by Olivia Gates
His pupils dilated, like a black hole consuming the sun. She squeezed his hand harder, desperate to yank him out of his mire of guilt and self-hatred. He resisted her for a moment. Then he succumbed, snatched her hand to his lips, his eyes burning with gratitude, acknowledging her intentions, if not their validity.
She’d thought his name so fit him, lord and owner of her heart, king of all men in her eyes. How little she had known.
And though she’d never thought he’d ever be within reach again, it was only now that she felt him … vanish. Forever. She withdrew her hand, let it fall, a useless, lifeless thing by her side.
It didn’t seem he noticed her withdrawal, pressed closer, intent on sharing the rest of his torment, unable to stop now he’d started. “As a younger son, the odds were that the throne would never fall to me and I was left free to pursue my goals. Then the unthinkable happened and I’m no longer free. This mission is my last indulgence in my old life, my old purpose, before I’m forced to relinquish my vocation to take on the mantle of diplomacy in preparation for the time when I’m forced to ascend to the throne. But that isn’t why …”
His words halted, something imploring entering his eyes. She heard the rest loud and clear.
This isn’t why I tried to push you away.
She felt a strange detachment descend on her as she watched him struggle with revealing just why, her mind a blank.
“Majd had two daughters, so now I, next in line to the throne, must choose a possible future queen from the list of acceptable women from our major tribes. I must choose a bride to produce an heir. At the time the succession fell to me, I considered it just another duty I’d have to fulfill. But now, though this won’t happen a minute before I’m forced to, months—years if I can at all help it—after I take the throne, I still—still …”
And he said no more.
And she still couldn’t get why he’d felt the need to push her away.
Had he thought she’d expected commitment from him and pushed her away because he couldn’t promise any? Didn’t he know she’d never entertained the possibility, even when she’d thought he was only one of the many thousands of royals around?
The only explanation was that he had no idea what she thought, and his acute sense of honor had refused to raise her hopes in vain. Or maybe he knew she’d realized all she could ever have with him would be fleeting yet felt he owed his destined status more caution and the wife looming in his future more fidelity.
Whatever he thought, it distressed him. And she wanted to release him, give him peace. She tried to.
“Malek, I—I ache for your loss, for your burdens. I sensed them, wanted to do all I could to make them hurt less that day when we came back from Mejbel. But that’s all I wanted. I never expected anything in return—or anything at all. Believe me. You don’t need to explain your obligations or feel bad about me or about anything you did. You never led me on.”
He rumbled something harsh, laden in fury and disbelief. “I didn’t? Strange. I led myself on.”
A gasp scraped her throat. What did he mean?
“I led myself on all the way,” he growled, turning on her, ferocity blasting off him. “All the damned way to no return.”
Oh, God. Is he saying he—he feels the same?
No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly have fallen in love, too.
Yes, love. Far beyond love. She hadn’t dared name the immense, all-consuming feelings she had for him, which had been building since the first moment she’d laid eyes on him, wishing to keep even a shred of herself un-surrendered. But it had been an exercise in futility. Reality would have remained the same no matter the lack of label or the escape from self-confrontation.
“Malek—don’t …” She had no idea what she wanted to say. Elation and desperation were hacking away at her, and she couldn’t bear that he’d be feeling the same.
He wouldn’t let her find words. He snatched her off her feet, making her feel weightless, powerless, soaring, then his arms pulled her against his hardness, crushed her to his chest where she’d dreamed of being.
She moaned her surrender, her greed, her welcome, clawed back at him. He took her to the trailer’s wall, pushed her against it, dominated her. But he was also a supplicant, worshipping, devouring, his lips wrenching hot, blind, desperate kisses from hers, every convulsive press of his hands, every molten glide of his lips, every invasive thrust of his tongue showing her how much—just how much—she would be losing. Would never have.
But she had it, him, now. He was there, losing himself in her. She had to hoard all she could of him.
She’d barely started when he tore his lips away. She cried out, surged up, desperate for his breath so she could breathe, for his heartbeat so her heart wouldn’t stop, needing one more plunge into his taste and potency to fill up for the desolate future without him.
He thwarted her, his hands shackles on her shoulders holding her off, his face contorted in agony. Her hungry sobs became ones of answering agony, tears that felt like acid eating their way out of her eyes and down her face.
The sight of her tears seemed to snap something inside him, and with a rumble of surrender the tension holding him away deflated, bringing his proud head down to hers with a dark groan, pressing, rubbing his longing.
He let her drag him down, only to graze her lips in an open-mouthed kiss before burying them, and his whole face, into her neck, her breasts, his growls of enjoyment and suffering elemental, jolts of molten agony to her core. And that was before his thick, ragged confessions tore into her.
“Ahebek ya rohi, ya galbi, ya agli—k’m ahebbek, k’m abghaki …”
Oh, God, was he saying he loved her? That she was his soul, his heart and mind—how he loved her, craved her.?
And it didn’t matter what came next. She had to convince him that it didn’t. Nothing did. He loved her now. She knew he did. With all his indomitable, magnificent being he did. For now. And she wanted to have every spark of it, of him. For as long as possible. If even for one day. One hour. She wanted it. Needed it. Had to have it.
She started struggling in his arms for more, opening herself up, offering all she had, all she was. She frantically locked her legs around him. She arched back on a wild moan with the feel of his hard hips filling her legs’ hug as his muscled bulk filled her arms’, with the feel of his erection pressing into her core, daunting, assuaging even through the barrier of clothes. She pressed his head harder, leading him to her bursting breasts, and with another growl of voracity he gave in, opened his mouth over her sweatshirt-smothered flesh, bit into it. She screamed, bucked with the slam of pleasure, losing what remained of her coherence with wanting more. He gave her more.
He pinpointed her nipples, nipped and suckled through her clothes until her moans became keens. Then he came up, devoured her vocal, irrevocable confession of need, of surrender, his tongue plunging inside her mouth, filling her, mating with hers, each slide spearing ecstasy to her core, each thrust layering arousal until her tears poured again, unable to withstand the build-up. He was as lost as her now, a constant rumble echoing in his chest. He ground his erection into her, simulating the plunging she was burning for. She writhed in his arms, snatched at him, lost, mad, blackness frothing from the periphery of her vision, a storm front of pleasure and suffering advancing from her core, where he was so near, so far.
She sobbed it all in his mouth. “I love you, Malek, love you—just take me—just make me yours, oh, please, please.”
He jerked up, staggered away, leaving her to crumple to the floor without his support.
She sank in a heap of mortification, his rejection hacking at her. But it was the look of horror and contrition on his face that hurt most.
He sagged down on her bed, as if he couldn’t stand any more, in every way. He dropped his head into his hands. His distress poured strength into her limbs, made her lurch up to her feet, rush to his side, trying to contain it in her hug.
He shook his head,
groaned, “Aasef habibati, aasef-ya Ullah—I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have …”
She hugged him harder. “Don’t, Malek. I just want to love you. I never for one second thought you could be mine, in any way, but I just want to be yours.”
He shook her arms off him, his eyes boring into her, incensed. “No. Don’t offer, Janaan, don’t be a fool. It doesn’t matter that I’ll always be yours in my heart. I’ll never be yours where and how it matters. Do you understand?”
She’d always understood. But she understood something new now. She was compounding his burdens, tearing at his heart, compromising his sanity. Just by being near, she might destroy him. She’d die first. She must leave him alone. And she would.
This time she knew what she’d say. “Don’t do this to yourself. I can’t see you so—so anguished. I’ll leave Damhoor, and you’ll forget me.”
He gave a short, savage laugh. “Aih, right after I forget myself. When I said rohi wa galbi wa agli ya, Janaan, I wasn’t plying you with sweet nothings. I’ve never said those things, and I’ll never say them again to another. You are your name, ya hayati, you’ve become my very soul and heart and mind.”
When would the pain reach its peak?
“You—you don’t know what you’ll feel a month from now, a year. Time will—”
“Time and duty and another woman will only plunge me into a lifetime of withdrawal, will destroy my spirit with deprivation.”
“But I don’t want that.” She almost screamed it. “Don’t make me hate myself for being the reason for all this. You have so much to live for, so much to give so many people. I don’t matter. What happens to me doesn’t matter.”
Malek stared at her, love tearing at him, demanding fulfillment, surrender. Then her words registered and a tidal wave of dread inundated him.
Could she, like her mother, love too much, destroy herself with the force of her desperation? Could she end up harming herself, snuffing out her life? Ya Ullah, laa, laa!
His hands sank into her flesh, shook her, as if he’d jog her back from the brink of an abyss. “Never—never, ever say, ever think anything so insane. I forbid you, do you hear me? You matter, you matter more than anything!”
She almost smiled at him, as if reading his fear, letting him know how far-fetched it was. But was it? Was it?
He could swear he heard his heart fracturing when she smoothed his hair, leaned her head on his shoulder and murmured, “I’m just telling you that you have more important things to think about, a whole country, and more, sooner or later. I don’t matter compared to that. I—I just want you to fulfill your destiny and be happy.”
Before he could rave he’d never be anything but miserable for the rest of his dismal life, she pushed away, swayed up to her feet. “Just go now, Malek. Please, arrange for my return to Halwan at once. I’ll leave Damhoor and you won’t see or hear from me again. I’ll never cause you discomfort.”
He exploded to his feet. “Discomfort? Discomfort?”
His storming footsteps came to an abrupt end. He had to end this. He was damaging her further. He had to deliver the words that had been gathering like a storm inside him ever since he’d known he loved her and would have to give her up.
“Ya habibati—yahayati, ana—ana …” He stopped, struggled to bring his voice, his emotions under control. “I may not be able to give you all of me, but you have all my love. All of it. And you will have all my support, all through your life.”
She gaped up at him. “Support? You mean …”
He nodded. “Everything you need to be in absolute comfort and security, you and anyone you want, will be yours.”
“Are you talking about money?”
“Anything—and everything you’ll ever need or want.”
She lowered her eyes for a long moment, until he thought she wouldn’t comment, had accepted. Then she raised her eyes to him, hard eyes, and, ya Ullah, so hurt.
“I’m going to say this once. Once, Malek. I don’t want, and I will never take, anything from you. Never. So don’t ever, ever say this again, and never, ever try to—to …”
She fell silent, breathing hard, her fists clamped at her sides. And he lost what remained of his mind.
He put his insanity into words. “Don’t go, Janaan.”
Her eyes flared, hesitant, raw.
“I can’t take … what you offered.” Her eyes dimmed again. He gritted his teeth. “But you came here to explore your heritage, and you’ve barely begun. I can’t let this experience be a total loss for you just because you had the gross misfortune to meet me. Stay and continue doing the job you so love, that you do so magnificently well. Stay and let me show you your land.”
She bowed her head, tore at his heart with her anguish, with everything that made her herself. Then she nodded. His heart almost blasted through his ribcage, to throw itself at her feet.
Her smile trembled up at him. “You know what? It may be a good plan. On longer exposure you may find out I’m a boring, aggravating pain, and I may find out you’re an overbearing, overgrown brat, and when it’s over we’ll be glad that it is …”
And she was in his arms again, his lips devouring her flippant words.
It was when they were both writhing in agony that he drew back, his every nerve cursing him for the deprivation.
“This is the last kiss, Janaan,” he panted. “I’ll keep my promise from now on.”
She clung to him. “Even if I don’t want you to? I don’t want you to! Malek, please!”
He took himself out of reach at the cost of yet another portion of his soul, groaned, “Especially as you don’t want me to. I have to protect you as you don’t know the first thing about protecting yourself.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT HAD BEEN A crazy plan.
One hatched by a clearly unbalanced mind and agreed upon by another mind in an equal state of disrepair.
To have more time together, in the same proximity and interaction of their first week together wasn’t only crazy, it was heart-shredding, sanity-compromising, self-destructive.
It was also glorious. As they carried on their mission, traveled into the mountainous parts of Ashgoon, their rapport deepened, their appreciation of everything about each other soared. Malek was astounded by how right everything was. Their ideologies meshed, their wits, their senses of humor, their work ethic. Even the friction was magnificent.
She objected fiercely to his protective ways, called it his sheikh shtick, his terminally chauvinistic streak, and he was driven to distraction by her overly independent, if very effective, ways. They clashed, collaborated, melded, and it was beyond anything he’d ever dreamed of.
Beyond love and need, the concept of soulmates, one he’d only ever scoffed at, floated constantly in his mind, descending into his heart to become a fact. It explained how fast they’d both recognized and surrendered to their unprecedented connection.
But what wrecked him was her acceptance. That he’d never be hers, that she’d disappear from his life at the end of this mission. She had this serenity about her of someone who’d accepted her fate.
And as he counted down to the unthinkable day when he would have to let her go, knowing he’d hurt her as much as he’d hurt himself, knowing she’d go on hurting as much as he would, he couldn’t stop marveling at how she seemed to have stopped thinking about what would happen next and threw herself into the here and now of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“So what do you intend to do from now on?”
It was only when she spoke that he realized he’d been staring at her.
“Hel-lo? Earth to deep-space Sheikh. Any hope you’ll get the future king back on line?”
She was making fun of him. He loved it, as always. Also he loved how she didn’t avoid talking about his status, had turned it into a subject for light-heartedness, sometimes even gentle ridicule, so it wouldn’t overwhelm him, and her, with its inescapability.
But she’d asked him something. About the
future, his plans for it.
Ya Ullah, she wanted projections of his life in the luxurious prison of duties he’d been sentenced to? Of his life with the faceless woman he’d take for a wife, force himself to touch, to copulate with.?
He stomach churned. He barely suppressed a shudder of revulsion and said abruptly, “What exactly do you want to know?”
She winced. “Whoa! You mentioned you have ongoing relief plans for the communities we visit, and I’m only curious to know what they are.”
That was what she’d meant?
Of course. She hadn’t intruded by question or comment into anything remotely personal.
No. No, that wasn’t accurate. She did delve into his innermost recesses, his views, reactions, instincts, preferences, seemed to know them any way down to the last detail. She was avid to know everything that made him himself. But nothing about what made him a sheikh, or Damhoor’s future king.
“OK, your chance to answer my most relevant question is over,” she quipped. “Here comes the next wave of patients.”
He blinked, turned his head to see children coming in.
Janaan rose from his side to organize them for examination by a quick triage. He’d barely shaken himself from his daze when she turned to him.
“These eight kids.” She pointed to the ones she was leading to the examination stations as the others walked the rest out. “I suspect congenital heart conditions. Serious ones.”
A quick look told him she was right. The children, between four and eight, looked nothing like their healthier counterparts. Emaciated, underdeveloped, subdued. Their labored breathing at rest and their blue-tinged lips and nails told the rest of the story. And to think those were the ones who’d survived. Others with more serious conditions had long since died when they could have been saved if only the necessary medical services had reached them.
But those children’s families weren’t living in the hostile mountains of Ashgoon out of choice. They were escapees from the civil wars, subsisting in inhuman conditions. What he and GAO were doing here was a drop in the ocean. He hoped enough drops would become a healing shower, prayed he’d have the wisdom to deal with this country’s rulers, to one day solve these people’s ongoing problems.