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I drop my eyes, unable to meet his inquiring gaze. “I want to hate you.”
The words hang between us, a challenge and a promise. A proclamation of feelings I’m struggling to grab hold of.
“But you don’t.” He lifts my face to his, his eyes scanning mine. I swallow, wishing I could lie. Instead, I stare at him, and a second later, he’s kissing me as though he has no choice, his mouth hard on mine, just like at our wedding, his hand curving behind my head to hold me there, his tongue duelling with mine so I surrender completely, lifting a hand to his shirt and bunching my fingers in the fabric.
“Zahir,” I groan, pushing his name from my mouth to his. “God, Zahir, why here?”
He wrenches himself away from me to stare down at me.
“In the desert you could have – we could have –,”
He pulls back, his lips grim as he regards me for several long, slow seconds. “You are not the only one having to fight yourself, Amy. Do you think I want to feel this for you?” He turns to look out of the windscreen, his features tight. “Our marriage is far from straightforward.”
“It can be,” I murmur. “We just can’t lose sight of the reasons for marrying.”
“Right,” he nods crisply, his mode suddenly business-like. “To bring your father home. And I married you to quell a civil uprising that threatens the peace in our mountain regions. I cannot achieve my end until I’m assured of your loyalty, which brings us neatly back to the arrangement we’ve already forged. One month, habibti. Not a day sooner.”
As the days stretch into nights which give way to days I’m convinced he’s punishing me by staying away. I haven’t seen Zahir in eight nights – not even a glimpse. And with every hour that passes, my temper increases, so on the ninth day, I’m fuming. How dare he ignore me like this?
I thought we’d forged some kind of connection in the desert, but apparently not. Apparently, all that happened was that my opinion of him softened to the point that I actually started to like him. Which feels like a monumental disaster.
It is a monumental disaster.
This man destroyed my father’s life. And for what? A mistaken belief that dad was involved in some kind of plot to overthrow the government? It’s a stupid, fanciful mistake. At best, I can only presume Zahir was given the wrong information, at worst, I blame him for removing my father from Qabid because he was paranoid. The ‘why’, though, doesn’t really matter. The end result was the same: my father’s life was ruined as a result of Zahir’s actions. He was reduced to living in poverty, his sense of purpose and identity destroyed. I lived with the consequences of that, of seeing my father like a shell for most of his life.
So feeling attracted to my husband is bad enough, but it’s infinitely worse that I let him make me laugh. That I listened to his stories with a smile on my face, as though we were in some kind of romance novel instead of a politically-charged marriage with the highest stakes I can imagine.
Compressing my lips, I move across the room, dressing without paying any attention to what I’m doing, simply stepping into the outfit Aliya has laid out for me. It’s beautiful and soft against my skin, a pale blue tunic with wide-legged pants, each embroidered with the gold thread that seems to be standard on all of my outfits. At the waist, there’s a ribbon made of fine gauze. I tighten it, catching my reflection as I neaten the bow.
Surprise filters through me.
I look…like a princess. My hands lift to my hair, running over its soft blonde lengths, twirling it back into a low bun, needing it off my nape in deference to the heat of this country. I’m half Qabidi but I don’t look it. How ironic that I’m someone who can bring some kind of stability to regions of this country, despite the fact I appear to carry none of its blood in my veins. But I do, I remind myself forcefully. Not only am I my father’s daughter, I’m now married to the Sheikh.
Cooling my heels in my elegantly furnished, overly luxurious royal apartments has been how I’ve spent the last eight days – I refuse to have another day like this.
With a grimace fuelled by determination, I move to the door of my suite. I’m used to the fact I have a guard stationed there permanently. Sweeping the door in, I address him formally. “Please have a car prepared. I’d like to leave the palace.”
Surprise is unmistakable but he covers it swiftly. “Certainly, your highness. I shall notify Aliya.”
Damn it. I’d prefer not to have Aliya forming any part of this plan, but I suppose matters concerning my logistics must go through her. “Fine,” I grit my teeth, determined that the means justify the ends. “Tell her not to delay. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
Zahir
“Where exactly does she want to go?” I wonder at the beating in my chest at this unexpected pronouncement, Aliya showing indignation at the turn of events.
“She didn’t say, your excellency. It was, as I understand it, a brief communication.”
Frustration is now my constant companion. It’s worst at night, when I lie in my bed and imagine her in hers, so much worse now that I know what she looks like in slumber, her sweet lips parted, her eyes swept shut, her cheeks pink from the heat, her arms thrown over her head as her hair falls any way it will. It’s easy for me to imagine her gently curved legs, pale and creamy, her flat stomach and neat waist, the soft cotton pyjamas she favours. Every morning since returning from the desert I’ve woken with an insatiable need for Amy, so that despite having promised her there is no longer a harem in Qabid I’ve wanted to reinstate some of the ancient protocols, to have some trusted servant bring me a lover from my past, a discreet, trustworthy woman to make love to until I forget all about my wife. It wouldn’t work though. It’s not ‘any woman’ I want, nor a lover from my past. It’s my wife, all Amy.
Every day I deny my instincts, my temper fraying incrementally, my impatience becoming dire. I feel it disintegrating now, biting back a harsh retort Aliya doesn’t deserve. I stand instead, pacing across my office, picking up a small silver cup filled with sticky, black coffee. I drink it, the golden crema bitter, the hit energizing.
“Leave it with me. I’ll handle it.”
Amy
Half an hour after issuing my first directive as Emira of Qabid, there’s a knock at my door. Excitement crests in my belly. I don’t know why it’s taken me over a week to wake up to the fact that I can do whatever the hell I want. He can choose to ignore me, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here, and that I have a right to live my life. I refuse to be some convenient bride he’s married to bring about peace – and then forgotten exists!
I move to the door, pulling it inwards with a smile on my face. A smile that dies when I see who’s standing on the other side.
