by Tara Pammi
Nikhat nodded as he left. Before she could utter another word, she heard her name behind her. Stunned, she turned and saw a woman of around twenty run down the stairs. Her heart crawled into her throat, her chest felt hollow, her head dizzy as the woman’s long legs ate up the stairs.
Before she could draw another breath, Nikhat was enveloped in two pairs of arms, laughter and surprise rolling around her. Grabbing Noor and Noozat, her youngest sisters, she looked up and saw Naima, who was four years younger than her and closest to her in temperament.
Joy and excitement and shock and gratitude—everything barreled through her, robbing her of speech.
Tears fell onto her cheeks and Naima’s gaze met hers, shining with her own. Nodding and sometimes replying with a yes or no, Nikhat hugged her sisters, her heart incredibly tight in her chest.
Between Noor’s questions about her return, and Naima’s silent speculation, Nikhat turned around, hungry for a glance of Azeez. But he was already gone from the bridge and then she heard the squeal of tires. Wiping at her cheeks, Nikhat followed her sisters inside, her heart bursting to full with gratitude and something more that terrified the life out of her.
She wanted to crumple to the floor and howl. Because she was being tested again.
A rush of self-pity drenched her and for once she had no strength to fight it with. She didn’t want any reminders of his kindness, she didn’t want to remember how magnificently glorious it felt when his gaze was on her, of how effortlessly he could reduce her whole world to himself.
She had already begun to see flashes of the man he had once been and she couldn’t fight her attraction anymore. He was magnificent, he was kind and he was honorable.
How many times was she supposed to walk away without taking anything she wanted? How many times would she have to break her own heart into tiny little pieces?
She had trained herself to find satisfaction in her work and she did. She pushed herself every day to strive harder and to set new goals. She had made a life for herself. And yet, being in Dahaar brought out a loneliness she was too exhausted to see in New York. It settled deep into her bones.
And it was because of him.
She knew that. Despite every assurance she threw at herself that this time she was prepared, that she had walked away once, she still felt herself wavering, weakening and wishing for things that never could be.
CHAPTER EIGHT
REFUSING THE INVITATION to stay another night, Azeez turned just as one of his contacts stepped into the perimeter of the encampment and nodded at him.
He had visited two different camps in the last twenty-four hours across a hundred miles, trying to locate him. Glad that Nikhat wouldn’t be lonely and wondering about him, because she would had her sisters not been there, he took his leave from the chief of the Mijab.
The older man clasped both his hands, his gaze dancing with a million questions.
“You’ll always have a place with us,” he said in an older dialect of Arabic that the bedouins had used and that his father had insisted he learn. The chief had recognized Azeez within a week of finding him in the desert, and he would always be grateful to the older man for keeping his secret.
Azeez shook his head, knowing that now he couldn’t bear to live in the desert anymore. He thanked the chief for his hospitality for the past day and joined his contact.
His heart thumped loudly in his chest as he walked a mile off the beaten path where another man, a native of Zuran was waiting for him. Fierce satisfaction fueled him. The network of contacts he had built over the years was still intact, and something almost like a thrill chased his blood.
But this time it wasn’t just the fiercely alive feeling that had kept him going for six years. This time it was coupled with the fact that he could go back to Ayaan and give him some much-needed information.
Signaling his contact to stay behind, Azeez slowly made his way to the small group gathered outside a tent. One man stood up from the group and walked inside as soon as he spied him. Checking that the pistol he had strapped to his left leg was still intact, Azeez stepped inside the tent.
Shock waves pulsed through him as the man turned around, and the feeble light from the two hanging lanterns illuminated his features in a garish yellow glow.
His own features wreathed in mirroring shock, Zayed Al Salaam, his oldest friend, stared back at him. “Inshallah, it is you.”
Dressed in combat uniform, his face half covered in sand and mud, his dark golden eyes gleaming in the half light, Zayed covered the distance between them in two steps and embraced Azeez hard. “Of all the things to crawl out from under the desert sand…Azeez Al Sharif…” Zayed said, his voice harsh and yet unable to hide the tremor within. A spark of anger colored his gaze as Zayed studied Azeez with undisguised intensity. “I would have given anything to have the aid of an old friend these past years, Azeez.”
Azeez closed his eyes as a cold sweat seized his insides. His breath fisted in his throat, cutting off his words.
Would there be no end to the faces that greeted him from the past? Would he never be rid of the unrelenting guilt?
He had done everything he could to bring Zayed and his sister, Amira, together, and done it so covertly that even his parents and Ayaan hadn’t known. He had made it look like a treaty agreement to Zayed’s uncle, Sheikh Asad, who had used Zuran and its people as pawns in his pursuit of power. Azeez had convinced his parents that marrying Zayed, the army commander of Zuran, was better for Amira than marrying Sheikh Asad’s spoiled, degenerate son.
Just because Amira had begged him to help, just because, flouting every convention, his rebellious sister had fallen in love with Zayed. And Zayed with her.
And yet, he had killed her two months before her wedding to Zayed.
Had he, in a way, killed Zayed too?
“There was nothing I could do for anyone, Zayed. I was—”
Zayed shook his head. “I do not believe that. I do not believe that Azeez Al Sharif could become so heartless that he didn’t even have a word for his oldest friend who had lost the woman he loved, that he had to hide himself from the world.
“I heard rumors about a man who collected information for Dahaar,” Zayed spoke again, more than a hint of distrust creeping into his words now, “about a man who appeared with the Mijab suddenly six years ago…but then I thought why would a man born to rule his country hide like a coward in the shadows? Why would he forsake his parents, his friends and everyone else who needed him?”
“Zayed, you have no idea—”
“I do not, Azeez. But that is the way you wanted it, isn’t it?”
The hardness in Zayed’s eyes, the savagery in the tightness of his mouth, the undiluted arrogance in his words pierced through Azeez. And suddenly, he realized how much Zayed must have suffered losing Amira in such a way; Zayed, who had been captivated by her boldness and laughter; Zayed, who had never known any love or kindness.
Hardening his heart, Azeez infused steel into his voice. He was not here to reminisce with an old friend. “This from a man who pretends ignorance while his uncle wreaks havoc on the nation that he’s pledged to protect, the man who should have been the rightful ruler of Zuran?”
“Not anymore, Azeez. How fortunate that I won’t let an old friend return empty-handed.” A dark smile crept into Zayed’s eyes, any hint of the kindhearted man Azeez had known gone long ago. “Tell your Crown Prince or whoever you serve that Zuran is done being Dahaar’s puppet.
“You’re speaking to the new high sheikh of Zuran.”
Renewed shock pulsed through Azeez. “Your uncle…”
“Has been killed by my men.” A chill climbed up Azeez’s spine. It was like looking at a reflection of what he had been a few months ago. And he didn’t like it.
“Weren’t you the one who always talked about
our debt to our land, Azeez? Personal loss might have dimmed your sense of duty, whereas I have found mine only after it.”
Without waiting for Azeez’s response, Zayed walked out of the tent.
After waiting for a few minutes, Azeez walked out, too. Whatever the politics between Dahaar and Zuran, Zayed would never betray him.
But having seen his friend, having heard the threat in his words, Azeez was filled with renewed purpose.
There had been a coup in Zuran, which meant every small tidbit of information he could gather would be precious to Ayaan.
The chain of his guilt relenting, Azeez walked back to where his contact was waiting. He gave instructions to the man. He would need another couple of days in the desert.
He shivered as the chilly wind howled through him. The horizon stretched ahead of him in endless golden sand dunes.
He had loved the unforgiving heat, the harsh, stark landscape of the desert for as long as he could remember.
Even after he had recovered and realized he couldn’t go back to Dahaar, the desert had soothed him, provided an escape from the constant guilt and shame inside him, the harsh life of traveling with the Mijab forcing him to focus on mere survival.
His mistakes, his guilt, his yearning to be close to his family, they had all been minimized. He had been minimized by the brutality of desert life. That’s why he had clung to it for so long, that’s how he had gone on living.
Could he accept never coming back here again? Could he wrench away a part of him and leave it in Dahaar when it was time to leave?
For the first time since Ayaan had captured him and dragged him to the palace against his will, the answer to his own questions wasn’t absolute.
Neither could he dismiss the woman who had, just by her sheer dogged determination, breathed new will into his life.
* * *
Walking around the pool that was built in the shape of a drop of water pulled along in every direction, a gleaming blue between a maze of tall trees and walkways, Nikhat smiled, remembering every last word her sisters and she had said to each other over the past three days.
As the sun had set, small lights along the perimeter of the pool had come on, making the entire courtyard look like a jeweled necklace. The view of it from the terrace was magnificent, as if a slice of paradise had been brought to life in the middle of the desert. The contrast against the starkness of the desert dunes was lush, wondrous.
They had talked and talked until they had all been exhausted. They had laughed, cried, spent both nights, well into dawn, sitting by the pool, talking about their mother, father and so many things about the future, both near and afar.
Like Naima’s upcoming wedding that Nikhat was going to miss, to Noozat’s aspirations to be a midwife.
And Noor’s relentless questions about the desert hideaway they had been brought to under a cloud of silence, and her awe that the royal family had done such a personal favor for Nikhat.
She had cried when it had been time to go this morning, as Noozat had railed against the situation that kept Nikhat away, while Naima had watched it all silently.
Their innocence about the world, the contentment she had seen in their eyes for their lives, fueled her own resentment in a way she had never expected, filling her with a restless energy.
She had never been like that, innocent or carefree or just plain happy.
She had always worried about her mother’s health, worried about her sisters, worried about what trouble Amira would get into, worried about whether she would be allowed to pursue her dream and for how long. Despite her growing attachment to Azeez and the shock of his love for her, through it all, she had worried what the future would hold for her.
But in the end, her worrying, her cautious nature, had never helped her.
Until Richard had pursued her relentlessly for three years, she had let herself consider happiness again. She had revealed her condition, believed him when he said that he would be happy only with her. And yet, for all her worrying, his rejection had come, because suddenly he had realized he did want children, and she had been heartbroken.
Wasn’t that what she had been doing since she had returned, too?
Worrying about her clinic, worrying about her sisters, worrying about the pulse of attraction between her and Azeez…
For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to think of the future, or the consequences of the decisions she made today. She didn’t want to be the responsible one. She wanted to be selfish, she wanted to be carefree.
She wanted to live in the moment. She was in the most beautiful place she had ever seen with the one man who had always ensnared her senses with one look, one touch.
And still did.
Her fingers fluttering, she ran them over her mouth, remembering his kiss, remembering the pleasure she found in her own body, the power that had flown through her when he had shuddered.
The palm trees swayed stiffly in the breeze. Dusk painted the horizon orange, casting a reddish-golden glow over everything around her. And suddenly the evening was awash with possibilities, as though for this night, she could be anything she wanted.
She had wanted to be worthy of Azeez Al Sharif, the magnificent Prince of Dahaar. And she had accepted that she never would be.
But tonight, she would be everything that she wanted to be.
* * *
A few hours later, Nikhat waited in the moonlit courtyard, standing out among the lit-up walkways.
Lamb curry and pilaf, date cakes and sherbet made of the finest grapes—a feast fit for a prince—had been prepared at her command. She didn’t care what the servants inside that bustling kitchen thought of her. Only focused on the little tidbit that she and her sisters were the only outsiders to have ever stepped foot in here.
Her heavy hair hung loose around her face, her lips painted pink, her eyes lined with kohl. And she was dressed in a caftan made of the brightest red, made of the sheerest silk, that she had begged Naima to lend her. A cashmere shawl lay around her shoulders to shield her from the cold.
She couldn’t believe her own daring in inviting the prince to dinner so boldly. But she was past caring about her reputation, past suffering through punishments without actually committing the deed.
She refused to even indulge the prospect that he was somewhere laughing that she dared summon him.
She had waited maybe ten or fifteen minutes, when her skin prickled with awareness, when it felt as if even the air around her had come to a standstill.
Leaning against a pillar at the arched entrance, Azeez was watching her. Dressed in those same loose white pants and a white tunic, he looked like a dark shadow come to life, the expression in his coal-black eyes just as inscrutable.
He scanned her slowly from her feet in cream-colored sandals, upward to where she had cinched the caftan just below her breasts with a wide, jeweled belt, to the V-shaped neckline, threaded with intricate threadwork that was just a little shy of daring, to her mouth, her nose, her eyes and then her hair. Everywhere his gaze moved, she felt touched, she felt branded, she felt possessed.
Black fire blazed into life in those eyes that didn’t miss anything. He took a step toward her, to touching distance. “You look different.” Another devouring, lingering glance. “You dressed up.” He cast a look behind her and took in the elaborate lengths she had gone to. “Are you celebrating something?”
“Thank you for bringing my sisters here. I…”
“I understand perfectly.” He smiled, a flash of raw emotion tingeing it. He looked different, as if there was simmering energy inside him. It lit a fire along her nerves, every cell in her wanting more. “Thank you for being here, Nikhat, today and three days ago and these past weeks. I don’t begrudge you your success or your happiness or whatever it is that you desire.”
�
�You mean that.”
He laughed at the obvious doubt in her tone. “I do.”
His smile bared his teeth, lit up his face, and the beauty of it stole her breath. His eyes, his mouth, they had been made for laughter. And seeing him like that, it was easy to believe his goodwill. “Was your little jaunt into the desert successful then?”
“Yes.” A fire erupted in his eyes. With that single word, for the first time since she had come back, she believed that the true Azeez was coming back.
She covered the little distance that separated them. Their bodies grazed, their knees bumped and a tightness rendered his features stark. And she recognized the tension in his face for what it was, reveled in the spiral of hunger that ignited in her muscles.
Giving in, she touched him.
It was the lightest of contacts—the pad of her thumb rubbing against his cheek, the heat of his body a beckoning caress. The stubble scraped her palm, the scent of his skin and soap combined tugging at her senses.
His hand moved around her nape, and with sure but infinitesimal strength, he pressed. And every particle of her being gathered behind that small patch of her skin. “You’re playing with fire, Nikhat.” His hand moved to her hip, his fingers branding her skin through the silk. Another thread of her control unraveled.
“I can’t stop, Azeez.”
His palm landed square below her chest, and her heart began a race. “Do not test the breadth of my goodwill, habeeba. I worked very hard to achieve it. If you tempt me today, if you tease me today, I won’t walk away.”
She smiled and, anchoring herself against his arms, pushed herself into his touch. The sharp hiss of his breath felt like music to her ears. “Then don’t. Make love to me, Azeez.”
His jaw tightened like carved stone even as a dark fire glittered in his eyes. He was more than tempted and it fueled her own desire and satisfaction. “I think seeing your sisters has twisted your mind.”
She clasped his jaw with her hands. “On the contrary, visiting with them only helped me see clearly. I want this. I have always wanted this. Only, eight years ago, I never understood this fire between us.”