‘Confronting?’ he suggested. Then, ‘Unpalatable.’
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. ‘Palatable,’ she corrected, so quietly it was barely a whisper.
In response, he pulled her hard against him, and before she could draw breath he was kissing her as though everything they cared for in this life depended on it. Her body moulded to his like it was designed to fit—two pieces carved from the same marble. She felt his heart racing in time with hers, thudding where hers was frantic, a baritone to her soprano.
Time and space swirled away, concepts far in the distance, as he stooped down and lifted her easily, kissing her as he cradled her against his chest, carrying her through this room and into a corridor that was wide but dimly lit. She felt safe. She felt whole.
She relaxed completely, a beautiful heaviness spreading through her limbs. When they entered his room, she spared it only a cursory glimpse, and took in barely any of the details. It was similar to the suite she’d been provided with, but larger and more elaborate. It was also quite spartan. Where hers was filled with luxurious touches, his had been pared back. The mosaics on the floor were beautiful, but there was no art here. Just white walls, giving the windows all the ability to shine, with their view of the desert. Or, as it was now, of the night sky beyond.
He placed her gently onto the bed then stood, looking at her, his eyes showing a thousand and one things even when he said nothing.
Johara smiled and reached for him—her instincts driving her—and he came, joining her in the bed, sweeping her into his arms once more and kissing her until breathing became an absolute afterthought.
‘You don’t have to do this, sir.’
‘I want to.’ Twelve-year-old Amir fixed his parents’ servant with a look from the depths of his soul. It was a look of purpose and determination. It was a look that hid the pain tearing him into a thousand little pieces.
‘I have identified their bodies, for security purposes,’ Ahmed reminded Amir softly, putting a hand on Amir’s shoulder. His touch was kindly meant; it was then Amir remembered Ahmed had children of his own, not too far apart in age from Amir.
‘I want to see them.’
He spoke with a steely resonance, and it gripped his heart. There was much uncertainty. In the hours since his parents’ death, he’d had to grapple with the change in his circumstances, the expectations upon him. He felt deeply but showed nothing. He was a leader. People looked to him.
‘Amir,’ Ahmed sighed. ‘No child should have to see this.’
He drew himself to his full height. ‘I said I want to see them.’
It was enough. Even Ahmed wouldn’t argue with the Sheikh of Ishkana—for long.
‘Yes, sir.’ He sighed wearily, hesitated a moment then turned. ‘This way.’
The corridor was dimly lit but muffled noise was everywhere. The palace had woken. The country had woken. News had spread like wildfire.
They were dead.
At the door to the tomb where their bodies had been brought to lie, Amir allowed himself the briefest moment of hesitation, to steel himself, and then stepped inside.
Three people were within. Lifelong servants. People who felt his parents’ loss as keenly as he, who grieved with the same strength he did.
‘Leave me,’ he commanded, his eyes falling to his father’s face first. He didn’t look to see that he’d been obeyed. He knew that he had been. Only Ahmed remained, impervious perhaps to the Sheikh’s commands, or perhaps knowing that, despite the appearance of strength, a twelve-year-old boy could not look upon his parents’ crumpled bodies and feel nothing.
He kneeled beside his father, taking his hand, holding it, pressing his face to it, praying for strength and guidance. He moved to his mother next, and it was the sight of her that made a thick sob roll through his chest.
She looked asleep. Beautiful. Peaceful. He put his hands on either side of her face, as though willing her to wake up, but she didn’t.
It was the worst thing he’d had to do, but seeing his parents like that became the cornerstone of his being.
The war had killed them. Taquul had killed them. The Qadirs...
He woke with a start, his heart heavy, a strange sense of claustrophobia and grief pressing against him, before realising he wasn’t alone.
He pushed the sheets back, staring at Johara in complete confusion. It took him a second to remember who she was, and then it all came flooding back to him—their affair, their intimacy, the way he’d started to think of her and smile at the strangest of times.
What the hell was he doing? His parents’ visage was so fresh in his mind, the hatred he’d felt that night—and here he was, with a Qadir...
No. Not a Qadir. Johara.
Her name was like an incantation. It relaxed him, pulling him back to the pre