Free The Tyrant's Daughter by J.C. Carleson Page B

want to test my power further. I’m tilting my head up toward his, my eyes daring him and my mouth slightly open, breathless in a whole new way, when someone grabs my arm and whirls me around roughly. I turn with a smile on my face, eager to discover my next conquest.
    It’s no dance partner, though. It’s Amir.
    My spell is broken, and my stranger melts back into the crowd with a shrug. I was just a body; he’ll find another. Amir doesn’t let go of my arm, so I step closer to him, still moving with the music. I want to dance more. Amir will do.
    “Stop it!” he hisses. “You’re acting disgusting.” He pullsme toward the exit, moving so fast that I stumble and almost fall. As I catch myself, yanking my arm out of Amir’s grip, I see Ian looking at me from a few feet away.
    Are you okay?
he mouths, since the music is too loud to talk.
    I look back at Amir, whose face is twisted and tense with anger. For a second I hesitate, but then I nod at Ian.
I’m fine
, I mouth back to him. After all, Amir is nothing but a displaced peasant—his rage is no threat to me. But I haven’t forgotten Mr. Gansler’s threat. I need to appease Amir for my family’s sake. I will allow him his anger as a peace offering.
    Ian’s face stays neutral, but he keeps watching until I let the gymnasium doors slam behind me. I’m still charged from the dancing, emboldened by the music I can still hear pounding against the doors and windows. I turn to Amir and smile. Let him rage.
I
am in control.

STEPS
    “What the hell were you doing in there?” Amir’s voice is a controlled shout close to my ear, so quiet that the smokers leaning against a car in the parking lot barely look up. He is skilled at not drawing attention to himself. “Are you
trying
to shame your family?”
    “New place, new rules.” Emmy’s phrase doesn’t sound as tidy in my native tongue, but the meaning is still clear. “I’m just fitting in,” I say more gently. I can’t forget that I need him. “What are
you
doing here?”
    Amir’s face flushes, and he looks away. He’s
embarrassed
.
    I laugh. “I think that maybe you came for the same reason I did? Just to see for yourself?”
    He scowls, but it’s an embarrassed scowl, and there’s humor twitching underneath. He kicks at a cigarette butt on the ground and hides his smile. He also tries to hide his small peeks at me. This sparkly, satin version of me is new to him, too.
    I need to encourage this. To make Amir my ally—in curiosity, if in nothing else. “It’s certainly different here, isn’t it?” I keep my voice light, teasing. “Can you imagine that happening back home?”
    Finally, he’s willing to show me his smile. It’s crooked—interrupted by a scar that traces from his sharp cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth. It’s not unattractive.
He’s
not unattractive, I realize.
    Focus, Laila
.
    “The people here are children,” he says. “All of them. Even the grown-ups.”
    I wonder how many people not from his own country he has actually spoken to since moving here. “They’re not so bad,” I say.
    “Yeah, I could see in there that you think quite highly of them. One of them in particular.”
    He’s still trying to shame me, but I don’t react. I have been shamed by men far more powerful than Amir. Besides, why
should
I feel shame? It wasn’t me in there. I was just acting a part, trying on someone else’s skin.
    “Do you want to sit down?” I nod toward a graffiti-scarred bench close by. “It’s a beautiful night.”
    Amir tilts his head and squints—without his anger, he lacks direction. He shrugs his agreement.
    He sits, but I have to tug down my short skirt so that I can join him without exposing too much of myself. Once I do sit, he scoots away several inches. I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing. Perhaps I’m adapting to my new American home better than I thought—I’m already making other foreigners uncomfortable.
    “I haven’t seen you in a