And so I’d exiled him. Painful, yes, but far less so than the alternative.
I grind my teeth, running my fingertips through the water as I step deeper, pausing only when it’s halfway up my abdomen.
There is evidence of her father’s plans, evidence I could show to her. Why don’t I? It would be the easiest way to make her understand me, and yet instinctively I shy away from doing that to her. She clearly idolises the man. Is there any need to ruin that for her? He’s seventy nine years old and in poor health – one of the only reasons I contemplated this union. Oh, he still has the ability to make mischief, but far less so than before. His networks have been broken up, those with whom he plotted imprisoned or exiled. While there is a small band of dissidents who might seek to act in his name, to appoint a Hassan to the throne, I believe my marriage to his daughter will have quelled their need for civil unrest.
Amy is my wife.
This isn’t the marriage I had planned. Her ignorance of her father’s dealings changes things. I can’t hate her the way I expected to. A marriage I had thought would be purely political – a necessary connection resulting in the obligatory heir – has the potential to be something different now.
But what?
Amy
I wake alone and my first thought is one of disappointment. I reach for him without meanin
g to, my arm outstretched with the full expectation of connecting with flesh. Even the impulse is strange. I’ve had boyfriends, a lover, but I’ve never lived with one. I’ve never even spent the night with one. Sharing a bed is not in my realm of experience, so how strange that my first thought on stirring is to reach for Zahir.
And Zahir, of all people!
A man I have always, and will always, hate! And yet memories of that kiss stir something deep in my soul, making me ache to feel his skin beneath my fingertips, his hands on my body. My hand presses to my stomach and runs lower. I groan softly, then, mortified, wake up fully. He’s not in bed but that doesn’t mean he’s not somewhere in the tent, watching me, seeing my hand move towards the waistband of my pants!
I sit up, looking around quickly, but he’s not there. A frown crosses my lips, and before I can realise what I’m doing, I stand, feet bare, and pad towards the stretches of fabric that form a door. I push one open and for a moment I pause, the sheer beauty of the desert at night robbing me completely of breath.
The stars are so bright. I’ve never seen anything like this, despite the fact I grew up in a rural part of North Carolina. This is incredible. I feel as though I’ve stepped through a portal into a landscape just freshly painted. The moonlight casts the sand in a silver glow, the trees starkly shaped and black, the stars like explosions of diamond dust strewn across the sky. The night is cooler than the day, of course, but it’s still balmy and warm, yet I shiver as I turn towards the water.
Perhaps a part of me knew what to expect? Was the shiver a premonition?
He’s standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at the sky, so I know he hasn’t yet seen me. I could creep back into the tent and pretend I’m still asleep. I could escape unnoticed.
My legs though carry me towards the water, as drawn to it as I am to him. There is magic in the desert, and more so at night. If I’ve stepped into a different portal then something about the regular rules has changed; I no longer feel as constricted as I did in the daytime. It’s ethereal and beautiful.
My feet are wet before he realises I’m here. His eyes latch to my face and I stop moving, my breath exploding from me on one long exhalation. The part of me that’s been taught good, southern manners wants me to say ‘hi’, or to apologise for intruding, but the magic of the night renders me mute. He’s not wearing a shirt and his chest is everything I’d imagined it to be, and more. Chiselled, tanned, with a line of dark hair arrowing down his middle, disappearing into the water’s surface. His muscles are etched, his skin taut, and he has several tattoos, which I hadn’t expected. Lines of writing run up his sides. There are also graphics – a picture above his heart and one low on his abdomen. My mouth is dry; I look away.
A bird flies overhead, wide wingspan and majestic, its flapping wings the only sound. Their rhythm is slow and determined, echoing something within my heart.
I take a step forward, then another, my heart beating slowly but with a strength that pummels me from the inside out. His eyes follow me; I can’t look away. The water is the perfect temperature and yet I shiver again. Another premonition? But of what?
The water laps gently at my hips. A few more steps and I’m close to him – just a few feet away. Still, he watches me wordlessly. My skin is covered in goosebumps, but not because it’s cold. The bird circles overhead, drawing my attention for a moment. It comes to land in a tree across the water, settling so I see its silhouette. Regal and proud, it shimmers like the sand, a silver sheen on its glorious feathers.
When I look back at Zahir, he’s moved closer. The water around us ripples and I feel the poignancy of that – those ripples reminding me of life, and how every decision we make causes small vibrations that go outwards, changing things we can’t imagine.
“You should be sleeping.” His words rumble and vibrate in the depths of my soul.
“Says who?”
His frown is infinitesimal, just a tightening of his lips.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
I cast a glance at my wristwatch – a gift from my father on my eighteenth birthday. “It’s actually the early hours of the morning.”
His smile makes my pulse hum. “So it is.”
“You couldn’t sleep?”
He dips his head in silent agreement.
“Why not?”