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“So you don’t think she was in on the conspiracy with dad?” I ask, then shake my head, pressing a finger to his lips.
“Don’t answer that. I think you’re right. For tonight at least. Let’s not…talk about that.”
His eyes seem to burn through me and for a second I wonder if he’s going to change his mind, but then he nods.
“Let me just say this.” I move my hand, stroking his cheek distractedly. “It would mean a lot to me if you’d see my dad. You don’t have to like him. But just…see him. Meet him. For me.”
It’s a lot to ask and I have no idea if ‘for me’ will be a persuasive argument, but I make it anyway, and then change the subject, asking him about the almrisad we’re in, and the history of the building in general.
For hours we stay there, laying against the brightly-coloured cushions, beneath the stars. At some point, I fall asleep, because I’m aware, vaguely, of being carried by a pair of strong, muscled arms, through the palace and into his room, laid gently on the bed as though I’m a delicate piece of ceramic.
I reach for him on autopilot, my arms latching around his neck, drawing him to me, my mouth seeking his. This part is so easy, so right. Kissing him, undressing for him, my body welcoming his, it happens without conscious thought or planning, it’s simply an enactment of fate. Making love to him in the small hours of the morning is perfect and sublime; I fall asleep again with my head on his chest, my heart thundering from the pleasure of satiation. Or is that his?
Zahir
“I’m here because she asked it of me.” And it was a mistake. I cross my arms over my chest, staring at Amy’s father with all the hatred I have long felt for this man. Yet he’s different to how I remember. Smaller, grown frail and feeble, his eyes buried in his face now, almost consumed by his skull.
He barely looks at me.
“I didn’t expect it.” His laugh is a croak and yet it reminds me of Amy so I stiffen. I thought I would hate her, like I hate him. I thought the sight of her would remind me of Malik and that being in proximity to her would be a form of torture, but I don’t feel that at all. Not since the first meeting have I associated her with her father, except when she brings him into conversation.
My hands tighten at my sides.
“I don’t know what I expected. I thought this was a trick.”
“No trick,” I grunt, turning my back on him. And despite the fact I’m in his hotel suite, I stalk towards the bar. “Would you like a drink?”
“Whatever you are having, your highness.”
My spine straightens at his use of the deferential title. I ignore it, thinking how easy it is for wolves to dress as sheep, and pour two glasses of Kathani. It is late, almost midnight. I resolved to do this before going to bed with Amy. She asked it of me, and it is within my power to grant this, so I do. Besides, I’m curious.
She’s so adamant about her father’s innocence; what will he be like with me?
I carry the Kathani to him, and he takes it, but there’s something in his face I recognise. I wait for him to speak, knowing he’s weighing his words, choosing how to address me.
“How is she?”
And I understand then. He has no idea about the nature of our relationship, no idea what I’ve done with his daughter, why I’ve married her. Sympathy is unexpected and sharp, and where I might have thought I’d enjoy hurting this old man, having met Amy, I can’t do it. I can’t say or do anything that will alarm her father.
“Your daughter is fine.”
Is she, though? There are times when she seems happy and settled, and others when I feel as though our marriage is the equivalent of making her walk on hot coals.
“I didn’t know she was planning this.”
“It happened quickly. She didn’t want to get your hopes raised until she was sure.”
“Sure you would agree?”
I shake my head. “This was my idea.”
“Why?”
“Because your actions seeded divisiveness in the hills and I wanted it dealt with, once and for all. Another generation cannot be riddled with this ancient grudge.”
His eyes glitter when they meet mine. “You’re right.”
It’s a concession I don’t expect.
