Forged in the Desert Heat

by Maisey Yates

  Because this was beauty. His jaw was square, his chin strong, lips incredibly formed. The loss of dark hair on his face made his brows more prominent, made his eyes that much more magnetic.

  With shorter hair, he would look even better. With nothing to distract from that perfect face.

  “You are staring,” he said, standing, forcing her to look back down at his bare chest. She needed to look somewhere more innocuous. Somewhere that wouldn’t make her feel tense and fluttery and...sweaty.

  But there was no safe place to look, except at the wall behind him. Because everywhere, absolutely everywhere, he was a woman’s deepest, darkest fantasy. The kind that came out in the middle of the night when she lay in bed, restless, aching and unsatisfied. The kind that she knew she shouldn’t have, shouldn’t give in to.

  But did. Because she didn’t possess enough strength to do anything else.

  “I’m just surprised at what I uncovered,” she said. Best to be honest, because she didn’t have the brainpower to come up with a lie.

  He laughed. “Expecting hideous scars, were you? Those are just in here.” He pounded on his bare chest.

  “I didn’t know what to expect.” She swallowed. “I do think you should cut your hair, and you should definitely enlist someone other than me to do it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ll answer why to both possible questions. Because you don’t need to hide behind all the hair. You’ll shock people more if you step out completely clean, I think. Defy expectations and exceed them—that’s what you want, isn’t it? And secondly, because the only way I could cut your hair is if we took the fruit bowl in my bedroom and emptied it, then turned it upside down on your head. I don’t think that’s the look we want.”

  He laughed and it made her warm up inside. “I suppose not. And I see your point about...out-polishing their expectations.”

  “It would be good for you,” she said. “Think about it...you show up at the party in a dark suit, tailored to fit, and your hair cut short, clean shaven. You won’t look like a man who’s just stepped out of exile, but a man who was born to his position. Which, you are.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I am glad I didn’t walk a straight line from the cradle to the throne. I strongly regret what happened. The loss of my parents. But without it...I would have been a weak, spoiled and selfish ruler. I fear I would have been no better than my uncle. At least out in the desert I learned self-denial. At least I learned about what mattered. It is the one good thing to result from it all. I will be better for Al Sabah because of it. Sadly, Al Sabah is starting from a place of weakness. Because of my own weakness.”

  “You’ve transcended that weakness,” she said. “You’ve spent the past fifteen years doing it. So show them, Zafar, show them your strength. Give them a reason to stand behind you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ZAFAR LOOKED IN the mirror, which was something he didn’t particularly like to do. It was a difficult task over the past few years, as he, in many ways, hated the man he saw. Plus, it wasn’t like he carried a compact in his pocket. He saw no point in owning a mirror out in the desert.

  But he was looking now. He’d had a haircut, and he had shaved himself in the few days since the shave Ana had given him.

  He looked very different than he’d thought he did. He’d seen himself as a boy. Since then he’d always had a beard and long hair, and he’d looked at himself infrequently.

  Seeing himself without anything covering his face, his hair short, was more shocking than he’d thought it might be. He was a stranger to himself, this, admittedly, more civilized version of the man he was looking back at him from the mirror.

  His appearance had never mattered to him. Every day he rode through the desert, the safety and well-being of the people there his job. His duty. If he had word his uncle’s men were around then he was there with his men, preventing any injustice that might happen, by any means necessary, and then melting back into the desert as though they had never been there.

  As far as Zafar knew, his uncle had never known it was him. His uncle hadn’t known of his continued existence. He was sure Farooq imagined that he’d gone back to the dust, another victim of the unforgiving desert. And that had suited him well. The Bedouins were loyal to him, above all else. And the few times he’d tangled with soldiers from the palace...

  They had left no men to return with a tale.

  He looked at his reflection again, caught sight of the ruthless glint in his eye. The pride. The lack of remorse. Ah, there he was. This was the man he knew.

  He pushed off from the sink and turned to walk out of his chamber and into the hall. He would find Ana. He needed to see if his new appearance met with her approval.

  His gut tightened at the thought of her. He’d avoided her over the past few days, and it had been easy to do so. There was a lot of work to be done, more papers to sign, people to start meeting with, scheduling to sort out. Media to speak to.

  For a moment, his hand burned as he thought of how he’d touched her while she’d shaved his face. She had curves, soft and womanly. The epitome of feminine appeal. Her face had been so close to his and it had taken every bit of his self-control not to lean in and claim her mouth.

  But then, he very well might have found himself with a blade pressed to his throat in earnest.

  He went to her room, but she wasn’t there.

  For some reason, the discovery made his chest feel tight. He walked quickly through the corridor and to the double doors that led to the courtyard.

  And there she was, a shimmer of gold in the sunlight, sitting on the edge of a fountain.

  “Ana.”

  She turned and her eyes widened, her lips rounding and parting. She’d looked at him like that after he’d shaved. A look of shocked wonder. Like someone who had been knocked over the head.

  It was quite endearing in its way.

  For his part, were he not well-practiced in hiding his responses, he was sure he would be wearing a similar expression. Seeing her out in the sun, in a white dress that left her legs and shoulders bare, pale hair shimmering in the light, was like a punch in the gut.

  Heat pooled down low, desire grabbing him by the throat and shaking him hard. In that moment, he suddenly wanted so badly to touch her skin, to see if it was as soft as he imagined, that he would have gladly sold his soul, traversed the path into hell and delivered it to the devil by hand, just for a touch. A taste.

  And it would cost his damned soul, no mistaking that.

  But then, as it was damned already, did it really matter?

  Yes. It did. Because Al Sabah mattered. His people mattered. He was beyond the point of redemption. He wasn’t seeking absolution, because there was none to be had. But he would see his people served well. That was what he intended. To lead. To lead as a servant.

  Anything else was beneath him. Any chance for more gone years ago.

  It didn’t matter how beautiful she looked with the sun shining on her, with her hair spilling over her shoulders like a river of liquid gold. It didn’t matter that her breasts were made to fit in his hands, and he was certain they were.

  A man only had so much emotional currency, and his had been spent the day of his parents’ deaths. He’d forfeited it. To better serve. To better make amends.

  And now he simply had nothing. So he would have to look, only. Look and burn.

  “You look...”

  “Civilized?”

  “Um...I don’t know if that’s the right word. You are...” She bit her lip, and he envied her that freedom. He would love to bite that lip. “Look, this whole experience is all a bit, out of time for me. I’m used to having to be appropriate and well-behaved, to...contribute and be useful. But right now I’m just going to be honest. You’re a very handsome man.” Her cheeks turned pink. />
  “I’m not sure anyone has ever said that to me,” he said.

  “That surprises me.”

  “It has been a very long time since I was in a relationship where words like that were used. It has been...it’s been longer than I can remember since I told a woman she was beautiful. You are beautiful,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.” It was a mistake to tell her that. A mistake to speak the words, and yet, he found he couldn’t hold them back.

  “Now, there’s something I don’t hear very often.”

  “Now I have to question the sanity of every male you’ve had contact with in the past five years.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I’ve been engaged to Tariq for four years and as a result I haven’t dated. And we’ve mostly dated remotely so...”

  “And he has not told you how beautiful you are when he’s holding you in bed?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t ask, because images of her in bed, naked and rumpled, made him crave violence against the man who had just had her. And even more, it made him crave her touch.

  “I...we haven’t...it’s been a very traditional courtship. And by traditional, I mean the tradition of a hundred years ago, not the tradition of now.” Her cheeks were even darker now, embarrassment obvious.

  “What a fool,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Tariq is a fool. If you were mine I would have staked a claim on you the moment I had you within reach.”

  She blinked rapidly. “I...our relationship isn’t like that.”

  “And yet he loves you?”

  “He cares for me.”

  “And you love him?”

  “Waiting doesn’t mean I don’t love him. Or that he doesn’t love me. In fact, I think it shows a great deal of respect.”

  “Perhaps. But if you were mine, I would rather show you passion.”

  “But I’m not.”

  It took him a moment to realize how close they had gotten to each other, that he was now standing near enough to her that if he reached his hand out, he could cup her cheek, feel all that soft skin beneath his rough, calloused palm. A gift far too fine for his damaged skin. For his damaged heart.

  “No,” he said, “and you should be grateful for that fact. Your fiancé sounds as though he’s a better man than I.”

  “I’m sure he is,” she said. She raised her eyes, and they met his. “But I...I don’t feel...” She raised her hand, and it was her who rested her hand on his cheek. “What is this?”

  “You’re touching my face,” he said, trying to sound normal. Trying not to sound out of breath.

  “You know what I mean, I know you do. And I know...I know you know the answer.”

  He did. Chemistry. Sexual attraction. Lust. Desire. There were so many names for the feeling that made his stomach tight and his body hard. But it wasn’t something he wanted to expose her to. It wasn’t anything he could expose her to.

  She put her other hand on his face, aquamarine eyes intent on his. “I don’t even like you,” she said. “I think I might respect you in a vague sort of way, but I think you’re hard. And scary. And I know I don’t have a hope in the world of ever relating to you. So, why do I feel like there’s a magnet drawing us together?”

  “Is it just since I shaved? Perhaps it’s that you think I am...handsome, as you said.”

  She shook her head. “It started before that.”

  “Perhaps you should discontinue your honesty,” he said, his voice rough. “It will not lead us anywhere good.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know. But...can I try this? Please? Can I just...” She closed her eyes then, blocking her emotions from view. And then she leaned in, pressing her lips to his.

  It was a soft touch. But it was like touching a live, naked wire to sensitive flesh. Quick, nothing more than brief contact, but it burned everywhere. Everything.

  She drew back, her breath catching, her eyes wide-open again now. And he knew she’d felt it too, just like he had. Like an electric shock.

  “Does it answer your question?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “And I was right. Wasn’t I? It is best not to be so honest from here on out, I think.”

  Ana felt like she’d been singed. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she was shaking inside. Everywhere. She had no idea why she’d just done that. Why she’d touched him. Why she’d kissed him.

  Only he’d walked out of the palace, looking like a fantasy she’d never known she’d had, and for a moment the entire world had shrunk down to him, her, and the way he made her feel. The things he made her want.

  And she’d needed to know. Was it all adrenaline and fear? Confused by the fact that he was an appealing, powerful man? Or was it attraction. Deep, lusting attraction that wasn’t like anything she’d ever felt before.

  The moment their lips had touched she’d had her answer. She didn’t like her answer.

  She’d kissed Tariq a few times. And before that, she’d kissed three or four boys at inter-school mixers. Light kissing, with a little tongue. Some of the boys had given more tongue than she’d liked.

  But this had left them all so far in the dust it almost didn’t seem like it could be considered the same activity. It was so dissimilar to every other kiss she’d had, she wondered if it was something different. Something more. Or if those first kisses had been failures. But they hadn’t seemed like it at the time.

  She’d liked kissing Tariq. Had thought dreamy thoughts about what it would be like to kiss him more. To do more than kiss. She’d been looking forward to being his wife in every way.

  And then there was Zafar. He had walked into her life and swept her up in his whirlwind, leaving so many things devastated in his wake.

  “Just tell me one thing and then we’ll suspend honesty on the subject,” she said, fighting the urge to reach up and touch her lips. To see if they felt hot.

  “I will decide if I’ll tell you after you ask the question, habibti.”

  “Okay.” Normally she would be so embarrassed. Normally, she would never have kissed a man like that, and normally she would never ask the question she was about to. But normally, she lived life to keep everything around her smooth. She lived life in a calm and orderly fashion. She never ruffled feathers or made things awkward.

  At least, that was what she’d trained herself to do after an act of clumsiness had resulted in her mother telling her all of her faults. All of the little ways she ruined the other woman’s life. And then in her mother leaving. Because she couldn’t stand to live with such a child anymore.

  But in the past two weeks she’d left home to see her fiancé, the man she would marry, taking a step toward becoming sheikha of a new country, to becoming a wife. Then she’d been kidnapped. Then she’d been ransomed by Zafar and taken back to the palace and given the job of civilizing a man she was starting to think was incapable of being civilized. So she felt like she was entitled to be different.

  She was starting to feel different. More in touch with the girl she’d been before pain had forced her to coat herself in a protective shell. To live her life insulated, quiet and never making waves.

  Now she didn’t mind if she made waves. Not here with Zafar. Here she felt bold. A little reckless. In touch with her body in a way she’d never been before.

  “Is it always like that?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Kissing. Does it always feel like that? And when I ask this question I’m assuming that the kiss made you feel the way it made me feel. I’m assuming it made you feel like you’d been lit on fire inside and like you wanted more. So much more it might not ever be enough. If it did...is it always like that?”

  “I should not answer the question.”

  “Please answer.”

&nbs
p; He leaned in, resting his thumb on her bottom lip. She darted her tongue out, instinct driving her now, not thought, and tasted the salt of his skin. Heat flared in his dark eyes.

  “No,” he said, the word sounding like it had been pulled from him.

  “No, you won’t answer, or no, it’s not normally like that?”

  “It’s never like this,” he said. “I do not know how the brush of your lips against mine can make me want like this. Like the basest sexual act never has. But it doesn’t matter.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. It matters.”

  “Does it change anything?”

  “No.”

  And it didn’t. But in some ways it was gratifying to know that she shared what was probably a normal level of chemistry with Tariq. That this thing with Zafar wasn’t normal. That it wasn’t something you were supposed to feel, that it wasn’t something everyone had, that it was something she was somehow missing with the man she was going to marry.

  That would have been a harder truth.

  Maybe.

  It wasn’t actually all that comforting to know that she was experiencing some sort of intense, once-in-a-lifetime type attraction to a man she had nothing in common with. A man she could never, ever touch again.

  Not if she valued her sanity. Not if she valued her engagement.

  And she did. She valued both quite a bit.

  “But I wanted to know because...because if it’s something you feel with everyone, but I somehow don’t feel it with Tariq...well, I needed to know that. But this is better.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I find it near the point of unendurable, and I have endured a lot. Dehydration. Starvation. All things you can forget if you go deep enough inside yourself. But this...with this, it comes from deep inside of me and I’m not certain how I’m supposed to escape it.”

  Ana swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and she couldn’t even blame the desert heat.