Surprise filters through me.
I look…like a princess. My hands lift to my hair, running over its soft blonde lengths, twirling it back into a low bun, needing it off my nape in deference to the heat of this country. I’m half Qabidi but I don’t look it. How ironic that I’m someone who can bring some kind of stability to regions of this country, despite the fact I appear to carry none of its blood in my veins. But I do, I remind myself forcefully. Not only am I my father’s daughter, I’m now married to the Sheikh.
Cooling my heels in my elegantly furnished, overly luxurious royal apartments has been how I’ve spent the last eight days – I refuse to have another day like this.
With a grimace fuelled by determination, I move to the door of my suite. I’m used to the fact I have a guard stationed there permanently. Sweeping the door in, I address him formally. “Please have a car prepared. I’d like to leave the palace.”
Surprise is unmistakable but he covers it swiftly. “Certainly, your highness. I shall notify Aliya.”
Damn it. I’d prefer not to have Aliya forming any part of this plan, but I suppose matters concering my logistics must go through her. “Fine,” I grit my teeth, determined that the means justify the ends. “Tell her not to delay. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
Zahir
“Where exactly does she want to go?” I wonder at the beating in my chest at this unexpected pronouncement, Aliya showing indignation at the turn of events.
“She didn’t say, your excellency. It was, as I understand it, a brief communication.”
Frustration is now my constant companion. It’s worst at night, when I lie in my bed and imagine her in hers, so much worse now that I know what she looks like in slumber, her sweet lips parted, her eyes swept shut, her cheeks pink from the heat, her arms thrown over her head as her hair falls any way it will. It’s easy for me to imagine her gently curved legs, pale and creamy, her flat stomach and neat waist, the soft cotton pyjamas she favours. Every morning since returning from the desert I’ve woken with an insatiable need for Amy, so that despite having promised her there is no longer a harem in Qabid I’ve wanted to reinstate some of the ancient protocols, to have some trusted servant bring me a lover from my past, a discreet, trustworthy woman to make love to until I forget all about my wife. It wouldn’t work though. It’s not ‘any woman’ I want, nor a lover from my past. It’s my wife, all Amy.
Every day I deny my instincts, my temper fraying incrementally, my impatience becoming dire. I feel it disintegrating now, biting back a harsh retort Aliya doesn’t deserve. I stand instead, pacing across my office, picking up a small silver cup filled with sticky, black coffee. I drink it, the golden crema bitter, the hit energizing.
“Leave it with me. I’ll handle it.”
Amy
Half an hour after issuing my first directive as Emira of Qabid, there’s a knock at my door. Excitement crests in my belly. I don’t know why it’s taken me over a week to wake up to the fact that I can do whatever the hell I want. He can choose to ignore me, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m here, and that I have a right to live my life. I refuse to be some convenient bride he’s married to bring about peace – and then forgotten exists!
I move to the door, pulling it inwards with a smile on my face. A smile that dies when I see who’s standing on the other side.
Zahir.
My chest clutches when confronted with the image he makes – so regal and hyper-masculine in a white robe, his eyes glittering when I meet them.
“Good morning.”
I have to swallow to bring moisture back to a bone-dry mouth. “Zahir. What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?”
I stiffen my spine and nod slowly. “Fine. But I don’t have long. I’ve made plans for the day.” Being able to say that brings a rush of pleasure. My independence is something I must guard fiercely.
The entrance to my suite is grand and marbled; just beyond it there’s a sitting room. I gesture to the sofas, but stay standing, bracing myself for his proximity with every bone in my body.
Southern manners are ingrained. “Would you like a coffee?”
He doesn’t respond at first, his eyes simply stalk my face as though there’s an answer to an equation buried in my features. My cheeks grow warm beneath the intensity of his stare and I hate that. Such a small and involuntary gesture, yet so betraying.
“No coffee.” His eyes narrow; heat spreads through my entire body. “Aliya informs me you wish to go out?”
I expel an angry breath. “I should have known she’d come tattling to you.”
He frowns. “Tattling?”
“Dobbing. Reporting my every move.” I roll my eyes, stalking across the room simply to use up some of my angry energy.
“This is her job.”
“To keep tabs on me?” Outrage fires my blood.