I suck in an angry breath.
“And I do not regret it. Not even a little.”
Anger floods my every cell.
“My only dissatisfaction comes from the fact there are some who continue to feel loyalty to him, despite the fact it’s been sixteen years. Our economy has never been stronger. I have overhauled our education and health systems, working to improve the lifestyle of each and every member of this country, and still there is a minority who would seek to place your father – an old man now – in my stead?”
I whirl around, defensiveness making me want to push back at him. “And that hurts your feelings, does it?” I taunt. “Poor little King Zahir,” I roll my eyes. “Heaven forbid anyone should oppose your right to reign!”
“Yes,” he agrees, pushing his chair back and standing, his eyes glittering when they meet mine. “That is just as I see it. I am the Sheikh of Qabid and it is time to put the Hassan matter to rest. I will not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
“You think you’ve given your people what they want? Then why do some wish to replace you?”
His eyes glitter and a frisson of danger runs the length of my spine. “Because your father has continued to stir up this sentiment.”
“Impossible,” I snap, shaking my head. “My father’s exile was complete. You invalidated his citizenship, for God’s sake. What could he do but email old
friends from time to time? Do you think this was tantamount to inspiring a revolution?”
His eyes narrowed and there was a lengthy pause before he spoke, his voice calm despite the maelstrom in his eyes. “Your father is a man I will never trust, and never respect. Yet he is your father; you are my wife. As such, I do not wish to speak of him to you in this manner. Let us drop the conversation.”
I’m surprised.
Again.
It’s such a civil notion, one I didn’t expect from him. “Oh, don’t go worrying about hurting my feelings now, Zahir. I can handle it, believe me. I think it’s far more likely you want to end the conversation because you know you don’t have a leg to stand on.”
He paces towards me, his gait like that of a wild animal, feral and lean. “On the contrary, azeezi, I have two legs. Strong and powerful.” He touches me on the shoulder, in one of the places he said he would. It’s not an erogenous zone; it’s just a patch of flesh like any other, yet my temperature spikes through the roof. I wonder if standing this close he can feel the gushing of my pulse? Memories of the way he kissed me after our wedding burst through me, burning me with their tangibility.
“Your father is a dangerous man.” He lifts a finger to my lips, pressing it there. I feel the worst hum of betrayal inside me, because despite the horrible words he’s saying, there’s a weakness growing in me, a weakness that begs me to supplicate to his touch completely.
“Then why did you agree to this?”
“My country needs full, lasting peace, and our marriage offers the best chance for that.” His eyes hold mine, so intense I lose my breath. “We will never like one another. We may, in fact, always hate one another. But the same desire hums in your blood as it does in mine. It is enough, habibti, to make some sort of marriage work. Do not fight me for too long.”
3
Amy
IT’S LIKE THE LAYING down of a gauntlet. From the minute he tells me not to make him wait too long, that’s all I can think of. It’s as though I need to prove to both of us that I cannot be controlled. He’s right. There’s desire between us, a spark of lust I wasn’t expecting. Perhaps it’s all the stronger for how actively I dislike him? Regardless, I want to ignore it. I want to refuse to act on it.
The thought of falling pregnant with this man’s baby?
No, not of falling pregnant. That’s not where I have problems. It’s the idea of raising a child with him! How can I simply accede to that demand?
My parents loved each other. I grew up believing love and respect were essential tenets of a happy marriage – the idea of my own child or children seeing the exact opposite fills me a sense of dread.
Could I stall him? Go onto contraceptives and not tell him?
I angle my face towards him, heat creeping up my spine. He’s working, a large document with a bulldog clip at the corner spread before him. I watch as he flicks the page, my heart in my throat.
I can’t lie to him – I won’t. This marriage is something we’ve both entered into in good faith, our cards on the table.
“Stop staring.”
Heat colours my cheeks and it has nothing to do with the desert’s intense warmth. “How do you know I’m staring? You’re not even looking at me.”
“Aren’t I?” He drops the pen on the tabletop, his eyes lancing me with their scrutiny as he stands. “Something has been troubling me since yesterday.”