“I will not react to your threats, Sheikh Adir. The shame, if you spill it, will be yours and hers alone. Not ours. Leave now. Or I will have the guards throw you out as if you were nothing but a vulture circling at a time of mourning. If you had been anything but her bastard, you would have had better taste than to threaten my father at such a time of grief.”
* * *
In the flickering shadows of the darkness, punctured only by gaslights flickering here and there, the view from the window out of which she meant to jump looked like absolute nothingness to Amira Ghalib.
Emptiness with no relief in sight. An abyss with no bottom.
Like her life had been for the past twenty-six years. Like the prospect of marrying Prince Zufar, like her future as Queen of Khalia.
She snorted and smiled into the darkness.
Ya Allah, she was getting morbidly morose. But then that was what five days of being her father’s prisoner and a punch to the jaw had done to her.
Of pretending to her friend Galila that she had been clumsy again, that she had walked straight into a pillar. Of once again being the object of indifference to her betrothed. Of being nothing but a means to an end to her power-obsessed father.
She had even less freedom here at the palace of Khalia than her own home, and her house on the best day was a cage. Here, all eyes were on her.
But future queen or not, she needed escape. Just for a few hours.
Having failed to locate the flashlight she’d been looking for—her father’s watchdog had probably confiscated it from her suite—Amira looked through the window again. She remembered that there was a short ledge there, a rectangular protrusion to cover the window on the lower floor. Big enough for her to land on with both feet.
From there, it would be another sideways jump to the next ledge.
From there, another jump onto the curved stairway on the other side, the stairway that was unused even by servants and staff. And she would be free of the guard outside her suite, free of her father and free of her obligations.
She could walk to the stables, bribe the teenage boy there and go for a ride on the mare she had befriended the other day. She could just wander down the exquisitely manicured gardens the late Queen Namani had famously tended herself.
For a few hours, she could do whatever she wanted.
There is a ledge there, she repeated to herself.
All she had to do was hold her breath and jump.
Heart pounding, she climbed over the windowsill. Her legs dangled as she peered into the darkness, letting her eyes and ears adjust to the sounds and sights of the night. A horse’s whinny, the soft tinkle of water from the famed fountain in courtyard, the tap-tap of soles on the tiled walkway reached her ears.
Night-blooming jasmine filled her nostrils.
Already, she felt calmer. It was a lovely night to escape.
She smiled and jumped.
* * *
“You could have killed yourself. At best. At worst, broken all the bones in your body.”
Any breath that might have been left in her lungs after she’d landed wonkily on her knees whooshed out of Amira’s lungs.
She froze, the low, gravelly voice from the dark corner of the stairway sending shivers down her spine. Fear and something else swamped her. She blinked and peered through the quiet to see a shadowy outline.
Catlike eyes, amber-hued, stared back at her. Moonlight came in patches through the archway, outlining the man. He was blurry because she had forgotten her glasses.
But she could still make out broad shoulders that tapered to lean hips and powerful thighs. She searched for his face. Square jaw, sharp blade of a nose, high forehead.
Her gaze went back to his eyes. Eyes that were staring at her with unhidden curiosity.
Was he a royal guard? Another spy her obsessed father had set on her? Or worse, a guest of the palace?
No, anything would be better than her father’s spy. She would even prefer to brave her betrothed and explain herself than to face her father.
And if it was her father’s spy...
As if even her flesh remembered, a shaft of pain pulsed up her jawline and she flinched.
She could swear his scowl deepened the darkness as the man emerged from the shadows. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m...fine.” She dusted her palms on her thighs and winced. The skin of her palms had been pierced when she had tried to break her fall with them.
“You’re not a natural liar, ya habibiti.”
The upper-class aristocratic accent—similar yet different from her own or from the prince’s—caught her interest. With his perfect diction and the natural command in his very stillness, he could be a visiting royal—the last person she needed to be seen with. Or to have recognize her, come tomorrow.
He took another step toward her.
Still on her knees, Amira scooted back. Pains and aches forgotten, all she wanted was to get away from the...interesting stranger.
Whether he noticed her retreat or not, his long strides continued to eat up the distance between them. “Let me see if you’re hurt. You landed so hard you could have broken something.”
Another scoot back. At this rate, her knees were going to get skinned. “I did not...break anything.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Her normally placid temper simmered. “Since I have a degree in nursing, I think I can judge whether I broke something or not.” She hissed a breath out. “Please...just leave. I’ll be on my way in a couple of minutes.”
“You don’t have to fear me.”
She was panicked, yes, but strangely, there was no fear in it.
She took a deep breath. Sandalwood, combined with something utterly masculine, filled her lungs as he reached her, settling into a strange tightness in her lower belly.
Arrested by her body’s reaction—neither flight nor fight but more of a languid uncoiling low in her belly—she looked up at him.
Straight white teeth flashed at her when he smiled. “You intend to stay there?”
She nodded, aware of how stupid she must look, mooning over him and yet unable to stop.
“I’m perfectly fine with having a conversation on the...dirty floor,” he said matter-of-factly. And before she could comprehend, he sank down on his knees with a fluid grace that was reminiscent of a jungle predator.
The traveling moon chose that exact moment to cast a bright, silvery glow through the archway, illuminating the planes of his face.
Breath arrested, Amira stared.
Deep-set amber eyes glinted with humor, and even that couldn’t stop her appraisal. As if hand-chiseled by a master sculptor, he was breathtakingly handsome.
There was almost something royal about those features, something familiar yet painfully elusive.
She could see a high forehead, the sharp blade of a nose, weather-beaten skin that glinted dark gold—which told her he spent quite a lot of time in the harsh sun—and a defined jawline that invited her fingers’ touch. Breathing shallowly, she fisted her hands in the folds of her gown.
His lashes flicked down to where she hid her hands and then up, that glimmer of humor deepening in his eyes.
“Tilt your head forward so that I may better look at you,” he said in a low voice, no less commanding for its softness.
Years of obedience browbeaten into her, Amira dutifully did. Only when his gaze moved over every inch of her face with a penetrating intensity did she realize what she had done.
Color filled her cheeks. Instead of moving back, instead of lowering her eyes as she had been taught again and again by her father, she used the moment to study him some more.
A sharp hiss from his mouth jerked her gaze to his. In the flash of a breath, the humor disappeared, replaced by a dark vein of anger. His amber eyes glowed.
He lifted his hand to her face and Amira instantly cringed back. The softening of his expression told her what she had done. Shame filling her, she looked down at her palms. Hard concrete at her knees pulled her back to reality.
It was high time she was on her way. He was tying her insides into strange knots.
“May I touch you?”
His husky question jerked her gaze to his face again.
She thought she saw him swallow and that was strange.
“I promise I mean you no harm.”
His eyes were deep pools, devoid of the barest expression, and yet there was an intrinsic trust deep in her belly that he would keep his word. That this was a man who didn’t raise his hands against the weaker sex or people dependent on his mercies, for any reason. Not the least of which would be to establish his own superiority or to enforce his will.
Yet power seemed to emanate from his very pores. He would command any room he entered. And as to his will—she would bet any man or woman would surrender to it easily. With pleasure, in the latter case.
Slowly, she nodded. Something in her leaped quietly—anticipation, she realized. With every cell in her being, she wanted to feel this man’s touch, however fleetingly.
She thought he would pull her to her feet. Instead, his fingers landed on her jaw with such gentleness that hot tears prickled behind her eyelids.
“These are fingerprints marring your lovely cheek.” The words were devoid of emotion, feeling. Contained violence shimmered in his stillness. He was furious at the sight of the bruise on her jaw.
That simple concern on her behalf sent sorrow spiraling through her.
She closed her eyes, loathe to betray her weakness in front of him. She had never shed a single tear, even when her father’s palm once landed on her jaw with such force that her head had jerked back, leaving her with neck pain for weeks. But now...she felt like stretched glass.
As she stoppered the emotion flowing through her, she felt other things. It was as if her senses were slowly opening up. His huge body gave out warmth on the chilly night, enveloping her like her childhood blanket—a reminder of her mother.
The scent of him—the more she breathed it, the more she wanted to—a tantalizing mixture of sandalwood and horse and pure man.
His fingers turned her jaw to the moonlight so that the bruise, which she hadn’t covered after washing off her makeup, was visible. The pad of his thumb traced it and she flinched. More from the heat his touch generated than from pain.
A sharp curse flew from his mouth. “Forgive me, I promised not to cause you harm.”
“You didn’t,” she said automatically.
He raised a brow. “No?”
“Our skin has thousands and thousands of nerve centers that react to external stimuli, did you know? Your palm is rough against my skin and also, I’m barely ever touched by anyone other than my father—and not in such a leisurely, soft way, either—so I feel a flash burn where your skin touches mine—” when his brows rose, she hurried to explain “—not like fire burns us, more pleasurable than that, and I believe that’s why I flinched. Because even pleasure, especially when it’s unexpected and unfamiliar to the recipient, causes flinching.”
The utter silence that ensued sent blood pooling up her neck and into her cheekbones. She clamped her palms over her mouth. No wonder her father got aggravated whenever she opened her mouth.
A slow smile dawned in his eyes, causing lines at the ends of his eyes and adorable creases in his cheeks. His teeth flashed at her again and that smile made him a thousand times more gorgeous.
“I state facts and run my mouth endlessly when I’m anxious or agitated or upset or sad or angry. My father thinks I do it to ignore his dictates and to insult him.”
“And when you’re happy?”
She smiled. “You’re very smart, aren’t you? You know, people think intelligence is...” She cleared her throat and she blushed fiercely again. “I do it when I’m happy, too, yes. Pretty much all the time, now that you make me think about it.”
His smile turned into laughter. It boomed out of him. Low, gravelly, utterly sensuous, but also a little rough and strange. As if he didn’t do it much.
Amira wanted to roll around in that smile. She wanted to be the one who caused his serious face to smile and laugh again and again. She wanted to spend an eternity with this exciting stranger who made her feel safe. She wanted to...
“I have to leave.”
He sobered up. And frowned. “So I can take your word that you’re not hurt?” He flicked another glance at her jaw. “Other than your jaw?”
“I misjudged the distance between the last ledge and the stairs, but I’m not hurt.”
He nodded. “And what is so irresistible that you took such a dangerous route...? What is your name?”
Zara, Humeira, Alisha, Farhat...
“You’re thinking up fake names.”
She blinked. Like a hawk, he watched with predatory intensity. And something else... Possessiveness, perhaps.
She swallowed. “I would get into trouble if word gets out that I escaped my room or that I was wandering the palace without guard or that I spent all this time in the dark with a stranger...a lot of trouble.”
“No one will know,” he said. “I will get you back to your room unharmed and undiscovered.”
And all the while he tempted her, he watched her. As if he found her endlessly fascinating. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said.
His fingers pushed back a strand of hair that brushed her jaw. Featherlight and tender, his touch knocked down the little sense remaining in her skull. “I think you do trust me. Which is why you have lingered here so long already. All you need to do is take the final step, ya habibiti. We’re strangers passing a few moments together in a long life.”
Another rough-padded finger lifted her chin until she was gazing into his eyes. His nostrils flared, the set of his jaw resolute. “I would have your real name.”
If he had commanded her, Amira would have prevailed. But beneath that request was a thread of longing that resonated in her soul. What could such a commanding man want that he was ever denied?
He was harshly beautiful, like the rugged landscape of the desert, and yet he looked at her with such pure need.
The last of her good sense and diffidence melted. Innocent she might be when it came to men but she already felt like she knew him.
He wouldn’t hurt her.
“Amira...my name is Amira.”
Fire awakened in his eyes. They both knew she had given him more than just her name in that moment.
He tilted his head—a regal nod for granting him the privilege of her real name. Warmth filled her chest. “I’m Adir.”
“Salaam-alaikum, Adir.”
“Walaikum-as-salaam, Amira.”
He took her hand in his, completely engulfing hers. Sensations shimmered through her, flowing like a river from where their hands touched to spread all over her body. And then he was softly tugging her to him. Raising their clasped hands, he placed a soft kiss to the tender skin at her wrist.
It was a chaste kiss—nothing more than a buss from those lips to her skin. And yet her pulse skittered under his mouth. “Meeting you has made an awful night a thousand times better.”
The way he held her gaze, the banked fire in it...she wanted to answer it with her own fervor. For one night, she just wanted to be Amira and not a power-obsessed man’s daughter, nor the fiancée of a mostly indifferent prince. She wanted to sink into Adir’s arms and let him carry her away.
“You know, when you smile, you get two dimples. Did you know that dimples are caused when a facial muscle called zygomaticus major is shorter than normal? Sometimes, they’re also caused by excessive fat on your face. Although, in your case, it’s definitely not excessive fat, because you look hard as those rock stru
ctures we see in...in...”
His smile dawned as slow and bright like the sun over the horizon.
Amira buried her face in her hands and groaned loudly.
“So you’re informing me that my facial structure is flawed, yes?”
She tried to tug her hand from his. He didn’t let her. “Oh, please, you know you’re flawless.”
That seemed to take him aback. Didn’t he look at himself in mirror? Did he not have women flocking to him for a glimpse of that wicked smile?
Still smiling, he pulled her to her feet. “You’re...like a desert storm, Amira.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”
His eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Do you want a compliment, ya habibiti?”
“Yes, please.”
Again that pure laughter—a reward for her boldness. “You’re precious. Now, do me the honor of letting me check you.”
When she straightened all the way, he patted her down in an impersonal manner. As if he was used to her antics and had done it a thousand times before. As if he cherished his right to indulge her.
A hard knot made its place in Amira’s throat.
His hands rested on her shoulders. The sheer breadth of him took her breath away anew.
“So what was it this time?”
Caught staring at him once again, Amira frowned. “What was what?”
“What caused you to divulge all those important facts about dimples to me? Was I making you sad, perhaps? Upset? Angry?”
“You’re shamelessly goading me into admitting something I shouldn’t. Isn’t it enough that I made a fool of myself?”
“Please, ya habibiti.”
She raised a brow, stalling for time. “Why do I have the feeling you never say that word?”
He shrugged. “A couple of times in the last decade.”
She sighed. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know. “I’m attracted to you. I could steal all kinds of romance novels from the library and read about all the feelings that hit a woman when she finds a man attractive, but it’s not even close to what I feel. You could be forgiven for thinking it was all cooked up to sell books, this whole chemistry thing. And yet...it’s new and it’s strange and it’s utterly scary and it’s...”
Wed for His Secret Heir Page 18