His mouth, enticingly close to hers, hardened, the intensity of his focus a fierce little thing. “Why are you pushing me, Nikhat? Why does it matter what I think after all these years? And whatever you have faced, it was all your own doing. You chose this path, don’t ask for understanding now.”
“You think me heartless, you think it is easy for me being near you, seeing you in pain.” She blinked at how easily the wound she closed could open again. “It is not. Every minute I spend in this palace hurts me just as much as it hurts you.”
A dark smile curved his mouth and she held her breath at the stark beauty of it. He pushed a tendril of her hair behind her ear, then clasped her jaw, the rough ridges of his fingers and palm chafing against her skin. She shivered, every inch of her body focused on the minute contact. “After everything I have done, everything I have brought on myself—” his gaze caressed her eyes, her nose, her mouth, a dark fire in it “—you would think that wouldn’t have given me the satisfaction it does. But I’ve never been magnanimous or kind or—”
“Or anything but your true self. Since you’re satisfied that I’m suffering as much as you are, let me see your wound, Azeez.”
“Why are you hell-bent on plunging us both into misery again? How much more do you want me to suffer?”
And just like that, he gave her back all the power he stole from her. He hated the servants seeing him like this, his brother seeing him like this, but above all, it was her presence that tortured him the most.
Why? Did he think she would be revolted? Did he not see the very strength inside him that still kept him standing there?
Suddenly, it became irrationally imperative that she learn everything he had suffered, if only to share his pain.
She would have done that much for even a friend. So she stayed silent, refusing to back away.
With a curse that punctured the air, he undid the string of his trousers and Nikhat wondered if he could hear the thump-thump of her heart. Breathing hard, she moved to the side to let the blazing lights overhead illuminate the small sliver of flesh he uncovered.
She breathed hard at the first sign of a violent scar—stitched up roughly, almost the width of her wrist. Closing her eyes, she laid her hand on his hip. His skin was blazing hot under her palm, the muscle clenching into rock hardness as she moved her fingers.
He stiffened but she couldn’t stop herself.
A picture emerged in her mind as she moved her hand, traced the ravaged tissue, learning the breadth and length of it. She clutched her eyes closed, locking the searing heat back.
She couldn’t help imagining the kind of pain he must have suffered. And following that, hope flooded through her.
She had been right. He had survived because he was Azeez Al Sharif. And if he could survive that wound, he could survive anything.
There was no smooth flesh left on the side of his hip. It was a jagged mass of muscle, the patched-up scars abrasive against her soft palm, running down his thigh. The moment her fingers fluttered lower and she felt the coarse hair of his thighs against her fingers again, it was her turn to shudder all over.
His skin here was hot and different against her palm, but the muscles rock hard.
A pulse of something else clamored between them—a heated awareness at how intimately she was touching him. He was half turned away from her, his hard body pressing into her front, his arm brushed up between her breasts, his long, rough fingers anchored around her nape.