THE TRUE KING OF DAHAAR(23)
Agreeing to Azeez’s proposal was one thing. Venturing into his suite with an action plan in hand, another. At least, Ayaan had been pleasantly surprised when she had informed him what she had in mind, during Princess Zohra’s morning checkup.
With a nod, the maid pointed her to intricately designed double doors and left. Clutching her iPad with shaking fingers, she stepped over the threshold and stilled at the utter magnificence of the suite. She had thought her suite was the lap of luxury. Compared to this one, hers was more like a storage room, in sheer size and the magnificence of it.
She had been here that first night, but in her anxiety to see Azeez, she had paid no attention to her surroundings. She had spent innumerable hours in the palace, roamed most of the corridors and wings with Amira, everywhere but here. Because it was the Prince’s wing and had been forbidden to all of them.
Azeez’s suite, she discovered, looking past the main area, backed onto private gardens and was a cavernous bedchamber rather than a mere suite. She walked past the vast foyer into the main area and stilled. Her breath hitched in her throat. Cream-colored walls flowed seamlessly against the similarly colored marble floors, inlaid here and there with gold piping. She knew it was gold because she had once asked Amira, her mouth falling open to her chest.
Dark red velvet curtains brocaded with gold threads hung heavily beside the floor-length windows. A sitting area was on her left containing gilt-edged sofas and chaise lounges with claw-feet made in intricate detail. Lush Persian rugs in colorful designs lay here and there. A silver tea service, along with a variety of mouthwatering dishes on the table, all lay untouched.
A crystal decanter, which looked as old and priceless as the rest of the trappings of the room, stood next to the tray, the gold liquid swirling at the bottom telling its own story.
Against the opposite wall sat a vast bed, almost waist high, with a wide, intricately designed metal headboard, and sheets again of the darkest red. A velvet-covered stool stood off to the side.
Cushions and pillows of every possible size lay haphazardly atop the sheets. A white cotton shirt was at the foot of the bed that looked half crumpled.
Her feet carried her to the bed—because really she had no idea she had decided to walk toward it. A hint of sandalwood, underlaid with a scent that was his, reached her nose, invading her skin with a lick of heat.
She sucked in greedy bursts, drawing it deep into her lungs before she realized that she was doing it. The sheets were soft and warm against her shaking fingers, and her mind conjured an image of him tangled in them.
A low, thrilling pulse rang all over her body like a bell. She had imagined being in his bedroom, countless times and in a countless number of ways all those years ago. And her body still reacted to it in the same way, even with a gulf of pain and dreams separating them more than ever.
She was in the Prince of Dahaar’s bedroom—an intimacy that was strictly limited to his immediate family and the woman he would marry, the woman who would irrevocably belong to him.
The very thought sent a stab of pain through her middle, cooling the illicit thrill.
She clasped her nape, and rubbed it, fighting the wave of melancholy. Ya Allah, what madness had led her to agree to this?
A slow burn of awareness inched under her skin. She turned slowly, bracing herself for a caustic remark from those cruel lips.
Azeez stood at the doorway of the bathroom, clad only in loose white trousers that tied with fragile strings.
Sinuous heat drenched Nikhat inside out, zigzagging across a million spots, places she shouldn’t be thinking of in front of him but was painfully aware of.