I’m disorientated when I wake, looking for the familiar landmarks of my room, the pictures that adorn the walls, the lighting I’ve come to know. But nothing remains. I push up onto my elbows, looking across at a different piece of art, an ancient tapestry set against a navy-blue wall.
My eyes scan the room and my heart kicks up a beat, because there can be only one explanation for this.
I turn slowly to the other side of the enormous bed, and Zahir is there, watching me with a guarded expression.
I stare back at him, trying to connect the dots – and failing.
“Good morning.”
“You brought me to your room?”
His face is a mask of determination, his features carved from granite. “It’s time.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“So?”
“Your place is here, with me.”
My lips part, and I’m so glad he’s done this. Not because I want to sleep beside him, I hasten to reassure myself, but because when he does something like this it’s easy to be mad with him, and anger is a much better way to feel than anything else.
“We agreed you’d move here almost a week ago. Then you were unwell, so it was delayed.”
My brows knit closer together. “When did we agree?”
“After the caves.”
Despite my anger, a tight smile shapes my lips. “That wasn’t ‘agreement’, Zahir. It was you dictating and me not having the energy to argue in that moment.”
His eyes flash and excitement flutters in my belly. Strong emotions run through me whenever I’m near Zahir and at least in arguing with him I can express them.
“So your illness was an excuse?”
I don’t particularly want to admit to lying to him so I ti
lt my chin and change the direction of our conversation. “You can’t just go into someone’s room and relocate them in the dead of the night.”
He gestures to the bed, the fact I’m here a direct contradiction to that.
Anger zips through me, but so do Zahir’s words about passion and reason, and before I can give full vent to my feelings, I try to think calmly. I know him better now. I understand the kind of man he is and what he wants most in the world. I understand his pride and moralism, and I know that he knows this was the wrong thing to do. I don’t need to hurl it at his feet.
“I’m not ready for this.”
“To sleep in my bed?”
I nod. “It’s too much.”
For a second, I think I see something in his eyes that shows a weakening, a relenting, but then he stands up, wearing only a pair of cotton boxer shorts, his body lithe and athletic.
“It changes nothing,” he throws my words back at me, consciously or not, I’m not sure. “Our rules are the same. We know why we married, what we each want from the marriage. But having you here is appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” I spit the word at him, pushing out of bed now, almost losing my train of thought when his eyes drop to my breasts, then run lower, inspecting me slowly, heat building in the pit of my stomach at the look of sheer desire in his eyes. Whatever need I feel for him – its constant pressure in my chest – he feels it too. My nipples tingle and grow taut, straining against the soft cotton of my pyjamas and his lips twist in a derisive expression of comprehension.
“Yes, appropriate,” he responds a moment later, without making any attempt to act on the heat between us. The air cracks with awareness, yet he stands his ground and I stand mine.
“And what do you care for such things?”