by Olivia Gates
He held her eyes, demanding her concession, her confession.
And she gave it. With her lashes hiding her expression she dragged his mouth back to hers, scorched him in a blast of hunger as her hands trembled at his belt. He growled in relief, in agony, tore at her clothes. He had her naked, only shredded his shirt open, freed himself, settled his chest over her breasts, rubbed her to a frenzy as she clamped her thighs around him in silent supplication for him to invade her, to merge them.
Unable to stand one more heartbeat outside her heat, her hunger, he rammed inside her.
And right there, buried inside her, knowing that the next thrust would hurtle them both over the edge, he stilled. Reared up. Looked down into her eyes, saw it. The soul that was right, that was perfect, for him, come to complete him, discovered to show him what life held of possibility, to fulfill the promise that had remained unrealized until she was there.
Then she moved, taking him as he took her, her eyes never leaving his. And the dam of pain and anger and disillusion shattered, and every beautiful, overpowering thing he felt for her flooded him. Images of a child with emerald eyes and hundred-color hair deluged him as he jetted inside her, feeling he’d poured his lifeforce into her, causing her paroxysm to spike. Ecstasy rocked them, locked them in a closed circuit until it seemed they might not survive the heights of pleasure, the depths of agony.
When he felt as if his heart would never restart, the excruciating release finally relinquished its merciless grip, let it beat again. Then she let go of his eyes, the deadness back. And the madness lifted, left him groping for breath.
“All those things you said were fabrications.” His choking words were not a question. They were him, realizing the enormity of the mistake he’d made. “Ya Ullah, why did you say them?”
She moved, making it clear she wanted to end their merging. He groaned at the pain of separation, had no choice but to watch her get out of bed like a malfunctioning automaton, go to the wardrobe he’d filled with clothes tailor-made for her, pulled on an emerald summer dress that had made her eyes iridescent when she’d first tried it on. Her eyes were muddy now, vacant.
“I’m just beginning to realize the full implications of you being the crown prince of one of the most powerful oil states in the world. You probably hold the power of life and death over your people. You want it over me.”
He rose from the bed, shuddered at the lifelessness of her voice as he did up his pants, approached her. “I don’t…”
She cut across his protest, her voice becoming an almost inaudible rasp. “You don’t think it enough to have me where you want me, a pawn in your political game and an eager body in your bed, proving your irresistibility. You want to wring me of the last drop of dignity to placate yours.”
“B’Ellahi, Farah, stop. This isn’t what I…”
“You want to know why I said what I did? Can I give you a list?” She echoed his earlier taunting. “How about a reaction to finding out I was means to an end all along? Or wanting to walk away from the worst degradation of my life with the illusion of being on equal ground? Or needing to make you show your true face, so it would be superimposed on that of the man I loved, erasing it from my heart and mind so I can go on living?”
“Atawassal elaiki, I beg you, ya habibati, let me…”
“I beg you to stop. Your plans worked, you got what you wanted out of me, in every way. So go do your duty and take your pleasure with whomever you want for real, for herself, let her provide the ego strokes you need and leave me alone.”
He tried to reach for her. “I can’t…”
She staggered away. “Not until I give you an heir? Is that why you’ll keep having sex with me? What if I told you-”
“You must listen to me. What I said, how I’ve behaved in the past hours, I was only lashing out after all those ugly things you said. Ya Ullah, you made them sound so convincing, the blast of shock blew away my memory, my knowledge of you. But even before you explained, I remembered, each moment-”
“I remembered each moment, too.” She cut across his desperate words, and he looked on in horror as she seemed to fragment before his eyes. “I’m remembering now, each look, each touch, each word I said to you, each sensation as I listened to you, as I felt you touch me with your eyes and hands and lips, cover me, move inside me. And I play it back and superimpose the truth over the illusion. I see your real feelings and thoughts as you watched me squirm in longing and pleasure and hope, as I fell flat on my face in love with you. I see you as you hid behind your shield of indifference, gauging when to poke me, how to make me beg, pant, and humiliate myself more and more.”
He surged, blind, out of his mind with agony, with the need to absorb hers, clutched her into a frantic embrace. She struggled wildly, tore herself away, quaking on sobs so hard he feared they were tearing her insides apart.
“God…the way you strung me along, the way I looked up to you, thought you unique, a man who cares about a woman’s feelings, not just her body, who cares about me. And all the time you could hold back because I was nothing to you, because you felt nothing. All the time you watched me making a fool of myself, lapping up the crumbs you kept dropping, yelping in gratitude. How pathetic did I seem to you, craving your appreciation, disbelieving my senses and believing in your every lie, bursting into flame without you even trying, writhing in pleasure at your merest touch, begging for more? How ridiculous did you find my insecurities and gullibility and readiness to die for you? How much did you snicker the moment my back was turned? How hard did you laugh when you were alone? How hard, Shehab?”
Her accusations, the realization of the extent of the damage he’d inflicted on her, paralyzed him. For the first time in his life he felt powerless, helpless. How could he undo a wrong of this magnitude? Heal wounds this deep?
He fell to his knees before her, like a detonated building, struck, mute, her tears raining on him, burning away his soul.
He finally heard a thick, unrecognizable voice choking his defense, his plea for leniency. “I did manipulate you, but only because I believed the lies I’d been told about you. By the time I knew they were only that, I couldn’t risk your reaction, so I kept on deceiving you about my identity, but that was the extent of my deception. The magic we shared was real, from the first moment. Ana aashagek. I never lied about my feelings for you. I was going to confess everything, today, but ya Ullah, I left it too late.”
Her tears turned off abruptly, the nothingness creeping back on her face. “It’s really my fault. I was reckless and self-destructive and I got what’s coming to me.”
“No, b’Ellahi, you will believe me, believe that I care about nothing anymore but you, and restoring your heart and faith in yourself, in me. I will spend my life…”
She raised a steady hand. “Just…don’t. It doesn’t matter if your pawn is intact or glued together. I will serve my purpose.”
The rest of the journey was consumed by his frantic efforts to reach her. But it seemed the most vital mechanism inside her, her soul, was damaged beyond repair. She’d opened herself, given of herself so fully to him, and the blow had shattered her.
Shehab felt desperation becoming resignation, that she’d never trust him, or feel the same boundless emotions for him again. And he’d die without her trust. Without her love.
But he didn’t matter now, or ever. Only that he restored her. Only that she would be whole once more. But he no longer knew how he could do that. If he could ever do it.
All the way to the royal palace, she pulverized his heart all over again when she didn’t resist him when he reached for her, stroked and kissed and swore his love over and over.
And he knew. She’d succumb to him, to her duty, to the hold he had on her senses, and she’d die slowly. She was dying now.
And it came to him. What he must do. What he would do.
He’d let her go. Completely.
They were entering King Atef’s court when he finally decided how to phrase his re
solution, started to voice it only for her gasp to silence him.
His gaze followed her shock, found King Atef standing between two women-his sister and a tall, slim, blond woman. Anna Beaumont, Farah’s mother. But it wasn’t surprise at her presence that he felt, but trepidation at the expression on their faces.
As they approached, Anna looked at Farah with reddened eyes, mouthed a soundless, “I’m sorry.”
Farah wobbled at his side, and he hugged her to him fiercely, glaring at King Atef. He understood nothing, but he’d give his life not to have her wounded again.
The king had eyes only for Farah as he came forward, the pain on his face portending devastating news.
Then he delivered it. “Farah…I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but it falls to me to divulge a most upsetting fact to you. As much as I rejoiced in finding you, now it crushes my heart to lose you. You are not my daughter.”
Eleven
Farah stared at the man she’d seen only once before.
His face, a desert warrior’s, one who’d weathered the brutality of nature and the tests of power and position, had been carved in her memory, demanding to be acknowledged as her father’s.
He was telling her he wasn’t her father after all.
His eyes were heavy with regret as he elaborated. “Evidence of your paternity was required to introduce you into the royal family, to complete the pact with Judar. We obtained a hair sample from your residence. DNA results were conclusive.”
Conclusive. Just as everything she’d been too upset or hurt to fully register, let alone acknowledge, became.
In spite of her shock and resistance, with her mother so distant and the vacuum of Francois Beaumont’s loss still gaping inside her, she’d been increasingly comforted thinking the king was her father, right up until he’d sprung the arranged marriage on her. And in spite of her pain and humiliation, she’d known she’d have no life without Shehab, had yearned to marry him for whatever reason, had hoped he’d meant even a fraction of his protestations. That one day, what had started as a duty for him might turn out to be a real and satisfying relationship.
Now she had no father.
And Shehab wasn’t duty-bound to marry her.
It was over.
She closed her eyes and begged silently for the pain to just finish her.
But something like a butchered bird flapped inside her chest. She tried to still its struggle, to no avail.
It kept screeching that maybe now that the king had no daughter, the two kingdoms would find another way to forge their alliance, and Shehab would be with her for a while longer…
“But my real daughter has been found.”
She lurched as the king’s words impaled the wild hope, killing it on the spot. And the king was going on, every word twisting the knife further.
“It turned out her mother-your mother-had given her up for adoption.” His burdened gaze turned to Farah’s mother, who was looking as if she was about to faint. “Then she married Francois Beaumont, adopted you, a two-year-old daughter, as a substitute for the daughter she couldn’t forgive herself for giving up.”
He then looked at the squirming woman by his side who was clearly his blood. “My sister was the one who adopted Aliyah, raised her as my niece among her family even if not in her rightful place. During the latest upheavals, she finally came forward, and another DNA test has just proven her allegation.” King Atef’s gaze settled on Farah, more pained than ever. “I regret all this more than I can say, but Aliyah is my daughter. And Shehab must now marry her at once.”
Shehab. His embrace had been surrounding her with his strength and presence all along. Only the consecutive blows had distracted her from homing in on his reactions to the shocking developments.
But she’d never seen into his heart as she’d been so certain, so giddily, ecstatically, stupidly certain, she had.
He kept insisting he’d never deceived her about his emotions, that the cruelties he’d uttered had been the only outright lies he’d ever told her.
But he took his duty to marry for the throne very seriously. He could have been making the best of this mess, placating the woman who’d be his wife, to smooth the course of the marriage Bill had described as forever.
Now the name of the woman he had to marry had changed.
As long as he fulfilled his duty, would he even care which woman he took to his bed? Would it matter whose body cried out for his, who lived to love him?
She lurched again, and his arms fell away, the only things that had been keeping her together during the maelstrom that had uprooted her existence, left her without identity, origin or direction. And she got her answer.
No, he wouldn’t care. He’d never cared. None of it had ever been for her. She’d been King Atef’s daughter to him. Now that she wasn’t, Farah no longer mattered.
He’d already let her go. She’d already ceased to exist.
Had she ever existed at all?
She swayed, sinking into the mercy of numbness, her eyes focused on the king. The man who wasn’t her father. Neither was Francois Beaumont. She had no father…
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she whispered. “I should be the one apologizing for the misconception. My mother should be, my mother who…who isn’t even my mother…”
The king was the one who surged toward her, his hand around her mother’s arm, bringing her nearer with him. “No, my daughter…” She jerked, stumbled back. He stopped, his eyes gentling, realizing the pain the word daughter had inflicted on her. “You must not blame your mother. You have to understand how it all happened. I loved your mother deeply, but I had to give her up, could never be with her, even after she discovered her pregnancy. I was unable to acknowledge the child, and with so many demands tearing me apart at the time, I told her to get rid of it. I regretted it even as I said it, and never stopped regretting it, but I did think she’d terminated her pregnancy. I forced myself not to seek news of her for long years.
“Then I had a heart attack, and, faced with my mortality, what really mattered became clear. I acted on a gut instinct that always told me I had another child, searched for your mother, found out she had a daughter the exact age my child would have been, and didn’t doubt for a second you might not be mine. It was only when the final steps of admitting you into the royal family necessitated proof of your parentage that I sought it. After the negative results, investigations ensued, uncovering your adoption. It seemed we were back to square one, where the crisis is concerned, until my sister Bahiyah confessed the truth and I had your mother flown here to get the complete story.”
Her wavering gaze turned from him to her mother.
Lies. It had all been lies. From the beginning. Everything she’d ever believed about her life. With her mother and father. With Shehab. Even now, what she was being told-all the so-called facts turning everything that she’d believed about her identity, her history, her very life upside down all over again-could turn out to be more lies.
Her mother’s face, open for the first time with blatant emotion, streaming with tears, begged her leniency.
She had none to give as the dam of deadness shattered, swamping her with agony and disillusionment.
“How could you do this to me? Why did you let me, and him, believe I was his daughter? You regretted adopting me, wanted to foist me on someone else, didn’t you? Why? I was never a burden to you, I only wanted you to love me, or at least not to resent me. I never understood why you did. I thought I’d found the answer, thought I reminded you of the man you loved and lost. But you only resented me because I wasn’t yours all along…”
The king tried to intervene again, but her mother clamped a hand on his forearm, stopping him, staggered to Farah, clutched her shoulders in rabidly strong hands. “No, Farah. I never resented you. It was always the opposite. I wanted to adopt you from the first day I saw you, only you, out of a hundred children. But they refused me, a single woman who’d just a year earlier given up her own daughter f
or adoption. Then God sent me Francois, and he moved heaven and earth so we could adopt you. He agreed that you were ours, should never be told otherwise. You know how he loved you. You were his world. But I was sick, Farah. And he stood by me, hid the fact that I was in therapy or you would have been taken away from us.”
“Therapy? You were in therapy? And you never told me?”
“I couldn’t tell you. It was about you, and I didn’t want you to feel responsible or guilty. But I had these overpowering emotions for you, unreasonable fears of losing you, and Francois soon made me see I was stifling you. You wouldn’t remember, since I’ve been in therapy since you were six. Ever since then I’ve been constantly struggling to pull back.”
Farah let out a laugh full of bitterness. “You succeeded too well. I always thought I was such a disappointment, that you could barely stand me, especially after Dad died.”
Anna shook her head, her hair sticking to her wet face. “No, no, darling, no. I was going crazy after Francois died, wanted to cling to you with all my strength. And I knew you’d let me, would bear all my need and weight and never complain. I knew you’d let me rule your life and time and drain you. And I couldn’t do that to you. I wanted you to live your life.”
“So you let me live it alone. Is that what you thought best for me?”
“Don’t, darling, please. Please try to understand how hard it was, the anxiety attacks, the need to hound your every step. There was no middle ground for me. It was either suffocate you or let you go.”
“So you let me go. And now I don’t have a mother at all…”
“Don’t say that, darling, please. I am your mother.”