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Phoebe did. Desperately. She shrugged her slender shoulders. “I suppose so.”
He took care not to smile. “Then to hell with it. Let’s marry, and work out the details later.”
Phoebe took in a deep breath, and seemed to school her features into an expression of calm. “Yes. Let’s marry. But Hakim, I am not marrying you because I like you. Or because my body is crazily addicted to yours. I’m marrying you because I gave you my word and everyone’s gone to a lot of trouble. Unless you release me from that commitment, I will see it through.”
How he wished he had the strength to give her what she wanted. However, for the first time in his adult life, Hakim realized he was not man enough to make a tough decision. He wanted her, he needed her, and he was going to have her, despite his misgivings about her own wishes.
“Good. I will see you in the ceremony, habibte.”
He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, his eyes searching hers, trying to make her understand.
She looked away. He would be her Husband, but he would also, alwa
ys, be her Heartbreak.
CHAPTER TEN
Three days of ceremonies, commitments, solemn promises, and by the end of it, Phoebe felt like her nerves were stretched to breaking point. With every word she uttered, she was taking a step closer to a life she could never have predicted.
As if in a dream-like state, she emerged from the final event exhausted and shell-shocked.
“Your highness.” Ramit greeted her with a small bow.
Phoebe waved him to standing. “Please, Ramit. I’m still just that woman who made you stop the limousine. Don’t get all formal on me now.”
Despite his training, he smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ma’am, I suppose, I can live with. Though I would prefer Phoebe.”
“Not possible,” he choked, surprise making his face blush.
She nodded. “I thought as much.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She had become adept at feigning delight, and she did so now. Only a trained on-looker, or her newly acquired husband, would be able to see through the broad smile and tilt of her head.
“His highness Sheikh Hakim Al Meshuda has asked me to escort you to him.”
“I see.” Hakim had, as dictated by Mehran wedding traditions, left the reception an hour earlier. Leaving Phoebe to accept advice on all things matrimonial, and over the top felicitations, on her own.
Becca had been there, thankfully, offering moral support from a distance. And though her old friend could have no real understanding of the undercurrents in their marriage, she had found her presence alone a balm.
Butterflies battered her stomach. They had not been together since their argument. They’d barely spoken since that very early morning by the pool. By unspoken but mutual agreement, they’d kept a wary distance. Phoebe had spent much of the time trying to act as though her heart wasn’t breaking.
But now, came the moment of truth. The first night of the rest of her life.
With a deep breath, she waited outside of his room. Though she was shaking like a leaf, she appeared outwardly calm.
The dress for the reception had been chosen with care. It was cream and gold, as much of her wardrobe was to be, from that point onwards. Almost like a royal uniform, she thought with a small smile. It was a dress that was surprisingly sensual, for a conservative country like Mehran. Though it covered every inch of her skin, from her neck to her ankles, and down to her wrists, it was made of a shining satin, which showed every curve of her body as she moved. It was a traditional enough outfit, but she had seen the way Hakim had watched her. The look of ownership in his eyes had sparked longing in her body.
She was no martyr reporting to marital duties. Oh, no. Far from it. She was already quivering with anticipation at what was to come.
Without knocking, she entered his room. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, a glass of something cradled in his hands, his head bent, without drinking.
He pinned her with his eyes when he heard her entrance.
“My wife.” He stood, his face unreadable.
