THE TRUE KING OF DAHAAR(33)

                Maybe he didn’t and, for once, Azeez was thankful for his ignorance. Because the rate at which they were going, it wouldn’t be long before they ripped each other to pieces.

                With a self-preservation instinct that had kept him alive until now, he realized he didn’t want to face any more truths.





                                      CHAPTER SIX

                SHE HAD NOT come for two days.

                Two long days that Azeez had spent wondering why he cared and then eviscerating himself for the fact that he did. First he had had to check if Princess Zohra was in good health.

                She was fine, the Princess had informed him with a ferocious glint in her eyes, obviously surprised that he had cared enough to check for himself.

                But there was something about riling the fierce princess that loosened the chain of guilt around his neck. She had not only glared at him but had also had the temerity to warn him that Nikhat was under her protection.

                Before informing him finally that Nikhat hadn’t seemed well yesterday morning. And the thought of Nikhat all alone in the palace, because he was sure she wouldn’t have asked anyone for help, had finally dragged him out of his suite.

                He stood outside her suite now, staring at the dark wooden door with its intricate designs. They had finally settled down into a sort of routine.

                He visited the hammam in the morning, followed by a strenuous bout of physiotherapy—in which the madwoman drove him like the very devil intent on punishing him for all his sins. Sometimes she would stay and have lunch with him. They ate in silence—not completely awkward. But not pleasant, either, as though they were still reeling from the words they had thrown at each other two days before.

                He had caught her casting puzzled looks at him, seen the way she caught herself when she was irked by his politeness, astonished that he was even capable of it with her.

                Now, standing outside her door, he questioned his sanity again. He needed to treat her like any other employee, any other servant that his brother had. Let her come find him whenever she was well and offer him an excuse.

                But he couldn’t stop wondering about what would cause the ruthlessly efficient woman to be absent.

                He pushed the doors and stepped in. It was early evening, but the French doors to her suite were still open, and brought a chill inside.

                Frowning, he closed them. The suite bore her stamp clearly. The subtle scent of jasmine and her skin, wafted over him, knuckling him in the gut, unlocking a million memories inside his head.

                There were medical journals, an iPad and a scarf dangling on the table in the lounge. An old framed picture of her with her three younger sisters sat next to the scarf.

                A low, keening moan came from the bedroom. He turned instantly, a slow chill racing up his spine. He pushed the bedroom door open.

                She lay in the middle of the bed, dressed in loose white pajamas that hung low on her hips and a loose cotton tunic in faded yellow. Her thick, wavy hair fanned out against the white sheets shone like copper-gold silk. Lying on her side, her arms clasped her belly so tight that her knuckles showed white. She moaned again and this time, the pain in the sound made the hair on his arms stand.

                He got onto the bed slowly, making sure not to put too much weight on his right hip. She looked so pale, the golden hue of her usual color all but gone. Her eyes were red and swollen. That she had shed tears was a fact he couldn’t believe even when presented with evidence.