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‘Come, Kasim, and have coffee with me.’ Zane finally let go of Raif’s hand and held out his arm, directing him away from the gates. ‘We can catch up.’
‘Okay,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice low despite his rising temper. His tender stomach ached after the endless ride through the desert, his skin felt clammy, his head was pounding as if Zarak had kicked him in the temple. But he would have to humour his brother before he returned to discover where Kasia was. Because he had no desire to explain his situation with the girl.
Never show weakness, that was the motto he lived by. And especially not to the man who his father had decided mattered, when Raif did not.
He knew that the way he had been treated by their father was not Zane’s fault—both of them had been pawns in Tariq’s political manoeuvres—but still he couldn’t shake the feeling that where Zane was concerned he always had to be better, stronger, and smarter to prove himself worthy.
Sweat trickled down his back beneath his robe, his mind fogging with frustration and exhaustion, the pain in his right side making it hard for him to walk. But as they approached the ornate silver doors to the Sheikh’s private chambers, the pain sliced agonisingly into his gut.
He bent over, his grunt of agony echoing through the corridor.
‘Kasim, what the…?’
He could hear Zane’s voice through the wildfire spreading through his body.
He locked his knees.
Stay upright, dammit.
But his legs refused to obey him, dissolving beneath him like sand.
The dull thud reverberated through him as he went down hard on his knees.
Zane’s arms wrapped around Raif’s torso as he tried to catch him, but it was already too late and darkness rushed towards him.
‘Malik, get the doctor for Prince Kasim. Now.’
‘My name is Raif,’ he corrected his brother. ‘Not Kasim.’ The words were expelled on a final tortured breath as he crashed head first into the abyss.
Raif blinked up at the luxurious velvet drapes, the scent of jasmine echoing in his groin.
My angel? Where is my angel?
The powerful sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him, but as he turned his head, he saw a middle-aged woman beside the bed in a white coat, who stood up and leaned over him. But as she spoke in a stream of Narabian—while checking his temperature and his vital signs—the deep sense of disappointment became a hollow ache.
She isn’t here. Not this time. She ran away from you.
‘Where am I?’ he asked in English, his throat raw with thirst as he tried to dispel the miserable inadequacy that had plagued him as a child.
‘You are in His Divine Majesty’s private chambers, Prince Kasim,’ the doctor replied. ‘Nurse, tell the Sheikh that Prince Kasim is conscious.’
A young man seated at the end of the bed rushed from the room.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He had collapsed, fainted like a fool, in front of his brother. Humiliation washed over him. He shifted, tried to lift himself, clenching his teeth against the dull pain in his stomach. And the pinch in his forearm as the movement tugged on the drip taped to his skin.
He needed to get the hell out of this bed. He was lying here naked and exposed, like an invalid.
But the doctor placed a hand on his sternum, finding it pathetically easy to press him into the sheets—he had no more strength than a newborn baby.
‘You must not move, Prince Kasim,’ she said, the pity in her voice increasing his humiliation. ‘You have a lot more healing to do. We had to operate as there was an infection.’
Operate? Infection?
He noticed for the first time the stars in the dark sky glinting through the elegant carved wooden screens on the chamber’s window. Hadn’t he arrived here in the afternoon? How could it already be night-time? Had he been lying here for hours?
‘How…?’ he rasped, the effort to speak exhausting him. He cleared his throat. ‘How long have I been here?’ he managed.
