Zahir’s expression is inscrutable and the air between us has changed. Neither of us speaks again. The palace is surrounded by a huge fence on all sides. He approaches a gate heavily marked by guards, and three of them step forward to inspect the car. When they see Zahir behind the heavily tinted windows, the gates open and he drives through, up the sweeping drive, past pomegranate trees on one side and green grass on the other. At the east gate, he cuts the engine, but doesn’t step out. Instead, he turns to look at me, a frown on his face.
“What do you want?”
I blink, unsure how to answer that.
“It has become clear to me that you are not – and would never be – complicit in your father’s treasonous behaviour. I will not tar you with that brush, azeezi. So tell me what will make our marriage tolerable for you.”
My heart skips a beat. His statement touches something buried deep in my soul and suddenly I’m swallowing past a lump in my throat. I’m a jumble of emotions. I’m flattered. Glad. Delighted that he sees me as I really am, but mostly, importantly, I’m defensive of dad. This man’s constant condemnation of my father is unfair and I have to remember that. Steeling myself to resist the attraction humming between us, I fix him with a direct stare.
“I’ve told you already.”
His jaw tightens, his eyes stirring with some emotion I don’t compute.
I brush aside my doubts, needing to push home my point. “I married you for him, Zahir. All I want is for dad to return to Qabid. He’s old, and his health has been poor for a long time.” My voice wobbles. “I don’t know how long he has left but I do know he’s no threat to you. I will vouch for him with my life. Whatever you think him capable of, you’re wrong.” His eyes clash with mine. “You don’t know him.”
His lips twist with a weary cynicism. “You’re sure about that?”
I frown, not sure why he keeps digging in on this point. “Positive.” I reach out, putting a hand on his thigh. “My dad’s not capable of hurting a bug, let alone a human being. And he doesn’t want your damned throne, he just wants to come home and live his life.”
A muscle jerks low in his jaw, and before I can pull my hand away, he presses his to the top of it. “And this is all you want of me and our marriage? To bring your father here?”
I blink up at him, losing a part of myself then, needing to admit to both of us that I want so much more. I feel his inner-battle, that he’s wrestling with himself about what he’s going to say next, his features implacable. “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you right now.”
I blink at him, frustration swirling through me. “Here?” I jack my thumb to the car window.
“Anywhere.”
I drop my eyes, unable to meet his inquiring gaze. “I want to hate you.”
The words hang between us, a challenge and a promise. A proclamation of feelings I’m struggling to grab hold of.
“But you don’t.” He lifts my face to his, his eyes scanning mine. I swallow, wishing I could lie. Instead, I stare at him, and a second later, he’s kissing me as though he has no choice, his mouth hard on mine, just like at our wedding, his hand curving behind my head to hold me there, his tongue duelling with mine so I surrender completely, lifting a hand to his shirt and bunching my fingers in the fabric.
“Zahir,” I groan, pushing his name from my mouth to his. “God, Zahir, why here?”
He wrenches himself away from me to stare down at me.
“In the desert you could have – we could have –,”
He pulls back, his lips grim as he regards me for several long, slow seconds. “You are not the only one having to fight yourself, Amy. Do you think I want to feel this for you?” He turns to look out of the windscreen, his features tight. “Our marriage is far from straightforward.”
“It can be,” I murmur. “We just can’t lose sight of the reasons for marrying.”
“Right,” he nods crisply, his mode suddenly business-like. “To bring your father home. And I married you to quell a civil uprising that threatens the peace
in our mountain regions. I cannot achieve my end until I’m assured of your loyalty, which brings us neatly back to the arrangement we’ve already forged. One month, habibti. Not a day sooner.”
As the days stretch into nights which give way to days I’m convinced he’s punishing me by staying away. I haven’t seen Zahir in eight nights – not even a glimpse. And with every hour that passes, my temper increases, so on the ninth day, I’m fuming. How dare he ignore me like this?
I thought we’d forged some kind of connection in the desert, but apparently not. Apparently, all that happened was that my opinion of him softened to the point that I actually started to like him. Which feels like a monumental disaster.
It is a monumental disaster.
This man destroyed my father’s life. And for what? A mistaken belief that dad was involved in some kind of plot to overthrow the government? It’s a stupid, fanciful mistake. At best, I can only presume Zahir was given the wrong information, at worst, I blame him for removing my father from Qabid because he was paranoid. The ‘why’, though, doesn’t really matter. The end result was the same: my father’s life was ruined as a result of Zahir’s actions. He was reduced to living in poverty, his sense of purpose and identity destroyed. I lived with the consequences of that, of seeing my father like a shell for most of his life.
So feeling attracted to my husband is bad enough, but it’s infinitely worse that I let him make me laugh. That I listened to his stories with a smile on my face, as though we were in some kind of romance novel instead of a politically-charged marriage with the highest stakes I can imagine.
Compressing my lips, I move across the room, dressing without paying any attention to what I’m doing, simply stepping into the outfit Aliya has laid out for me. It’s beautiful and soft against my skin, a pale blue tunic with wide-legged pants, each embroidered with the gold thread that seems to be standard on all of my outfits. At the waist, there’s a ribbon made of fine gauze. I tighten it, catching my reflection as I neaten the bow.