The Marriage Deal Page 15

  He is frozen, his eyes unreadable, but that barely registers, my own feelings are too enormous to allow space to comprehend his.

  I gulp in air, tears streaming down my cheeks now. “I was wrong to do this. I thought it would be simple but nothing’s simple and nothing makes sense and I just want…”

  “Hush, hush,” he draws me to him, his arms rough and tender at the same time, urgency in the movement, holding me tight, vice-like, clamping me to him while I sob and mumble incoherently, grief ripping me to pieces. “It’s okay, Amy, it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” I shake my head. “I can’t live like this. I can’t…I didn’t…I wouldn’t…”

  “I know, I know,” he strokes my head, so gently, and nothing makes sense anymore. A moment ago he was accusing me of – I don’t even know what – and now he’s telling me ‘he knows’?

  “Almost from the moment we met I have believed in your innocence. I have trusted your goodness. It is unusual for me to take someone so completely at face value, and particularly you – the daughter of a man I…your father’s daughter,” he finishes clunkily. “I presumed you would be easy to dislike and mistrust, that keeping you at arm’s length would not prove difficult, and yet from the moment you arrived I have found it impossible.”

  My breath punctuates the silence, each like a small, shaking sob.

  “When I saw that note, I panicked. I thought I’d been wrong all this time. I overreacted because I was angry with myself, for believing in you so completely.”

  “You were right to believe in me,” I tilt my face up, needing to see him, needing him to see me. There is sincerity in my eyes, truth and honesty on my face. “I never lied to you.”

  “I know.” He catches my face with his hands, holding me still, and his expression is tormented, tortured. “The shock of that note made me feel as though everything I thought I knew was wrong. For a moment I doubted – it was wrong of me to accuse you.”

  I close my eyes, glad for his apology but not feeling much better. My emotions are rioting all over the place. He drops my face and pulls me to him again, holding me there, close to his chest, so I can hear the beating of his heart.

  “I’ll have your father brought to Qabid immediately.” He speaks slowly, the words grim, and instead of the euphoria I’d expected to feel, everything is complicated by my knowledge that this man is doing the opposite of what he wants. I’m so torn! For my father I want this, but for Zahir? When did I start to care about his wants? When did I start to prioritise them?

  “You’ve done everything I asked of you. It’s time.” He kisses the top of my head. My eyes sweep shut against the barrage of emotions.

  “A minute ago you were accusing me of plotting your downfall and now you’re saying he can come home?”

  “I won’t have you feeling like this,” he says simply. “You married me for one reason and one reason only, and I intend to keep my word. You’re right. You can’t live like this, worrying that I’m going to cheat your father out of the future you’ve bought for him with your sacrifice.” He steps back and I want to scream at him that I don’t see it that way! Our marriage isn’t a sacrifice!

  But I can’t – I’m too proud, or too cowardly – I can’t fully admit to myself that I feel that way, let alone to this man. It’s all too complicated. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Don’t – please – don’t thank me. I do not deserve it.” His lips form a tight smile and then he turns and leaves. At the door he hesitates; I hold my breath, waiting, hoping he’s going to say something, anything, to turn and come back.

  “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “His highness’s express orders,” the woman apologises, her smile friendly as she waits for me to admit her to the apartment. “He says you were ill?”

  “I think it was too much sun,” I lie, aware that it was devastation and stress, nothing more.

  “Nonetheless, this won’t take long.”

  I really want to send her away but given that she’s here on Zahir’s orders, she’s not likely to take ‘no’ for an answer. Besides, it can’t hurt.

  Her inspection is brief, a quick check up before she starts asking about my symptoms.

  “Honestly, I don’t have any symptoms. I just vomited.”

  She eyes me over the rim of her glasses. “How many times?”

  “Once.”

  “Had you eaten anything?”

  I shake my head. “I hadn’t really felt hungry. I had some toast for breakfast, I think. Yes, some toast and coffee.”

  “Mmm. Do you usually eat such a small breakfast?”

  I tilt my head to the side. “It depends.” Heat floods my cheeks as I remember the ravenous hunger I’d woken up with in Thakirt, after making love to Zahir.

  “Okay.” Her smile is gentle. “Is there any chance you’re pregnant?”

  The words burst into my brain with a kaleidoscope of possibility. “I – I don’t think so.” I frown. “I mean, a tiny possibility, but it’s not likely.”

  “You were only married two weeks ago. It’s too early to check, unless – I’m making assumptions there.” Her expression was apologetic, and I realise she’s uncomfortable having this conversation with the Emira, despite the fact she’s a doctor. “The tests are most reliable two weeks from conception. Would you like to take one?”

  I shake my head, my mouth dry. “No.” My smile is tight. “It would be too early.”

  “Okay.” She lifts her shoulders. “But if you change your mind, let me know. And you’re feeling better?”

  “Much,” I lie, because now my head is swimming for a whole new reason. I should be horrified but…I’m not. Once the doctor’s left, I sit down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor until I realise a smile has crossed my face.

  Pregnant.

  With Zahir’s baby.

  What’s wrong with me that the idea doesn’t leave me cold?

  I press a palm to my stomach, flat and as far as I can tell, empty, wondering if there’s any chance I conceived, somehow? Surely the likelihood is almost non-existent, and yet…

  My heart is racing and I push up from the bed, the very idea making my feet light as I cross the apartment towards the large glass doors that lead to his enormous balcony. His view is of a magnificent golf course, a striking green in the midst of this desert land, the waterways shimmering in contrast to the heat of the day. I press my arms out, watching as the heat makes them glow golden, my eyes drinking in the beauty of this view while my heart focusses on another body of water, far out in the desert, the oasis we went to on our honeymoon.

  Honeymoon. Such a misnomer for what we’d shared, and yet perhaps that’s not quite fair. The honeymoon wasn’t where we’d been intimate for the first time, at least not physically. But it was the first time I saw beneath my image of this man. It was the first time I saw him as a multi-faceted person, capable of good and bad, righteous and moralistic, strong and driven by a deep love for his country to act in its best interests. He’d married me for that reason, and he was sure he’d exiled dad for those reasons too.

  My heart is heavy and light all at once. I will never be able to forgive Zahir for what he did to dad, and yet if I can push those thoughts from my mind completely, everything starts to make sense. My desire for him, my need for him, my fascination with him, the way my heart squeezes when he’s nearby, or even when he’s not.

  I press a hand to my stomach once more, a small smile lifting my lips as I contemplate the existence of a child – our child. He’d floated the possibility even before we were married. I know it’s what he wants, I’m just surprised to realise it’s what I want too.

  Zahir

  Whenever I have come across adversity in my life, I have sought the space and sanity offered by the desert. I have saddled my own steed and ridden out hard, low to the horse’s mane, eyes focussed on the shimmering heat far from the palace and my people, seeking the silence of the stars and sand.

  I don’t go to the dese
rt now. It would be wrong to leave Amy. Wrong to run away for my own solace. I don’t deserve it.

  Did I really think her capable of betraying me?

  She’s a Hassan. It’s been my fear since she came here, lurking in the back of my mind a lot at first, but less so as our marriage developed. It didn’t take me long to realise she wasn’t capable of the same treachery as her father, and yet I have still carried a kernel, deep in my chest, of suspicion. Suspicion? Fear? Whatever the name for this feeling, it’s intensified the longer she’s been here, the more I’ve got to know her, the more I’ve…seen her, understood her. All of her. Her goodness and kindness, her innocence; she’s become something in my mind that I’ve feared would be destroyed if it was proven that she’s like her father after all. More than anything, I need to believe in goodness. Not just hers, but that such goodness exists.

  With a grimace, I look out at the desert, dawn light filtering across it. Consciousness of the time has me consulting my wristwatch next. The sky is a silvery blue, and in the distance the whip-cry of the kasani birds thunders through my soul. I am of this land. I was born to rule it. Nothing can come between me and that sacred duty, nothing matters but this. And yet, as I dip my head forward, my eyes close and I see her – Amy – and I know that’s not true. Other things beside my role as ruler of Qabid matter, and if I had any doubts what those things might be, seeing my wife’s face this afternoon after I accused her of betrayal leaves me in little doubt. Her happiness matters to me. I have a duty to protect her, to care for her, to protect her.

  Whatever happens next – and I’d be a fool not to realise I could be on the precipice of disaster – Amy is not to blame. She has acted out of love for her father, but that doesn’t mean she feels his hatred for me.

  I must remember that.

  13

  Amy

  “GOOD MORNING.”

  He’s looking at me through eyes that give nothing away and I’m shy and nervous, feelings fluttering through my chest that make me far too aware of him, and me, and the possibility that we might have conceived a child. It’s ridiculous. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but the idea has been implanted in my mind and now it’s all I can focus on. And to think, I fought this very possibility tooth and nail when it was first raised!

  “Hi.” I clear my throat, offering him a small smile. His eyes roam my face as though committing it to memory. I miss him. I ache for him. We haven’t slept together since Thakirt. Not since I told him I hated him right before we came together. Guilt heats my blood. I want to hate him, but I don’t. Truth be told, I find it impossible to reconcile this man with the man who threw my father from the country.

  “I was hoping we could have breakfast together.”

  It’s not exactly a question and yet he’s still standing right there, uncertain somehow, watching me like I might instead demand that he leave. I tilt my head away from him to catch my breath and it’s then that I realise his side of the bed is still perfectly made.

  “You didn’t come to bed last night.”

  He doesn’t answer. When I look at him again, his face shows tension. Not just his face, his whole body radiates tightness.

  “Zahir? What’s happened now?” My stomach loops as I fear the worst – more rumours about me. Something else to accuse me of.

  Perhaps he senses my train of thought because he swears under his breath and crosses to me, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting a hand on my thigh. It’s a comforting touch but desire flares through me, hard and fast. I’m just wired this way now – his proximity sets something off inside of me, completely beyond my control.

  “Nothing bad.” His smile reaches into my chest and twists everything around, except it’s a smile that doesn’t show in his eyes. He’s trying to reassure me. He pities me. “How do you feel?”

  A small laugh bubbles in my throat, an unconscious sound that surprises us both. “Honestly? All over the place.”

  He lifts one brow.

  My heart thumps hard against my ribs. What’s the matter with me?

  “What does the tattoo on your side mean?”

  Surprise is evident in the depths of his eyes but he otherwise doesn’t react. “This one?” He lifts his shirt off and I swallow hard, my ability to concentrate in direct proportion to his unclothed state.

  I nod, lifting a finger to the scrawled, cursive text. It’s beautiful.

  “The closest translation in English would be, Alone but for the stars.” He then repeats it in Qabidi, the words mesmerising and addictive.

  I attempt to say them myself, shaking my head at my poor attempt.

  “Why did you get it?”

  “It’s an old proverb,” he says with a lift of his broad shoulders, as though it doesn’t matter. Desire flares in the pit of my stomach, the sight of him topless spinning my senses at a million miles an hour.

  “It’s kind of sad.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Shocking,” I can’t help remarking with a hint of sarcasm. After all, what is there we do agree on?

  “It’s honest,” he concedes, his hand on my thigh moving higher, a frown on his face as his eyes follow the contact. I wonder if he’s touching me against his will, fighting the same drugging sense of need that is forever pulling at me? I struggle to get out of his orbit. I feel drawn to him even when I know I should resist, and I feel that pull now.

  “How?” But I’ve moved closer, sitting straighter so our bodies are only inches apart. His eyes move to my shoulder, where the strap of my singlet has fallen down. His gaze makes my skin heat as though he’s touched me.

  “We’re all born alone,” he remarks. “We live alone, die alone, but for as long as there are people there are stars. It is a constant we can rely on, perhaps one of the very few in life.”

  My heart stammers. “Like I said, depressing.”

  He doesn’t react. I have the sense he’s not listening to me now. His eyes lock to mine, a silent question in their depths, as his fingers move to the strap of my singlet, threading through it. I hold my breath, my own questions forming, waiting, watching him, as he moves the strap in place. Frustration zips through me. He drops his hand to my side and before I can question the wisdom of my actions, I reach for the bottom of my shirt and pull it over my head, leaving me half-naked in bed.

  A hiss emerges from between his teeth.

  A primal need is driving me now. It’s as though the idea of a baby has stirred some ancient, possessive desire, an ownership of this man completely at odds with the individualism he was just espousing.

  “We’re born alone, and we might die alone, but we don’t live alone,” I say moving infinitesimally closer.

  “Don’t we?” His look pierces my soul, and an ache spreads through my chest. What am I doing? He’ll never trust me, never care for me, never love me. Zahir won’t feel those things for anyone. He’s told me that from the beginning. His focus is on his kingdom, nothing and no one will ever derail that, let alone the daughter of a man he believes capable of such betrayal.

  The most I can hope for is the physical relationship we’ve developed.

  And the love and affection of children?

  And the happiness of my father.

  Is it enough?

  Can I live with those compensations while knowing Zahir’s heart is cold to me, and my own heart, towards him, is…I bite down on my lower lip, realisation throbbing through me, panic spreading to the tips of my fingers.

  A pulsing throb of comprehension threatens to blind me, but I ignore it, refusing to grapple with the question of my emotions at this point. Other instincts are driving me, other needs paramount.

  “Zahir?”

  His cheeks are slashed with colour, his eyes grim as he stares at me long and hard.

  “What do you want from me, little one?”

  I arch a brow, my mind spinning. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  He shakes his head once. “You hate me.”

  I should hate him. I want to hate
him. What he did to my father ruined his life. I spent a long time thinking I would want to throw this man off a bridge if we ever came face to face, and yet I don’t.

  Guilt is inside of me but I ignore that too.

  “And I’m glad. This is so much easier, and better, if you hate me.”

  He kisses me before I can respond, and I surrender, the complexity of our situation a tangle in the pit of my stomach that I will deal with later, after. For now, there is only this, and as opposed to everything else between us, sex is easy. It’s right. There’s a perfection to our coming together that is ancient and beautiful. There is no need to speak or examine what we feel when we make love, it’s a chemical reaction that is necessary and important. I dig my nails into his shoulder, drawing him on top of me, his body weight reassuring and perfect, as he runs his mouth over my décolletage to my breasts, tormenting my nipples one by one until I’m calling his name at the top of my lungs, uncaring if anyone – even the whole country – hears me. His mouth runs lower, over my stomach, then lower still, finding the velvety skin of my inner thighs, whipping it with his tongue as his fingers swirl across my hips. When his mouth lands on my sex I explode, the pleasure impossible to navigate, my heels digging into the bed as I arch my back, my legs moving to give him more access. I am riding a wave and just like his proverb, I’m alone, just me and the heavens, euphoric and primal.

  His fingers move to spread my thighs and I groan low in my throat, my heart a frantic beat in my chest as I wait, knowing what pleasure comes next and needing it more than I can describe.

  I whimper at the delay; what’s taking so long? But when I open my eyes, he’s moved away from me, his back to me. I bite back a sob – just – then experience a rush of gladness because he’s only moved to find a condom.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say with a shake of my head, betraying far, far too much of myself in that moment, my feelings terrifyingly exposed to his scrutiny. He turns to look at me, his eyes unreadable, his body tense once more, his arousal so strong and powerful. I hold an arm out, reaching for him, but my words seem to have rendered him statue-like.