday not too far into the future, after she had proved herself and rendered Da-ren a great service, she could leave to marry. And then, if she knew where to find the Persian . . .
    “What is your address?”
    Did he hesitate? “It