Free Slave to Passion by Elisabeth Naughton Page A

form of torture there is .”
    His pulse picked up speed. The fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He wasn’t sure when the female in his cell had said those words, but he knew they’d come from her. He could hear them now, in her sweet, tempting voice, as surely as he could suddenly hear the pounding of his own heart.
    “Rise, sahad .”
    Nasir looked toward the doorway where Malik stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his mouth set in a grim line. Behind him, two guards waited.
    “I want you in the training ring in five minutes.”
    Malik stepped out; the guards moved in. As Nasir lowered his fork and rose from the empty table, his mind spun with images, words, questions he couldn’t answer. If the female in his cell was highborn, she wouldn’t know about torture. She wouldn’t know loneliness. She wouldn’t have cared for him in any illness. And she definitely wouldn’t be lingering in his dank, depressing cell right this moment.
    “ He’s not my mate …” “ I was sent to you …” “ Let me help you …”
    His pulse picked up speed. His heart raced beneath his ribs as he walked his tray across the room and set it on the high counter that adjoined the kitchen, then turned back toward the guards. There was only one answer that made sense.
    She wasn’t highborn.
    The guards led him to the indoor training ring, smaller than the arena but with enough room to spar. His legs ached, and he was weak from the infection, but as he stepped into the center of the arena and the guard to the left handed him a wooden sword, he didn’t care. All he cared about was learning the truth.
    “Leave us,” Malik said to the guards. They exchanged confused glances—they were always on hand to watch Nasir, even during training, because a Marid could never be trusted—but when Malik shot them a try-to-defy-me look, they both shrugged and exited, the heavy door clanging closed behind them.
    Malik clasped his hands behind his back, the fingers of his right hand closed tightly around the hilt of his sword. “Do you feel rested, sahad ?”
    “Yes,” Nasir lied, knowing not to show weakness. In the arena, weakness meant death. In the training ring, it translated to punishment. He grasped his sword tighter as Malik circled around behind him. His mu’allim was legendary for attacking when least expected, and, considering how scattered Nasir felt right now, he needed to stay on his toes.
    “Honesty between teacher and pupil is the only bond we have, sahad .”
    Shit, Malik knew he was lying. Nasir tensed.
    “However,” Malik went on, moving around Nasir’s right and coming back to stand before him, “considering the circumstances, I’m willing to overlook it. Just this once. I sense your question. Ask it.”
    Nasir looked up sharply. A sahad was never supposed to question his mu’allim , in anything. But he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity, because he might not get it again. “The female in my cell. You called her jarriah . It’s not a word I know.”
    “No,” Malik said, circling once again behind Nasir. “Nor should you. It is not of our language. It is a Ghul word.”
    Our language? Nasir’s brow dropped low, and more questions swam in his mind, but before he could ask them, a shot of understanding rippled through him, allowing him to see clearly, as if a veil had just been lifted. When Malik moved in front of him once more, Nasir’s eyes opened wide. “Holy Allah… You’re—”
    The curtain dropped swiftly, blocking Nasir’s senses. Malik stared hard into his eyes. “I am your mu’allim .”
    No, he was more. The air left Nasir’s lungs on a whoosh. Malik was Marid, just like him.
    “Not all your djinn powers are blocked, sahad ,” Malik said in a low voice. “Only the ones they fear you will use against them. You’ve been so focused on death and killing that you’ve overlooked what is at your fingertips.”
    What did that mean? “But how did you—”
    Malik resumed his circle. “I