The Marriage Deal Page 12

  “And perhaps this would have been a better choice for you, Amy,” he says in a gruff voice, lifting a hand and cupping my cheek. His eyes run over my face and the heat of his gaze sears me to the soles of my feet. “You cannot right the wrongs of the past – that’s outside your capabilities. Bringing your father to Qabid will not change what happened then.”

  To me, that sounds like an admission, words of regret. I swallow at the rush of emotions it unleashes. Can I forgive him if he can admit he was wrong? Zahir will never openly admit that he made a mistake, but there is subtext in his words now, and it’s a subtext that cracks something open within my heart.

  “You are looking at things from a position of ‘reason’, whereas I see it through a veil of passion and emotion. Yet here we are – two people who ended up married regardless.” I am drawn to him, aching to touch him, to feel him. I reach for another tattoo, circling it with my finger. “What is this?”

  “Kalam,” he says with a lift of one corner of his lips. “My first falcon. My father gave him to me when I was eight years old. I trained him myself.”

  My stomach swoops at this admission – a sign of loyalty and affection for a pet.

  “He was a magnificent bird of prey, protection when I travelled into the desert on my own, company and security. Incredible wing-span, a true ruler of this desert land.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Zahir’s eyes bank down, blocking me out, showing me no emotion. “He died.”

  “Of old age?”

  His head moves, a single jerk to indicate the negative.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He lifts his shoulders. “He was just a bird.”

  I can’t help my expression – I’m sure it must be rich with disbelief. “And yet you’ve had him drawn as a tattoo?”

  He laughs, a sound rich with dismissal. “I was only sixteen.” He laces his fingers through mine, drawing my hand to his side. “Don’t read anything into it.”

  “Like that you have a heart with feelings?”

  I don’t know where the challenge came from but suddenly, I need to make it.

  His eyes narrow sceptically. “Like a sentimental attachment to an animal.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I continue to contradict him, certain I’m right. “You want to live without passion and yet you’re the most passionate person I’ve ever met. I feel it humming beneath the surface of your veins. You can’t fight your nature, Zahir. You shouldn’t want to.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, I do. I never knew your father, but I think he gave you bad advice. Passion can be an arrow in your moral compass, guiding you to feel how you ought to feel in certain situations. Passion at injustice stirs us to fix things, to effect change. You can’t tell me you didn’t feel passion tonight when you were listening to those people?”

  “On the contrary, Amy: I was calm, because that’s what they needed me to be. If I had grown angry about the young girl who had been thrown out of her home for wanting to go to university, do you think I would have been able to help her? If I had demanded her parents be brought to me to explain their actions, would that have achieved anything?”

  Heat simmers in my blood.

  “Passion is the indulgence of an undisciplined mind; it doesn’t – and will never – serve me.”

  “So when you had my father expelled from this country, you did it from a place of calm? You did it because you were rational and you believed he deserved that fate?”

  Something sparks between us, a dark, electric frustration.

  “I have already answered this question.”

  I shake my head. “No, you haven’t.”

  “I make every decision with a rational mind, determined only to act in my country’s best interests. Your father left me little choice.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  For a second I feel as though he’s going to say something, something sharp and angry, but he simply shrugs as though none of this matters to him much at all. “I know, little one. Your defensiveness of your father is to your credit. But if you were to remove passion and look at this situation calmly, you would see the truth. Do I strike you as a petty, vindictive man? Do you think I would have expelled your father lightly, or for my own personal gain, without solid evidence that it was the best course of action?”

  My stomach twists and swirls. I feel as though the ground is swallowing me. Instinctively I reject his question but not quickly enough. Tendrils of doubt bleed through me, grabbing hold of my heart and stinging it with uncertainty.

  “I did not want to exile him, Amy.” He lifts a hand to my chest, pressing his palm to my heart. “This country is in my blood, as it is in his, and every other person who was born a Qabidi. As it is in yours. I would not inflict his fate on anyone lightly. I tried to avoid it. In the end, I had no choice.”

  His words dive into the cracks my own doubt has formed. “I don’t believe you.” But my voice lacks tenacity and fire. It says the exact opposite.

  “I think you’re starting to.”

  Damn him for being so perceptive! He pads a thumb over my lower lip, an intimate gesture that makes my heart stammer, but I shake my head in fierce rejection. “There aren’t many things I’ve sure of in life, Zahir,” I say thickly. “But that my father is good is one of them. That my father is innocent is a cornerstone of my own belief structure. Unless you have evidence that you can show me, to refute that, then I will always support him.”

  Zahir

  Tell her. Show her the truth. Make her see that the man she defends plotted to kill you!

  But I can’t, and for all the reasons she’s just given me. That my father is innocent is a cornerstone of my own belief structure. I cannot take that away from her. I won’t hurt her like that.

  It’s not necessary. I don’t need her to believe me in order to achieve my aim. She’s my wife, and already I can feel her presence at my side serving as a turning point in this region. Wanting her to believe me would be a selfish indulgence – a desire to have her ‘on my side’ for the sheer sake of wanting her support.

  That’s stupid and emotional and I won’t give into it.

  “Evidence is unnecessary, Amy.”

  Her eyes soften, and I don’t know if it’s because she’s relieved or frustrated.

  “The past is in the past – neither of us has the power to go back and change what happened then.”

  “But would you, if you could?” She pushes, her voice trembling. I see how important this is to her. She needs to believe in her father, but she wants to believe in me, too. She’s looking for a way to forgive me.

  I ignore her question. “This marriage will achieve what you want most in the world: your father’s return. That’s the best that can come out of this. So rejoice in the decision you have made, without questioning mine again.”

  10

  Amy

  I HATE HIM. I REALLY, really hate him.

  I tell myself that over and over again, an incantation I’m desperately trying to inject into my bloodstream, in the hope it will cool the thoughts that have overtaken my mind. I replay our conversation on repeat, frustration at his attitude – and deep down at the doubts that have begun to cloud my mind – stretching parts of me beyond my recognition. Damn it, I want to hate him. I need to hate him.

  If I don’t hate him, I’m honestly terrified of what will happen. I roll onto my side, drawn to face him despite the torrent of thoughts hammering through me. In sleep, he is no different. Strong and powerful, an aura of uncontained power emanating from him even with his eyes closed and his breathing rhythmic. I have no doubt he could wake and spring into action, arguing with me, seducing me, negotiating foreign policy – whatever is required of him.

  He is magnetic and fascinating, compelling and intriguing. These are not adjectives I want to use to describe my husband.

  When I embarked on this marriage, I didn’t give it too much thought. I acted on im
pulse and instinct, the lure of my father’s return all I needed to guarantee my cooperation. But now I understand the difficulties here. I’m playing with fire and being burned seems inevitable. Marriage isn’t a business arrangement. Not when it’s like this.

  “You should sleep.”

  His voice is muffled, and I startle. His eyes open, locking to mine, and rational thought becomes impossible. Not for him, of course, if his earlier comments can be believed.

  “I’m trying.”

  He sighs, pushing up on one elbow. “You’re angry with me.”

  Oh, how I wish I were. I bite down on my lower lip, shaking my head.

  His eyes flare. “Then what?”

  I’m the opposite to Zahir. Passion runs through my veins, dictating almost everything I think I want. Right now, I want him, and it’s hard to talk myself out of that, because of the strength of my need. My own body is betraying me.

  He moves quickly, his hands grabbing my wrists, pinning them to my sides, his body coming over mine, big and heavy and exactly what I desire.

  I bite back a groan, but I’m sure he must feel it reverberate through me.

  “I need to hear what you want.”

  A command. It fires through me, sparking something deep in my gut.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  He drops his face closer to mine, brushing our lips. I can’t hold in my moan any longer; it’s a soft sound of utter surrender.

  He rolls his hips, pressing his arousal between my legs, our clothing a frustrating barrier to what I desire.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Another command.

  I stare at him, needing my heart to listen to my mind, needing to retain some control over what’s happening between us. My surrender is inevitable, but this has to be on my terms.

  “I hate you.”

  Surprise is obvious on his features and instantly regret stirs in my chest. I know I can’t have hurt him – that’s simply not possible – but I wish I hadn’t spoken so plainly.

  “Whatever you think your justification was, I will never forgive you for what you did to him.”

  His expression is inscrutable, his physical presence unrelenting, and I’m glad for that.

  “But I don’t want to fight this anymore.” It’s a simple admission, drawn from deep within me. “It’s not rational. It’s not perfect. But I need you, Zahir.”

  His breath is one long exhalation. His eyes read mine, scanning them intently.

  “It’s just sex.” I’m determined he understands that – that I understand that. “It changes nothing about what I think of you. Got it?”

  He doesn’t acknowledge that. He simply kisses me, a kiss that sparks a flood of fireworks in my body, a relief and an agony. My hands are rendered immobile by his touch and I lift my back in a silent, ancient invitation, a plea for him to take me now. Memories of our coming together in the cave haunt me – but they’re insufficient. I want more of him, and I want his own surrender and release, proof that this desire flooding between us is bigger than him, and me, and our mutual control.

  He releases my wrists purely to dispense with our clothes, a swift, capable undressing, the rustle of soft fabrics hitting the floor. His every movement stirs me to a higher pitch of need. He rips the top off a foil square, sheathing his length in a condom before coming to hover over me. I stare up at him, and there is silence everywhere, a deadening softness that leaves room for the cacophony of my blood’s frantic rushing. An ancient drum beats within me and as I look into his eyes, I know he feels it too. Yet I need to grab hold of something to tether myself to reality. I press my hand into his chest, my throat thick, emotions welling in my throat.

  “This doesn’t change anything.”

  In response, he drives into me and I cry out, welcoming his length, my muscles tightening around him in a spasm of euphoric relief, my body his completely.

  He moves and I move – as though we are dancers taking part in an urgent, important ballet, a dance defined by our souls. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him deep, releasing him, kissing him, craving him even as he takes possession of me piece by piece, until I am no longer sure who I am.

  In the caves, he pleasured me, but now it is mutual, a shared falling apart, a joint surrender. I am barely conscious of him and at the same time I am aware of his every movement, as though each shift creates a ripple in the fabric that surrounds us. I feel his pleasure, his drowning sense of need and as I tip over the edge of sanity and reality, he releases a guttural oath and joins me, his body wracked with pleasure, his chest moving rapidly, his eyes shut as he rides that delirious, joyous wave.

  Our breathing is a rough orchestra, hawing in the silence. He drops down on me, his body melded to mine, my breasts crushed beneath his torso, the hair on his chest sending me into a tailspin of sensation. Every nerve ending is quivering with awareness; contact only exacerbates it.

  My heart is racing, the physical exertion of our pleasure making my blood run hard and fast.

  It is the only reason my heart races.

  “This changes nothing,” I say, once more, needing to hear those words myself as much as I need him to.

  He pushes up to look at me, his eyes hooded and impossible to read. His cheeks are dark, slashed with colour. “I am aware of that, azeezi.”

  * * *

  “Stop here.”

  His command draws my attention to his face and the second my eyes connect with his autocratic profile my pulse fires in my veins. God, he’s handsome. Utterly, indescribably hot. My body throbs with remembered pleasure. The way we’d made love in the early hours of the morning is imprinted in my mind. I cannot look at him without remembering the feeling of his body on mine, his command of my sensations, his ability to drive me wild with a single touch.

  He speaks with every expectation of being obeyed. That power stokes a flame in my belly.

  The car draws to a halt and I look beyond him, to the view beyond his window. “Where are we? I thought we were going straight to the airstrip?”

  “Not quite.” His smile is tight, and for no reason I can think of, tension radiates from him.

  “No? Is there something else you have to do?”

  His brows knit closer together and I sense his hesitation. “Not me. You.”

  He jerks his head in the direction of my window. Instinctively, I pivot in my luxurious leather seat, looking beyond the car. It is a hot day, with waves of steam rising off the side of the road. I cast my eyes over the phenomenon lazily, before my gaze focusses higher. A large shrub stands sentinel over a grand, but very old, house. Built of clay with faded orange walls and a brown roof, and a path running from the street to the front door, it takes a second for memories to lock into place. My heart clutches and my stomach rolls. A bead of sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  I remember this.

  I remember it. My hand fumbles for the door but before I can open it, a guard appears, drawing it wide for me to step out. The day’s warmth hits me hard in the face. My eyes sting with tears and heat.

  Zahir is beside me a moment later; I feel his presence, reassuring and brick-like. How ironic when he’s the man that took this from me in the first place.

  The shrub bursts with red flowers; I remember the way they smell. As a girl, I used to pick them until my skirt was full, carrying them to the house in a makeshift basket of fabric. I’d sit on the lounge room floor – cool tiles beneath bare legs – and weave the stalks together to make a crown. I remember the fragrance as it sat on my head, sweet like vanilla.

  I can’t form words. I turn to look at him, my lips parted, eyes moist.

  His gaze runs over my face, a grim expression on his. “Go on.”

  I swallow hard. “Is there time?”

  He frowns. “Of course.” He gestures to the house. “I presumed you’d want to see it.”

  I turn back to the house. I do, but at the same time… “I’m nervous.”

  “Why?” His response is almost too q
uick.

  “It’s just…” I struggle to find words. A guard appears at my other side, holding a sun umbrella over me. I flash a quick, grateful smile, still searching for how to phrase what I’m feeling. “The last time I was here, I left for a holiday. I had no idea it would be so long before I was back again. It feels as though I’m about to cross the threshold of time. Does that make sense?”

  “In a way.” He brushes his fingers over mine – a simple, light gesture but it nonetheless stirs my nerve endings, anchoring me in some way to the present when the past is threatening to swallow me whole. “You don’t have to go in. It is your decision.”

  “I know that,” I murmur, scanning the house, my heart pounding. “I should. I think I’ll regret it if I don’t. After all, who knows when I’ll be back next.”

  “Would you like me to wait outside?”

  He should wait outside. Having him come into my parents’ house, my father’s house, feels like an even greater betrayal than what’s happening between us, and yet I don’t want to do this alone. No, that’s not entirely accurate; it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. I want Zahir with me. Perhaps I want him to see the happy domesticity in which we lived, to realise what he took from us all, or maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself to justify my actions.

  “It’s fine. Come with me.”

  He dips his head in silent agreement. On legs that aren’t quite steady I start to make my way up the path, my pulse pounding under my skin as I approach the door. It’s locked, and of course I don’t have a key. But with a single gesture, one of the guards approaches, shoving it with his shoulder until the door opens.