‘Why, Amir?’
He moved closer, and she held her breath, waiting, wanting, needing. ‘Because I would never forgive you, Johara.’ It was just like the first time he’d said her name. An invocation, a curse, a whip lashing the air in the room and crashing finally against the base of her spine.
‘For what? What exactly have I done that requires forgiveness?’
‘It is not what you’ve done.’
‘But who I am? Born to the Qadir royal family?’
The compression of his lips was all the confirmation she needed.
‘And what we shared changes nothing?’
‘What we shared was wrong. It should never have happened.’
‘How can you say that when it felt so right?’
His eyes closed for a moment then lanced her with their intensity. ‘It was just sex.’
She stared at him in surprise. It was such a crude thing to say, and so wrong. She hadn’t expected it of him.
‘You weren’t a virgin. You knew what sex was about.’
Her eyes hurt. It took her a second to comprehend that it was the sting of tears. She blinked furiously, refusing to give in to such a childish response.
‘So that night meant nothing to you?’
He stared at her without responding. Every second that stretched between them was like a fresh pain in her heart.
‘I’m not here to discuss anything besides the possibility that you conceived our child.’
Her heart lurched. She couldn’t help it—out of nowhere an image of what their baby might look like filled her eyes, all chubby with dark hair and fierce dark eyes. She turned away from him, everything wonky and unsteady.
‘I’m not pregnant, Amir. You’re off the hook completely.’
She heard his hiss of relief, a sharp exhalation, as though he hadn’t been breathing properly until then. She wanted to hurt him back, to make him feel as she did, but she feared she wasn’t properly armed. How could one hurt a stone wall? And whatever she’d perceived in him on the night of the masquerade, she could see now that he was impenetrable. All unfeeling and strong, unyielding and determined to stay that way.
‘If that’s all, I’d like to be shown to my suite now.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘IT IS CALLED albaqan raghif,’ he said quietly, his eyes on her as she fingered the delicate piece of bread, his words murmured so they breathed across her cheek. She resisted the impulse to lean closer. This was the first she’d seen of him since their discussion earlier that day. For most of the day, she’d been given a tour of the palace by a senior advisor, shown the ancient rooms—the library, the art galleries, the corridors lined with tapestries so like those that hung in the palaces of Taquul. Looking at them had filled her with both melancholy and hope. A sadness that two people so alike and with such a richly shared history could have been so combative for so long, and hope that their shared history would lay the foundations for a meaningful future peace.
Now, sitting at the head of the room with him, various government ministers in attendance, she concentrated on what she’d come here for—this was a state visit and she the representative of Taquul—how she felt about the man to her right was not important. ‘We have something similar in Taquul.’ She reached for a piece of the pecan bread and bit into it. She concentrated on the flavours and after she’d finished her mouthful said, ‘Except ours generally has different spices. Nutmeg and cardamom.’
‘My mother made it like that,’ Amir said with obvious surprise.
She took another bite and smiled at him politely. ‘This is very good too.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘But you prefer it the way you’re used to.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Silence stretched between them, all the more noticeable for how much conversation was swirling around the room. The mood was, for the most part, festive. Some ministers had treated her with suspicion, a few even with open dislike, but generally, people had been welcoming. It saddened her to realise how right Amir had been—the peace would not come easily. Prejudices died hard.
‘I’m sorry your brother sent you.’
She was surprised by the words. She squared her shoulders, careful not to react visibly. ‘You’d prefer I hadn’t come?’