by Tara Pammi
Desire was a deafening drumbeat in his very veins.
Had she any idea how much she had worsened his torment by making that offer, how much he wanted to let go of the little honor he had and possess her? How every cell in him wanted a taste of the escape she offered, how much he wanted to steal a moment’s pleasure, seek a moment’s peace with her?
Because that’s what her presence gave him. An irresistible combination of pleasure and peace, except it came with a very high price.
“All or nothing, Zohra? And if I don’t agree? If I continue to touch you and kiss you whenever I want without agreeing to your ridiculous proposal?” And he wanted to. He wanted to take the little he needed without guilt cloying him, without regret scouring him. “We both know all it takes is for us to lay eyes on each other to feel it.”
“But you won’t, will you? You’re furious that I dared change the rules on you.” A lone tear trailed down one cheek and she wiped it away roughly. “I might know nothing about traditions and customs. But I know a little about honorable men, about men bound by duty, men like my father and you.” Bitterness poured out of every word she uttered. “You would rather see the people around you suffer than violate your esteemed principles. You will no more let yourself touch me again than you will realize that you are so much more than the memory of a man long gone.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
AYAAN STARTLED, WIDE-AWAKE, sweat beading on his forehead, the bed sheets tangled around his legs. He pulled on his sweatpants and walked to the veranda of his new suite.
The sky was gray, with dawn’s first light still a little while away. But he could see the hubbub of activity that had begun near the helipad in the grounds behind the palace. The cold air chafed his bare chest and face, settling deep into his pores. But he couldn’t move.
Ground lights illuminated the path, while the lights of buggies used to transport luggage lit the path to the helipad.
One week, all he had to do was to spend one week in the clutches of the desert, in the very place where they had been attacked, where he had seen his brother and sister fall.
Fear fisted his stomach with cold, hard fingers, choking his breath. He gripped the metal balustrade with tight knuckles, reminding himself to breathe through it. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.
But nothing helped. Instead of fighting it, he gave in to the shivers quaking through him and slid to the ground.
He was the crown prince of Dahaar, second son of King Malik Aslam Al-Sharif, a descendant of the Al-Sharifs who had ruled over Dahaar and the desert for ten centuries. Their history was rich, violent, immersed with stories of men who had conquered the desert in all its harsh glory, who had found a way to survive in its unforgiving climate and created a livelihood for their families and tribes.
And he, Ayaan bin Riyaaz Al-Sharif quaked with fear at the thought of a journey into the desert. Shame pounded through his blood.
The conference hadn’t happened in six years. One more year would not matter, his father had said, concern softening his shrewd eyes.
And Ayaan had indulged the idea, had felt relief at the temporary reprieve. Until he had seen the one woman whose very presence reminded him of every weakness he couldn’t defeat, taunted him with the offer he couldn’t accept.
Zohra.
Neither could he wipe the memory of how she tasted. She was a madness in his blood, rivaling the one in his mind.
How many things would he put off, how many duties would he postpone because he feared he was not enough, because he was afraid of what might push him that last step into the darkness waiting for him? He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to know, he had to try, even if he fell over the cliff. He had lost everything in the desert, he had lost himself, but he couldn’t let it take any more from him. When he looked at Zohra next, he wanted to have the knowledge of at least having tried, even if he failed.
Or history might as well erase his name from the majestic Al-Sharif dynasty.
* * *
Zohra hugged herself tight, shifting from one foot to the other. Her long-sleeved tunic and leggings underneath would be too warm in the desert sun, but even with the pashmina she had wrapped around herself, it was not enough for the early morning chill.
She blinked as the wind buffeted her from both sides. The idea of spending a week in the desert, amid strangers with only Ayaan for company was enough to turn her inside out.
But she couldn’t just wait around, wondering if she would ever be able to break from this life, wondering if she would ever have something reaching normal. So she had contacted her old organization and taken on a new project. Meeting the tribal chiefs of Dahaar was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. Not even for Monaco.
“What are you doing here?”
She steeled her spine and turned. The guards and the maids waiting behind them watched Ayaan and her with a hungry curiosity that was becoming the norm.
His face a study in cold fury, Ayaan stood a few feet from her. The frost in his eyes could cut through her skin given half the chance.
“I’m waiting,” she said, aware of the tremor in her voice. “Just as you are, for the captain to say that it’s okay to board.”
His hand clamped over her arm, his scowl fierce. She could feel every ridge, every groove of his fingers, heard the fracture in his harsh breathing. Her belly dipped and dived, the memory of how his mouth had devoured hers seared through her.
“Into the tent. Now, Zohra,” he said, flicking his head at a small tent nearby.
Zohra followed him, glad that one of them was keeping an eye on propriety.
All of Dahaar was greedy for every little detail about him. His country loved him but it was also waiting with bated breath, wondering if he would lose it, wondering if their prince would descend into that pit of darkness from which he had risen.
Because even with the strictest confidentiality enforced in the palace, it was clear that their prince was spiraling, toward what no one knew. He worked at a ruthless pace that left normal, healthy people dropping in exhaustion, he was extremely rude to anyone who dared defy him, his relationship with his parents was strained.
He was like a wounded animal that was raring to maim and hurt anyone who dared come close.
Not that anyone could question his sanity or his decisions regarding Dahaar. Not after the past ten days where he had spent countless hours in negotiation with the Sheikh of Zuran building a strategy to counter the terrorist groups that were a threat to all three nations of Dahaar, Zuran and Siyaad. The same groups that had tortured him, that had killed his brother and sister. Not after two terrorist cells had been taken down in one month under his strategic planning.
The media had declared that he was a better statesman than his father was and speculated about the leaps of progress that Dahaar would make under his rule.
If he survived the year...
And standing on the sidelines, watching him push himself without interfering, Zohra had never felt more powerless, more useless.
The moment she entered the tent, he reached her. After ten days of keeping her distance, Zohra was starved for the sight of him.
“Believe me when I say this, Zohra. I have zero patience today. Now, why are you not on your way to Monaco?”
Zohra frowned. Tension radiated from him, the skin tugged tight over his lean features. “I decided to holiday later. Right now, I’m coming with you to the desert for the tribal conference.”
“I know how much you have embraced your duty, Princess,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “but let me tell you the truth. No one truly cares whether you are present or not.”
His words cut to the weakest part of her. “True, but without me who will dare to tell you that the veneer of civilization is slipping, Your Arrogant Highness?”
“This is the first conf
erence with our tribes in six years.” His tone gentled, his gaze lingering over her in an almost pacifying way, the intense hunger in it belying his casual words. “If you are there, your safety will weigh on me.”
She had never felt so aware of another person, so clued in to every nuance in a word they said, every gesture they made. She wanted to shake him and comfort him at the same time. “I’m not a stranger to desert life. I used to run a project in Siyaad that—”
“I know about your Awareness Projects, Zohra. You travel to the desert in teams and educate the tribes about basics—hygiene, disease, education, women’s health.”
“Then are you going back on your word and forbidding me from continuing my work, my life as before?”
He leaned close and her skin snapped to life. The faint scar on the top of his left eyebrow should have made him look flawed. Even just a little would have been fair. Instead, it only added to his powerful personality. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? I think nothing would make you happier than if I became that arrogant bastard you envisaged that first night in Siyaad.”
She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “If you turned into an arrogant jerk, and by the way you are halfway there, I wouldn’t have to worry about you killing yourself. I would be the merriest widow in the world, wouldn’t I? All the freedom and none of the duties.”
His mouth touched the corner of hers, and her knees wobbled. Molten heat prickled along her skin even as she cursed her betraying body. “Is Faisal going to be there, Zohra?” He whispered the words into her skin—an assault on her senses and a cutting insult all wrapped in one. “Is that why you are so eager to return to work?”
She pushed his hand from her, tears gathering in her eyes. “You think I proposed starting a life with you ten days ago and now am panting to see Faisal again? I guess you really are no different when it comes to what you think about me, are you, Ayaan?”
She turned away from him, hating the fact that he could wound her so easily. His opinions were beginning to matter too much, and yet she had no way to stop it.
Before she could take another step, he pulled her back to him. He held her loosely this time, his thumb catching the tears that threatened to fall. “Ya Allah, I’m not worthy of your tears, Zohra.” The frost in his gaze thawed, his mouth lost the tightness. He ran a hand through his hair, looked around, as though searching for the right words. His gaze found her again, hungry, intense. “I spoke without thinking. That remark...it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. Please accept my apology.”
The air left her lungs in a loud whoosh. “Then accept that I’m coming with you, Ayaan. I did nothing to violate our agreement in the past ten days. I stayed far away from you and believe me, it was a miracle in—”
“You exist, Zohra. That is torment enough for me.”
Her heart skidded to a halt. His words spoken through gritted teeth were soft, and yet rang with a depth of emotion. The hungry intensity of his gaze was etched into her mind, the naked want in it inched its way around her heart.
He turned around and walked out.
Hugging herself hard, Zohra stared at his back. Familiar resentment flared at his dismissal. She should turn around, she had never ventured where she was not welcome before.
But she had also spent eleven years doing everything she could to prove that she cared nothing for Siyaad. Perversely, her every action had been shaped by the very thing she refused to be dictated by.
Nothing she had done had been because she’d wanted to do it. She had thought she had loved Faisal, that she hadn’t fought back against her father’s family because she’d never wanted a place among them, now...now she was not sure of anything.
But when it came to the man who had married her...she wanted to stand by him. Not because it was her duty, not because of what it would mean for her future. But because she wanted to.
It was a crystal clear sign in a sea of murky actions motivated by her anger toward her father, by years of hurt that she had nursed into bitterness.
She had no name for what drove her to it, she didn’t even understand it.
But whatever demons haunted Ayaan, she would stand by his side while he battled them. For however long she could.
CHAPTER NINE
SITTING AROUND QUIETLY while Ayaan discussed important matters with the sheikhs of eight different tribes, dressed in an elaborate silk gown that weighed a ton, Zohra wondered what she had gotten herself into.
It was her own fault for talking herself into this trip at the last minute and jumping in without learning anything. She didn’t wish she hadn’t come, just that she had come armed with knowledge. Like why she was sitting on the biggest divan in the tent with her face hidden by a veil, being studiously ignored by everyone in the room.
The four times she had traveled to the desert encampments in Siyaad, she had been one of three women who had worked there. And no one, including Faisal, had known who she was in the beginning.
Which meant the tribal leaders had barely tolerated her and the other women, and only because their project had been authorized and funded by her father.
Everything had been completely different since Ayaan and she had arrived this morning. The fact that the future queen of Dahaar had graced them with her presence, something they had not been expecting, had thrown the tribal leaders into a hubbub of activity. And before she blinked again, the men had disappeared.
A velvet path had been laid out for her to walk on, and smiling girls dressed in traditional Bedouin clothes had thrown rose petals on it. Her trembling hand in Ayaan’s, Zohra had faltered. She had thought she would feel like a fake and yet, for the first time in her life, she was more excited than disinterested. Maybe because beneath all the fanfare, she was still going to do what she had always enjoyed or maybe because of the man standing next to her.
She had thought his anger over her presence would thaw. But instead, it felt as if she was sitting next to a volcano. Any minute, he was going to implode and she had no idea what would rip the shred of control that was holding him together.
From the cursory glance she had taken around her when they had arrived, she knew the tents were on scales of luxury she hadn’t seen when she had traveled before. The campsite was designed around an oasis of native ghaf trees. About four Bedouin-style tents made of richly patterned lambs’ wool were scattered around.
They had been immediately provided refreshments while women had arrived from the different tribes to welcome her. Within minutes, Ayaan disappeared leaving her under their care. When they had politely inquired if she was ready to listen to their requests, she had been shocked, even though it was what she had come for.
And so she had spent the afternoon, familiarizing herself with the different tribes, making notes herself, which had surprised the women again, given she hadn’t delegated the task.
She had barely rested in her tent when she’d been woken up to be readied for the night’s feast. Fortunately, her stylist had packed the emerald silk caftan the queen had had custom-designed for Zohra.
She’d let her maid dress her in the traditional way. Her hands and feet were once again decorated with henna, of the temporary kind this time. Her hair was brushed back and decorated with an exquisite gold comb with diamonds in between. Over it came the veil, woven with pure gold that fell to her upper lip.
When she had turned to the tribeswomen to refuse, one of them had smiled shyly, and burst into an Arabic dialect. Loath to remove that smile, Zohra had kept quiet.
Now, around fifteen men and women sat on smaller divans interspersed around them, all turned just a little bit toward the one she was sitting on. Ayaan was walking around greeting them one by one, accepting their gifts and passing them on to the guard standing back.
An elaborate feast was laid out in the center on a low table, the aromas wafting over
and tickling Zohra’s nostrils.
Then came that musky scent with something else underneath it that meant Ayaan was moving close. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her vision limited, every other sense came alive at his nearness.
Her hands, tucked in her lap, trembled as he came near.
She could pinpoint the exact moment his gaze fell on her, in the way the very air around them charged with tension.
One of the women burst into Arabic just as he neared her, something between a song and a poem, a beautiful melody that filled the space. Her heart hammering in her chest, Zohra fought to stay still as he tugged the edges of the veil and lifted them up to reveal her face.
His face a mask of tension, he lifted her chin, turned toward the room and said, “My bride and your future queen, Crown Princess Zohra Katherine Naasar Al-Sharif.”
His voice glided over her skin. She fought against the shiver that threatened to root itself into her very bones. Congratulations, spoken in Arabic, overflowed around them.
She struggled to stay still as he sat down next to her, the solid musculature of his thigh flushed tight against hers. Keeping a smile in place, she unlocked her hands and turned. “Shouldn’t it be me who is furious, Ayaan? After all, you unveiled me like I was a gift.”
His mouth was a study in his fight to calm himself. “On the contrary, it is respect that they offer you. The tribal leaders won’t look upon your face unless I grant them permission. Just as I wouldn’t presume to speak to a sheikh’s wife without proper introduction.”
“Like we were your prized possessions.”
He held a silver tumbler to her mouth, and she realized the whole room was watching them, their own tumblers raised in mirroring actions. “Drink, Zohra.”
His command brooked no argument. Zohra took a sip clumsily. Heat spiraling to life between them, the intimacy of the simple action stole her breath. A drop of it lingered at the corner of her mouth. Ayaan swiped at it with a long brown finger. Desire flew hotly in her blood as though he had lit a spark on her skin with that contact. The cool sweet liquid did nothing to dim the heat blossoming inside her veins.