Hasan Sheikhs: The Complete Series

by Leslie North

  “Pardon me if I don’t believe you.” Her face went hot, then hotter, and tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. Laila blinked them away with hard, fast blinks. She was not going to melt down in front of Zayid. “But I don’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Zayid’s eyes narrowed, and he set his jaw in the way he did when he was irritated. “You don’t believe that I want to be in the life of my child?”

  “I believe you might want to be, but you’re not even in my life except for in bed and state events. Even the museum trip—that was to smooth any ruffled feathers with the sultan after the trade negotiations, wasn’t it?” His lack of denial told Laila all she needed to know. She felt like she was holding an ocean of feeling at arm’s length, and not very successfully. “How are you going to be there for a child?”

  Zayid let out a short bark of a laugh. “You don’t understand how important my work is.”

  “No, I do. I do.” She couldn’t imagine what it was like to spend most of her life waiting to be in charge of an entire country. Waiting to be in the spotlight like that. But she could imagine that it was daunting, and the pressure was high. That didn’t change the fact that she felt wounded, cut open by Zayid’s dismissal. “I just overestimated how important I am.”

  “I don’t take you for granted. You’re an incredible asset at every state dinner. Everyone loves having you there.”

  Frustration burned as if she’d swallowed fire. How? How could he not realize he was only making her point for her? Laila wanted to shout at him, wanted to take his shirt in her hands and shake him until he heard her, but instead she swallowed the painful lump in her throat. “Just make sure that you add all those appearances to my calendar. I’ll see you there.”

  She left his office without a backward glance, pressing her lips together hard to keep a scream of frustration in. Laila didn’t pay attention to where her feet were taking her until she found herself at her studio. The potter’s wheels sat silent, waiting, and she took the two steps down into the room and let the door fall shut behind her with a heavy thunk. Let the guard come and bother her now. She wouldn’t jump at all.

  Laila went through the steps, filling a bucket with water and gathering clay, and then she sat down at the foot-powered wheel and threw it on.

  The machine hummed to life underneath her foot, and the clay gave way beneath her hands. She could control clay. She could shape it into anything she wanted. She could curve it this way and that, and it would rise beneath her fingers, she could dig her thumbs in and make the lip into this shape or that, a dance under her hands that would make it perfect.

  She let the wheel stop.

  The pot she’d made was perfect, the flawless representation of Raihani style she’d worked so hard on but never achieved until now.

  Laila looked at it for a long moment, memorizing it.

  Then she brought her hands down on it once, twice, again and again until it was returned to a lump of clay.

  15

  Laila sat at the potter’s wheel and tried to focus on what Talif was saying despite her burning eyes and heavy heart. She’d called him for the morning class late last night, not giving a reason for the extra lesson, and he’d agreed without asking any questions.

  She didn’t know if she even wanted to talk about what had happened.

  Laila had gone to her old guest suite after the argument she’d had with Zayid. Was that even the right word for it? He hadn’t fought her or anything. But he hadn’t called for her that night or come to see her. Or the night after that, or the night after that. This would be the fourth night in a row they’d spent apart. Laila was hardly sleeping. And it made no sense.

  But getting distracted wasn’t part of being a master potter, according to Talif, so she kept the wheel spinning and her hands moving lightly over the clay.

  “As you know, it takes a delicate touch,” Talif reminded her again in his quiet, even voice. “You have excellent form. Don’t lose sight of it.”

  She forced her concentration onto the clay, but it wandered away again. It was bad enough that she’d let herself get hung up on Zayid. It was worse that she was letting him break her heart. Of course Zayid was always going to put Raihan before her. But why did it hurt so badly? Why had she harbored a secret hope that announcing her pregnancy would change him in some way? She could see how he’d be disappointed in this little “complication,” though she understood that less and less each day. Yes, the fake marriage had to last a bit longer, but what was that in the scheme of things?

  The clay slipped under her fingers, and she felt the pulse of the wheel under it all. She took a deep breath and shook out her shoulders. This was for the best. They’d gotten too tangled up in emotion and forgotten that their marriage was for convenience only, not for pleasure. And certainly not real.

  Laila pretended to mold these thoughts into the clay. As part of a pot, baked in, they wouldn’t be able to bother her. It was an old trick she’d used in college when her classes got overwhelming. Make that feeling an art piece and take it down off the shelf when you’re ready.

  She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready to take this pot down from the shelf.

  But it was finished, and she couldn’t even remember doing it—that complicated lip, getting the width just right. It had been part of her hands, her muscle memory. It was finally part of her. Even if Zayid never would be.

  Laila sat back, the potter’s wheel falling into silence.

  “Very good,” Talif said, and her heart thrilled at the praise even though her pain. He hesitated. “Your Highness, do you think you might teach your class this afternoon?”

  She blinked at him, her smile more genuine than not. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Laila said the words for Talif, but she found she believed them, too. The time she spent with the children at the pottery school had given her a purpose in Raihan. Was she going to let that go now because she’d been up fretting the last few nights? Not a chance.

  Talif nodded. “Then we should both prepare to go.”

  Laila glanced at the clock. The morning had slipped away into the clay pot. Just as well. Who would want that kind of morning, with a thundercloud of pain hanging over your head, to linger?

  “Let’s go now,” she told Talif. “Right now.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Zayid, the words coming out of his mouth on autopilot.

  “Your Highness? Is something the matter?” It took him a beat, but then the embarrassment of having missed something caught up with him. It burned to a crisp under a lightning bolt of irritation. His oldest advisor’s voice held a note of reproach, and Zayid glanced around the table. All the old men at the council table exchanged a look. “If it’s something involving the business of the kingdom, better to—”

  “No.” He brought his hand down on the table, sharp enough to make them jump. “We’ll reconvene this meeting later.” Then he stalked into his private office, shutting the door behind him.

  Let them sit in the council room and gossip about what they thought was wrong. He was in no mood to hear it.

  Zayid sat in the chair behind his desk and stared at the closed door. He missed Laila. He missed the way she barged through his outer office and drove everybody crazy with the way she stepped on schedules and appeared in the middle of meetings. He’d given her plenty of time to cool off. At first—he could admit to himself—he’d thought she was overreacting, saying things in the heat of the moment. But she’d stayed away.

  A knock sounded at his office door. “The meeting has been adjourned,” he snapped at the mahogany.

  “I’m not here for a meeting.” It was his younger brother, Yaseen. “There’s a rumor going around that you stormed out of a council meeting. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, everything’s perfectly fine,” said Zayid. “That’s why I’ve insulted the council and come here to think about what I’ve done.”

  Yaseen came in, a skeptical glint in his eyes. “What was the topic?”
<
br />   “I don’t know.” Zayid folded his arms over his chest and swiveled away. “I was too distracted by...things with Laila.”

  Yaseen dropped into the chair opposite Zayid and gave a slow shake of his head. “I never thought you’d last this long with her—even with my situation. A serious person like you? I never saw it coming.” He stared at Zayid across the table as if waiting for him to crack. Zayid’s brothers knew his marriage was one of convenience, but they hadn’t discussed it much. The rest of the court held to the opinion that marrying Laila after such a whirlwind courtship had been a crazy risk.

  “I didn’t see it coming either. But I don’t regret it. She’s fun and passionate, and I never enjoyed life in the palace so much as I have since I met her. I even started to look forward to those official receptions.”

  Yaseen arched an eyebrow. “I thought you liked official receptions.”

  “I tolerate official receptions, like everyone else. Who do you take me for, Yaseen? I might be crown prince, but that doesn’t mean I’m not human.”

  “You look perfectly human, brooding in your office. What are you brooding about? Whatever it is, you should do something about it.”

  Zayid stared at his brother.

  He had a point.

  He stood up and left his office.

  Zayid hooked Makin by the elbow on the way, sending the guard to get the SUV. Laila had the pottery center on her schedule today. He was acutely aware of her schedule now that she was pregnant, because he sent an extra security squad in plain clothes every time she left the palace. Not that he’d told her that. Maybe he should. Maybe he should also tell her that he’d donated…a significant sum…to the center.

  But the security and the donation weren’t why he had the SUV drop him off at the fountain courtyard.

  He wanted to see her.

  Guards at a safe distance, he strolled by the front of the pottery center, coming level with a window he could use to see inside from the raised patio of a cafe across the street. People passed in front of the building, leaning close together and talking, the midmorning sun gentle on the old building facades. This part of Raihanabad hadn’t changed since he was a child—not the buildings, at least, though some of them had been freshened up. What had changed was the energy. This was no empty market corridor. And the person who brought it the most light was Laila herself.

  Inside the studio, Laila stood with Maha, beaming as if she’d won first prize in a worldwide pottery contest. She and Maha were talking with a child—it looked like Maha was translating. The child bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, then Maha whispered something in Laila’s ear, and she tipped her head back and laughed.

  The joy on her face punched him in the chest, bruising his heart. Laila was wrong. She would make a wonderful queen. All of Raihan would love her the way he—oh, god—the way he loved her. She was gorgeous. She was joyful in giving her time to Raihan’s youth. And she was doing it all while carrying his child.

  He needed her in his life, and not just now—always.

  The waitress at the cafe came, and he ordered a drink without thinking. His beautiful wife, across the street in the pottery studio, held him transfixed twenty feet and a million miles away.

  It was going to be an uphill battle, convincing her that they would make a good pair. He would have to work to win her over. But Zayid had never shied away from a challenge in his life. He wouldn’t start now.

  16

  Maha bustled around Laila in her bedroom, helping her with her hair. When she’d first arrived at the palace, Laila had insisted on doing her own hair, but now she sat quietly in the seat as Maha brushed and curled it.

  “Take a look. Do you think we need the stylist?”

  Laila met Maha’s eyes in the mirror. “Not today. I’m only going to a pottery lesson.”

  Maha nodded. “Things will be so different for Prince Yaseen’s wedding.” Laila caught the note of excitement in her voice. “It’s a truly grand affair the palace is planning.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, so much joy these days, so much joy. Everyone is abuzz about the arrival of two royal babies in the next year. It’s going to be such a change. Raihan needs this.” Her voice lifted as she spoke, and Laila wished her own heart would lift along with it.

  She was excited about the baby, of course. But Zayid was hardly over the moon. He saw it as one more item to check off his list, like attending a state dinner. Produce an heir—check.

  Even so, she missed him.

  Maha had to know it, but Laila hadn’t said a word about the emptiness in her heart since she’d moved back to the guest room. Despite everything that made her annoyed with Zayid, she wanted him next to her. Better to argue with him in person than pine for him alone.

  But arguing with him in person wasn’t on the table anymore. She’d taken herself neatly out of that situation.

  “All ready.” Maha patted her shoulder. “Enjoy the lesson. Send for me if you need me.”

  Laila did enjoy the lesson, in a half-hearted way. She came back to the guest suite to freshen up before her solitary dinner, feeling weighed down and sad. But as soon as she closed the door behind her, someone knocked.

  She opened it without thinking. “Maha, it’s like you’re watching me when I—oh.” Zayid stood in the hall, looking at her as if he was about to burst. As if he’d been waiting all his life to talk to her. The expression startled Laila. “Hi. I wasn’t expecting you.” She made room for him to pass by. “Come in.” Her heart leaped into her throat, pounding hard, as if he was a hunter in the desert, she was prey, and he’d finally caught up to her. He stepped inside, filling the room with his presence. She wanted more of his faint sandalwood scent but didn’t dare step closer.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Zayid said. “About adding something to your schedule.”

  She blinked at him. “You can just have Maha put it on my calendar, whatever it is.”

  He lifted his chin. “I’m having an official dinner next week. The palace is hosting King Fahd again.” Fahd—the king she’d bonded with, just a little, over the artist Al-Khahat. “Originally it was a one-on-one meeting, but I’ve turned it into a slightly larger affair. More of a state dinner, but on a smaller scale.” He hesitated. “I’d like to have you there with me.”

  Laila couldn’t push away the thrill of pleasure. He wasn’t summoning her via some guard or Maha—he was actually here, requesting her presence. She had to clear her throat before she spoke. “I’m...pleased you came in person, rather than sending someone else.”

  “I hoped it would please you.”

  She took a deep breath. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, too.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want to reveal my identity at the arts center. I want to work with the children as myself, not as some...some alter ego. Nobody in Raihan can possibly have a problem with the royal family engaging with the public this way, and I want them to know me. And on top of all that, it would bring more attention to the center. I want that place to have everything it needs, even after I—you know, after I’m not in the family anymore.”

  Laila held her breath and waited, Zayid’s dark eyes burning into hers. Oh, she wanted to touch him. She wanted to fold herself into his arms and let her head fall against his chest. But this was too formal a conversation, like a meeting between diplomats, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “I’ll grant you that,” Zayid said after what seemed like an eternity. “Tell them who you are.”

  She searched for a joke, for any hint of their old intimacy. By this point in many of their past conversations he’d have his hands all over her. But now, Zayid put his hands in his pockets.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I’ll see you at the dinner?” He leaned toward her but didn’t take a step forward.

  “Yes,” she said. And then Zayid was gone with a nod, leaving another empty space behind. She was pining. She was pining so hard it was difficult to d
raw breath. She forced herself to stand where she was instead of running out into the hallway behind him.

  Would he turn around if she did? Would he run back to her, take her in his arms, and take her to his bed?

  And even if she did, could the arrangement ever fulfill her needs?

  Her heart beat one word, half hope and half fear:

  Maybe.

  Zayid’s brothers had gathered in his office to discuss wedding matters. Not quite wedding plans—those, they’d left to the staff, like they always did. He’d called the meeting himself, jittery after leaving Laila’s room. Who was to say that Yaseen’s marriage would even begin? He could end up in a situation just like Zayid, going along with the force of habit and tradition despite imminent failure.

  “Yaseen,” he said sternly. “How are things with your bride?”

  His brother evaded his eyes. “She’s not...completely on board with the wedding plans yet. But she’ll come around.”

  This caused a tight anxiety to knot at the back of Zayid’s neck. “There isn’t much time until you’ll be standing in front of the entire kingdom, saying your vows. You might want to make sure she’ll say hers.”

  “Of course I will,” shot back Yaseen. “I’m giving her time. You have to approach these things delicately.”

  “Just imagine needing such a delicate approach to get a woman to marry you,” said Nadim, their youngest brother, with a laugh. “I thought she was pregnant because you were such an attractive prospect.”

  “Enough from you, Nadim.” Yaseen frowned at his brother. “You have no idea what it’s like to even think about marriage.”

  “And thank god. Thank our parents, for having me last and best, so I don’t ever have to get married.”

  “Please,” scoffed Zayid. “Once Yaseen and I are married off, they’ll be hounding you next. Don’t think you can escape it just by being the youngest.”

  “Oh? Is that so?” Nadim’s eyes twinkled. “Speaking of escaping marriages, how is yours going, dear brother? Are you ready to call it quits yet?”